by Bill Brooks
“What do you think happens to us when we die?”
“Somebody digs a hole and puts us in.”
“You think that’s it?”
“It’s all I can figure.”
“Don’t think we have a spirit, or a soul, or whatever you call it?”
“My granddad believed in that stuff, but I never could conjure it. Seems to me this life is enough to conjure without thinking about some other.”
“You afraid of dying.”
“No, but I’d just as soon not be there when it happens.”
Jim smiled to himself.
Me neither, he thought. Me neither.
Chapter Seventeen
It did not rain the day they buried Tug Bailey and Trout Threadneedle in the small cemetery outside Domingo. There was plenty of sunshine splashing the ground and a warm breeze blowing up from the river. It was, all in all, as pretty a day as anyone could wish for.
It was a short, slow ride from town to boneyard with both coffins in the same glass-sided Sayers and Scovill hearse pulled by Alfred Burpee’s matching Morgans with their polished headstalls sporting black feathers. They were proud stepping horses, as though they understood the solemnity of their duty and were eager to perform it. Alfred Burpee sat up top, the reins threaded through his kid-gloved hands, wearing his best mourning suit and top hat. A fanciful man who accorded the dead their proper due. Next to him sat Melo, his protégé, a slight Mexican who always found funeral processions made his chest swell with a certain strange pride. To bear the dead to their final resting place was an honorable profession.
When the bodies had been brought into his mortuary, Alfred said to the boys who carried them, “When it rains it pours. First deaths we had around here in six weeks since old lady Brown. Lay Trout on the table and rest old Tug there on the floor till I can get to him.”
The body bearers did not stick around. The copper embalming machine with its rubber tubes and steel needles, the shelf of cutting instruments, and bottles of strange liquids emitting even stranger odors were a sight none of them cared to dwell on. Simple truth was, he’d get them all, sooner or later—though not all would die of gunshot wounds like these two hombres. Some would simply die of age, and others of accidents. Some would die of disease, diphtheria or smallpox, or an infected tooth. But sooner or later, all would end up on his table, including himself and even the younger Melo and all Melo’s family and so on and so forth.
He’d learned his trade in the war under a man named Holmes who had held an exclusive contract with the United States Army for embalming dead soldiers so that their bodies could be shipped home to their loved ones. Holmes was a wise and enterprising man who’d resigned his officer’s commission, then went about the country selling families of soldiers embalming coupons. He placed advertisements in all the newspapers and hired a cadre of salesmen, and dozens of apprentices like Burpee, who would scour the battlefields after a fight looking for those lads with the coupons on their person. These would be taken and embalmed, packed in a lead or zinc-lined coffin, and shipped home.
Holmes showed him how to bleed out the corpse if it wasn’t already, which many were from their grievous wounds. Showed how to cut an incision in the armpit to raise an artery and pump in a solution of bichloride of mercury or some other mixture to hold off decay for a “fairly reasonable amount of time.” It was mean work, but work that needed doing—a kindness, in other words, to the grieving widows, maws and paws, back home.
Thing Alfred learned most of all, it was a trade that never lacked for business. As old Tom Holmes often expressed: “Everybody is one day or other going to require our service—there just never will come a time when they won’t.”
Embalming combined with undertaking services proved a modest living in a far-flung town like Domingo. But since Burpee’s was the only game in town, he had a house bigger than the local physician’s and almost as grand as the banker, Hadley Prine.
Trout was a boulder of a man, white as a bed-sheet in death, except for neck and hands and face that were brown as sandalwood from years of sun and wind. It seemed impossible that a chunk of lead small as the tip of his little finger could kill a man so large. But it had and that’s all there was to it. Alfred schooled Melo on bleeding the lawman out, letting the blood drain down the runnels of the enameled embalming table into a pipe drain that went into the ground he’d flush later with water. Then he used the copper embalming machine to pump a couple of gallons of Professor Rhodes Electro Bal Embalming Fluid into the late constable, powdered his face, waxed his mustaches, combed his hair, and had Melo help dress him in a suit of dark clothes split down the back and tucked under. Folded the arms and lifted him into one of Melo’s handcrafted coffins they carried in from the shed out back.
Same thing with Tug—only a much lighter load to work with—all bones and ribs, thin papery skin white as bread flour, several old scars could have been caused by knives or bullets or both; a birthmark on one leg across the shinbone looked like a wine stain.
“Dress him in a boiled shirt and comb his hair, Melo.” Melo, who crossed himself every time he worked with the dead—los muertos. Melo, with a fat wife and three happy children who depended on him to feed and clothe them and keep a roof over their heads. Melo, who made good coffins out of pine and stained them dark and gave them nice rope handles. Melo, who got three of the seven dollars Burpee charged for each coffin and three more dollars for each body he helped embalm, thought of himself as fortunate to be taught such a skillful trade. Burpee, with no kin, promised Melo someday he’d take over the business when Burpee himself passed, was obedient and patient in the waiting for that time to arrive.
“Sí, señor…”
By evening the corpses were ready for visitation, but no one came except for Little Paris, who arrived dressed in mourning clothes, like any proper widow might wear. Complete down to the hat with veil covering her face, black gloves. She sat in the parlor between the two coffins, looking from one still face to the other.
What fools, she thought. To defend my honor when I have none. She rose after a reasonable time, kissed the cold marbled foreheads of each man, then left to go and conduct her usual business as a bride of the multitudes. Life goes on. And though she would not get to sleep until nearly four that morning, she would rise before her usual hour to attend the funerals of the two men out of an abiding respect. The least, she told herself, she could do for those brave fools.
It was a grand funeral all in all, considering the two men had few true friends, but were the acquaintance of nearly everyone. Practically the entire populace turned out, not so much out of grief, or even respect, but for the spectacle of it. Like a wedding.
The town’s little makeshift band, consisting mostly of Mexican musicians, played their trumpets and strummed their guitars, and one man—Melo’s cousin, Alberto, beat the bass drum all the way to the graveyard.
Father Zamora performed the services at the freshly dug graves, speaking in monotone about ashes going to ashes and dust to dust and walking through valleys of death without fear and so forth and so on. Then it was over and everyone drifted back toward town as the caskets were lowered by ropes held by Pablo and the Negro, Black Bob; Menlo and Alfred Burpee, their arm muscles straining against the dead weight. And once lowered, Pablo and Black Bob set to filling in the graves.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, life to death. No symbols of crows or rain or lightning from above, no ascending or descending doves or angels, just silence and drops of man sweat plopping into the dirt mounds as the thud of shoveled dirt struck down on the wood coffins.
Afterward Pablo and Black Bob sat and smoked in the shade of a chinaberry tree and drank from a bottle of Old Boot—an acidy whiskey that might have been fermented with, among other things, snakeheads—and smacked their lips as their sweat dried across their faces and in their shirts where it stained dark.
Having little in common except their trade as part-time grave diggers, they did not speak but smoked and drank i
n silence, then lay down in the dark shade and slept like the weary men they were, like men whose entire lives consisted of labor, like dead who had not been buried.
A dog with a shaggy gray ash-colored coat came up and licked their faces as Black Bob dreamed of a woman he’d known in the badlands when the law was still after him. A kindly woman with voodoo hair and voodoo eyes, a mulatto with skin the color of honey and breasts big as watermelons.
Oh, she had such a tender mouth, and in the dream he wore a silk hat and carried a silver-headed cane. The dog licked and licked at the sweaty face, then trotted off after lifting its leg against the tree, satisfied it had accomplished all there was to be accomplished here in this place of crosses and stones and sleeping men, both under and atop the ground.
Chapter Eighteen
In the morning they followed the tracks down to the road leading to Domingo. Here the tracks got mixed in with others traveling that same road.
“What do you think?” Jim said.
“Town,” Hairy Legs said. “Big man like him gets hungry. No place else to eat.”
“I agree.”
Jim reined his horse.
“I guess I can go on alone from here,” he said.
“Fine by me.”
Jim looked at the horse Hairy Legs sat.
Hairy Legs started to dismount.
“No, it’s okay. Keep the horse,” Jim said.
Hairy Legs looked pleased by the gift.
“I promise not to eat him.”
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
“Look for a big man walks funny.”
“I will.”
“Better look for the man with him too.”
“I appreciate your help. Come round and visit sometime if you want and we’ll drink a little of my whiskey.”
“Your woman, she won’t care?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Maybe I will.”
“See you around.”
“Okay.”
Jim rode on toward town knowing what he was supposed to be looking for, hoping he’d find it. He didn’t look back. Hairy Legs sat his horse watching the man ride. He didn’t think he would want to be the big man or the one with him when this man caught up to them. It would be interesting to see what happened. Maybe he would just tag along to see.
But not too close, eh.
The streets of Domingo were quite still early as it was. The buildings on either side of the main drag looked sleepy and somber in the cold light of dawn. Jim decided to ride to Luz’s and check on her, perhaps have some breakfast together. She lived just on the north edge of the town in a small brown adobe that sat behind an adobe wall.
He reined in and went through the gate and up the short stone path, where he knocked on the heavy wood door.
A hummingbird hovered near a small stand of manzanita—its body iridescent green, its wings thrumming the air. He thought hummingbirds were a sign of good fortune.
He knocked again and waited.
Eventually the door swung open and there she stood, sleepy-eyed, in a cotton shift, and when she saw him, she threw herself against him, her arms wrapping round his neck, and kissed him sweetly on the mouth. He could feel the heat of her body through the shift—it was like a warm fire on a cold night.
“I dreamed of you,” she said.
“What did you dream?”
She smiled.
“Come inside and I’ll tell you.”
He was once again amazed at his desire for her, hers for him. They made the bedroom—barely.
Later they lay in the sharpening light of a fresh sun crawling over the sill and sliding into the room, spilling over the rich brown tiles.
“Did you find your man yet?”
“Not yet. I think he might be here in town.”
“How will you know him?”
“He’s traveling with another man. The one I’m looking for is big, walks with a limp maybe, according to the breed.”
“Speaking of the breed, where is he?”
“Left him up the road.”
He felt glad to be with her, saw that she was still wearing the ring.
“When do you want to get married?” he said.
“Soon.”
“What about your children, have you told them yet?”
“They are with my madre, remember?”
“Yes. In Santa Fe?”
“Yes. I will tell them when they come home at the end of the week.”
“Do you think they’ll approve?”
“Yes. I know they like you.”
“I like them too.”
“Good, then we will all get along nicely.” She laughed and squeezed herself against him.
“Careful, I’m an old man,” he teased.
“Oh, not so old,” she said, reaching under the blanket.
Hairy Legs sat his horse a short distance from the adobe. Sat there a long time, then turned its head around toward town and dismounted in front of the Dollar Café and went in.
There were only two other customers that early—a cattleman from Bosque Grande and his boy, a lanky kid with a shock of blond hair hanging out from under his hat. Both of them raised their gaze to meet the wild-looking breed.
Hairy Legs took a seat by the door, considered it an escape route, in case. In case what? He didn’t know. Just in case.
The German’s fat wife stared at him from behind the counter, said something to her husband, who whispered, “Yah, yah, I see…”
Finally she came over.
“Vat you vant?”
“Eat.”
“Eat?”
“Food,” he said, making an eating motion with his free hand.
“Yah. Vat you vant?”
“Anything. Coffee too.”
“You got der money?”
“Yah,” he imitated and took the ten dollars from his pocket. She sniffed, said, “Okay, yah.”
“Yah,” he said again after she left; his ancient eyes hadn’t seen wide, firm hips like that in a long time. It pleased him. Soft as lying on pillows, hips like that. Maria Armarillo had hips like that. He wondered if she was dead now. Could still see those dark smoldering eyes of hers in lamplight as the shadows danced over her—all that warm, waiting flesh. He liked his women big, real soft, something a man could settle into and stay that way comfortable.
The room smelled of warm breads, and it reminded him of his grandmother’s fry bread, the honey she put on it. His belly growled.
The German’s wife brought him sausages and scrambled eggs and coffee.
“Yah?” she said.
“Yah,” he said.
“Seventy-five cents.”
He pushed one of the silver dollars her way.
“Change please.”
“Yah.”
“Yah.”
He watched her go off as he dug into the food. The eggs were bland but the sausages were tasty. The coffee was good and hot and dark tasting, like the earth. Good life, he thought. His mind wandered to the East. How long would it take him to get there, and once he got there, how would he find this society they called Free Love. Maybe find a woman with big, wide hips like the German’s wife and take up with her. Fish every day and have her make him nice dark coffee and cook his sausages.
Then the door rattled open and a big man came in; a big man with an off gait who took up a chair at an empty table near the counter.
There’s your horse killer, he thought. He kept a close eye on the big man, saw him hunch over his food like an eagle will do over a kill by spreading its wings. Little while later, a smaller man came in and joined him. Wearing a gun exposed on his hip, real bad-looking hombre. There’s your second man. The German’s wife came over holding the coffeepot, and Hairy Legs pushed his up forward for her to fill it, and in that instant, her gray eyes met his eyes, and some little secret passed between them. Her heated round face softened a bit, and she even half smiled as she filled his cup.
“Indan, yah?”
&nb
sp; He nodded.
“Some of me, anyway. Mex too. Irish maybe.”
She looked him over like a dog she was thinking of buying.
“You want to know which part’s which?” he said.
“Yah,” she said, after glancing over her shoulder back toward the kitchen where the German was sweating over the heat of a cookstove, several fry pans going.
“Yah,” she said again. Those gray eyes twinkling now.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to go all the way to the East.
She filled his cup with the steaming coffee.
“I live west of here,” he said. “Up along the river. You just follow the river west, you understand?”
She nodded.
“I’m going there soon as I eat. Be there all day. Got plenty of room you want to come out. I’ll show you something about us breeds…”
“Yah,” she said, and turned back toward the kitchen.
He watched those big hips shifting like two fat coons fighting in a gunnysack and thought what pleasure they could provide a man who hadn’t known any in a very long time. He stood after swallowing the last of the coffee and went out and got on his gift horse. Things were looking up.
There was a knock at the door. They were both dressed now, eating slices of pear and some coffee.
“Must be my day for visitors,” she said.
“Must be.”
She was more than a little surprised to see the breed standing there.
“He here, your man?”
“Yes.”
Oh, those ravenous eyes sent chills through her.
“Jim,” she called. “Jim.”
He came to the door, saw the breed.
“Found your horse killer,” he said.
“Where?”
“That place down the street—the eating place.” Hairy Legs had never learned how to read, but so far in nearly seventy years, it had never been a problem. He could do just about everything else he needed to do. He’d been sent to school once when he was seven or eight years old, by his Mexican mother who insisted upon it. But it didn’t take him long at sitting at a desk listening to chalk clacking on a blackboard while birds whistled outside to make his escape. He just leaped out the window and ran away.