The next day Eileen set the rest of her plan into motion. She sat down in her bedroom at the desk with paper and pen and began to write:
To Judge Isaac Parker:
Dear Sir,
I’m sure you get many letters asking you to do things for people. I suppose that’s the penalty of being a public figure. I am no different, Judge Parker, and I am writing this letter with a prayer in my heart that you will at least listen.
I have three sons. Two of them are real satisfied to be in their father’s business. My other son has gone another direction. My two older sons are outdoorsmen. They are tough, as their father is. They hunt and shoot and ride, but my youngest son, Lafayette, is not that kind of man. He has been a student all of his life. He is twenty years old now, and that’s all he’s ever known, that and his painting. I’m convinced he will be a great artist one day.
That’s why I’m writing this letter. I hear that your men are in danger in their work. My son has no training, and as far as I know, no ability with a gun. I know he cannot ride a horse well. I’m afraid he will come out and waste his life and be killed, perhaps, and that would be the tragedy of my life.
Please consider this in almost the nature of a prayer, Judge. I hear that you are a father, and I know you treasure your sons. I know you wouldn’t want to send one of them into a situation that would be almost impossible and dangerous. Please consider what I ask you to do, which is simply this: When my son comes to ask you to make him part of your force, agree to take him but give him the most humiliating, dirtiest job you can possibly think of. Keep him at it, and I’m sure in a short time he’ll become discouraged and change his mind.
My prayer is that God will be with you as you read this letter and that you will give it your prayerful consideration.
Respectfully yours,
Mrs. Eileen Riordan
She blotted the ink, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and then left the house. She went at once to the post office and mailed the letter herself. Turning, she went back home again and felt that she had solved her problem.
Judge Isaac Parker had brought a letter home with him. He sat down with his wife and said, “Dear, let me read you this letter.” He read Eileen Riordan’s letter and then handed it to his wife and let her think it over. “What do you think we should do about this young man?”
“Why, it’s clear enough.” She smiled. “We have to do what she asked. This young man isn’t fit to send out into the wilds of the Oklahoma Territory with the drunken Indians and outlaws. You know how many of your marshals you’ve already lost. It would be murderous to send this young man.”
“Yes, I would never have sent him anyway, but she wants us to keep him until he gets full of this dirty side of life.”
“Well, we will pray about it, Isaac, but I feel this mother’s plea, and we must help her all we can.”
Eileen opened the envelope, her heart pounding. She quickly read the brief letter from Judge Parker.
My dear Mrs. Riordan,
My wife and I have read your letter together. We both sympathize with you, and as concerned parents of a son, we know your heart aches. Never fear. I will do exactly as you ask, Mrs. Riordan. I will give your son such a hard time that he will not last long if he’s like other young men. He sounds like he’s rather spoiled, perhaps, so it will be easy to discourage him. I’ll have him washing dishes, cleaning stables, all the things my men hate to do. We will pray together, my wife and I, that your son will return to his life with you.
Yours respectfully,
Isaac Parker
Faye had been escorted to the railroad station by his family. It had been a hard few days for him, for when his father and brothers found out his plan, they all were incredulous. All of them warned that he was being a fool.
“You could stay here and learn to ride and shoot if that’s what you want,” Caleb said earnestly.
“Yes, we’ll help you,” Leo said. “Don’t do this crazy thing.”
Faye had listened patiently, but here they were at the railroad station. The train had pulled in. The conductor was calling, “All aboard!” He shook hands with his father and then hugged his two brothers.
Faye went to his mother and said, “Don’t worry, Mother. I know you’ll pray for me and I’ll be all right. Besides, it’s likely that Judge Parker won’t make me a marshal without some training. He’ll probably have me learning to ride a horse better and how to track, things like that. He won’t let me go out until I have some experience and can make it as one of his men.”
He hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, and then mounted the train steps. Minutes later, the train left the station. His last view was of his mother and his father, both looking despondent.
He grew restive during the long train ride to get to Fort Smith, Arkansas. He read a great deal, all he had been able to find about Judge Parker’s court and the marshals.
When he finally arrived at Fort Smith, he went right away to Judge Parker’s office. To his surprise, he was admitted at once.
Judge Parker was standing at a window looking down at the gallows that were in plain sight. “What can I do for you, young man?”
“Judge, my name is Riordan. I’ve come to ask you to take me into your marshal force.”
“Tell me your experience.”
This did not take long, for in effect, Faye had none. Finally he fell silent, and Judge Parker said, “Young man, I have a great many volunteers. I can only take those who are experienced, and you are not.”
“Just let me work. I’ll do anything you say, Judge, and I’m a quick learner. I don’t expect to be sent out right away to Indian Territory.”
“You mean what you say, young man, that you’ll do anything?”
“Anything, sir.”
“Very well. You may join my force.” He lifted his voice, saying, “Mr. Swinson.”
The door opened, and a short, stocky man stepped in.
“Riordan, this is Chester Swinson, my chief of marshals.” He then turned to the chief. “I want you to put this young man to work.”
“Doing what, Judge?”
“Whatever needs doing.”
“Come along. What is your name again?”
“Just call me Riordan.”
“All right, Riordan, come this way.”
Carrying his suitcase, he followed the man. He had given merely his last name because he was ashamed to be called Faye, which sounded feminine to him. He always had hated the name and now determined just to be called Riordan.
Swenson led the way to a large rectangular building. He opened the door. It smelled of sweat and other nasty things he didn’t want to know about. “Clean this building up until it’s spotless. Clean the windows, mop the floor… everything. I want it shining.”
“Yes, Marshal Swinson.”
“All right, Riordan. When you finish this, you’ve got another job out in the stables. Shovel out all the stalls and put the refuse into a cart. The judge uses it for fertilizer in his garden. Dirty and nasty job. Nobody wants to do it. It’ll be your job from now on.”
Somehow Faye knew that he was being tested. He thought that the two men had some idea of how to make things hard on a recruit. He made up his mind right then. No matter what they do to me or ask me to do, I’ll stick it out! “Yes sir, I’ll do a good job.”
After Swinson left, Faye looked around at the terrible condition of the room and then began to whistle. “I’m with Judge Parker’s marshals. Maybe it’ll be rough for a while, but one of these days I’ll ride out with Heck Thomas and some of the other men.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER 7
The Mexican settlement had no name and was not legally a town, just a collection of adobe huts and wooden shacks built from cast-off lumber located a few miles west of Amarillo, Texas. At night the liveliest place in the village was Pepy’s Cantina. Pepy’s was an exciting place for young men looking for female companionship, or vice versa.
At one end of the large room, th
ree men were playing guitars, and a small space had been set off for those who wanted to dance. Now three couples, laughing and pawing at each other, moved around the floor. The room was filled with the shrill laughter of women, the coarse mirth of men, and the hum of constant loud voices. Rough tables and chairs were scattered around, all of them filled, and a bar ran along one wall—on the wall behind it were pictures of half-dressed, over-endowed women. One very fat man was serving at the bar, sweat pouring over his face. His filthy apron had once been white but now was a leprous gray.
The customers at the tables were served by two young men and by Rosa Ramirez. She was wearing a full skirt and a white blouse that clung to her sweaty body. Fatigue lined her face. She had been busy for over four hours, and now it was well after midnight. Most of the clientele were either drunk or soon would be.
As Rosa Ramirez threaded her way across the crowded floor, she paid no attention to the scents of raw alcohol, thick cigarette smoke, and unbathed bodies. When she reached the bar, she had to raise her voice to say, “Four cervezas and a bottle of red wine, Leon.” She waited until the fat barkeep moved to fill the order.
Without warning she was roughly seized from behind, two arms pinning her. Her captor ran his hands down her body and whispered, “Rosa, you need a man to love you!”
Without hesitation, Rosa moved her head forward then flung it back and felt a satisfaction when she felt flesh crush.
A strangled voice cursed and said, “You broke my nose!”
Wheeling quickly, Rosa saw Viro Lopez, a heavyset man with dark piggish eyes, glaring at her. Blood was running from his nose, over his mouth, and dripping off his chin, and from there making an ugly blot on his emerald green shirt. Lopez cursed and reached for her but halted abruptly when he saw the six-inch blade of bright steel in Rosa’s hand glittering under the yellow light of the lamps suspended over the bar.
“Touch me again, you pig, and I’ll cut your liver out!”
The clientele of Pepy’s Cantina was well accustomed to violence, but most of them turned now to see the knife in Rosa’s hand, her face contorted with anger, and Viro Lopez, a man of blood who had killed and battered women until they could not walk.
Suddenly, almost magically, the owner of the cantina, Pepy Garcia, appeared like a ghost. He was short but broad of chest and shoulders, and his neck was thick. His eyes glittered under the lamplight, and he said quietly, “Time for you to go home, Viro. Maybe you can come back some other time.” He waited for the larger man to act, but Lopez cursed, pulled out a bandanna, and began wiping the blood from his face. Pepy nodded. “That’s wise. Go now, my friend. This is not your night.”
Rosa had shown no fear, but she was aware now that her legs were unsteady. She showed nothing in her face, however, but a slight smile. “Gracias, Pepy,” she said then added, “but I lost you a good customer.”
“He’ll be back.” Pepy shrugged. He hesitated, stroked his mustache, and then said, “I don’t like it when things like that happen in my place, Rosa. My customers are all drunks, and I can’t control them sometimes.”
“I don’t complain.”
“You never do. Take the rest of the night off. You look tired. Go get some sleep.”
“Thank you, Pepy. I am tired.”
“How is your father, Senior Ramirez? Any improvement?”
“No, sir, my father never seems to improve.”
“Too bad! Too bad! I always admired him. I knew him when he was a young man and able to whip any man in the Territory, and his word, it was always strong. Whatever he said, he would do. Give him my best wishes, Rosa.”
“I will, Pepy, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Rosa left the cantina and made her way down the dark streets of the village, warily watching for men who might be lurking in the darkness. She reached the outskirts of the village and turned into a yard that housed a squat clay adobe house. Two lights were shining through the windows, a feeble yellow, and even as she reached out to knock on the door, she heard the raucous laughter from Pepy’s Cantina. The distaste at the thought of the place where she had worked for two years seized her.
There was no need thinking about that, so she knocked on the door—two knocks then a single knock. This was the code that the family had created. Rough men and women were common here in the village and in Amarillo, and blood had been spilled often enough. The door opened a hair, and she pushed it open saying, “You still up, Juan?”
Juan Ramirez was a handsome boy of sixteen, tall and thin as though undernourished. He had dark hair that needed cutting and the dark eyes of his half-Crow mother. “I was worried about you, Rosa.”
“You shouldn’t do that. You should get some sleep.”
“I saved you some supper. Raquel was sleepy and went to bed early.
Rosa reached out, hugged him, and smiled. “Good! I’m hungry.” As she sat down wearily at the rough table, she looked around at what had been her home for several years and, as always, was depressed. The house had only two rooms. One was a bedroom used by her parents, and the other room was for living. It contained a kitchen, of sorts, a table for meals, and three cots with blankets, which were used as seats and beds for Rosa, Juan, and Raquel.
Juan moved toward a cabinet and brought out a plate covered with a cloth and a bottle. He set both on the table before Rosa, moved back, and got two glasses. “I saved you some beer,” he said, “but it’s not cold, sister.”
Rosa smiled and patted his hand. She removed the cloth, picked up a tortilla, and filled it with meat. She ate without hunger, but Juan was watching her, so she said, “This is very good. What did you do tonight, Juan?”
“Nothing.” The boy shrugged eloquently. “What is there to do in this place? I played cards with Chico and Carlos. We went over to see the new horse Arturo’s father had bought.”
Rosa listened as Juan spoke and was glad that he talked to her. They were the two that held the family together, and it broke her heart that he had so little chance to become something. She had given up on a good life for herself to work at Pepy’s to bring in money for the family. Once she had had dreams, but they had faded a long time ago, and now she had to concentrate on making it through a single day at a time. “How is Papa today?”
“Not so good.” Juan’s smooth face showed a troubled mind. “I wish I could help him, Rosa.”
“You’re helping him by being a good son.”
“No, that’s not enough. I need to do something else. I need to get a job and go to work.”
“No, there’s no proper work here. We all know you would work if you had a chance at it. Just help Mama with the house. Be sure she has plenty of wood and water. You’re a good son.”
He shook his head and said stubbornly, “No, that’s not enough.”
The two sat at the table under the corona of flickering yellow light cast by a single, stubby candle. Finally Juan looked closely at Rosa’s face. “You’re tired, sister. Go to bed.”
“Well, I am tired.” She rose and put her hands on Juan’s shoulders, startled to feel how thin they were. From lack of nourishing food she knew. “We have each other, Juan, you and me. I couldn’t make it without you.” She saw her words pleased the boy and brought color to his face. She ruffled his hair, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered “Good night, brother.”
The two of them went to bed on the cots, and in the ebony darkness Rosario Ramirez tried to pray that God would give them a better life. But she had prayed in that fashion for so long that her faith was small.
The sun had lifted in the west, sending pale yellow beams through the two small windows of the hut and through a large crack over the primitive woodstove. Raquel, a trim fourteen-year-old girl wearing a tattered dress too large for her, had started the fire with bits of wood that she and Juan had collected, and, as usual, the smoke made her eyes smart. “I hate this stove, Mama!” she exclaimed.
“Be thankful we don’t have to cook on the floor or in a rock fireplace.” Chenoa Ramirez was
grinding corn with a pestle in a hollowed-out stone. She wore an ancient dress long ago faded to a dull, neutral, noncolor and held together with patches. The sunlight touched her, revealing her unusual racial heritage. Her father, Frank Lowery, was a tall American trapper, but her mother had been a full-blooded Crow Indian. The mixture of races had made Chenoa a beautiful woman. She had lost that early beauty, for now at the age of forty, after years of hard living since her youth, her face showed lines that revealed her age.
She glanced at Raquel, whose dress was almost as worn as her own, and marveled at the blossoming beauty of the girl. Not a child. She’s on the verge of womanhood. She glanced over at Rosa, and a sadness came to her. She’s so beautiful, but what does that get her? The men of this place chase after her but for evil purposes, and it will be the same with Raquel.
A door hinge creaked, and Chenoa turned quickly as her husband Mateo entered the room. She rose quickly and walked with him to the table. “Sit down, Mateo. I’ll fix you a good breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry, Chenoa.”
As her husband sat down, Chenoa was suddenly reminded of how handsome he had been when she had first seen him. She had been a mere girl, and to her the young, pure Spaniard with dark eyes and lively features and an aristocratic air had been the finest-looking man she had ever seen.
A bitterness came then as she thought of how good their life had been until Mateo had fallen ill with cholera. He had been in charge of a large property owned by a wealthy citizen of Amarillo. She longingly thought of the fine wood house that came to the Segundo and how she had had a new dress for herself from time to time and how the children, who were very young, had been clothed in finery. Food had been plentiful, and she had thought this life would last forever. Mateo had finally recovered but had become so weak he was unable to work. He had lost his position, and everything from that time had become difficult.
As Chenoa began to heat a pan full of rice, she turned to see Rosa rise from her cot and throw the thin blanket back. She was wearing a thin undergarment, and Chenoa remembered how long ago she had been as shapely as this oldest daughter of hers. She turned back to the boiling rice, stirred it, added salt and a little butter, then put it in a bowl and set it before her husband. “Here. Eat this. You’ve got to keep your strength up.”
The Western Justice Trilogy Page 7