Widowmaker Jones

by Brett Cogburn

  “That Widowmaker Jones didn’t seem to have any problem with him.”

  “Laugh if you want to. White men don’t know nothing about things you can’t see without looking close and thinking on them. Bad things happen to those that ride that horse.”

  The lieutenant went to stand beside Matilda, shading his own eyes and trying to see what she was looking at. He must have had better eyesight than her, for he spotted Newt even though she had lost sight of him.

  “I hear that man is after Cortina,” the officer said. “It’s all over the post and town that he was asking about him.”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “He’s asking for trouble, then. Cortina is as good with a gun as they come, and twice as mean.”

  She turned to the officer and smiled. “You’re young. That man is anything but a fool. Hardheaded, maybe, and too quick to fight, but a fool, no.”

  The lieutenant gave her a look that the young often give their elders when they think they are secretly coddling them—patronizing, yet polite. “Cortina is said to have killed twenty-two men with a gun or a knife.”

  “Maybe so, Lieutenant, but Cortina ought to be worried.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kizzy had never known a real home, and her life was one “moving on” after another. She, like her brother, was born on the road and the road was home, if anywhere was. There weren’t that many of the Roma in America or Mexico, but some of those that were had begun to settle down and grow roots and give up the old, roving lifestyle. But the Greys weren’t such. Although their father and mother often talked of closing the family circus, it never happened. Both of them loved the road too much to quit it, and were natural born sightseers and show people.

  There had been a time when Kizzy loved the road, too, and when it was something exciting when the wagons popped over the last hill or rounded the last curve and a new town appeared. That time was past, although she didn’t know for certain when she’d started feeling different. Her nomad heart had disappeared without her noticing the moment of its passing.

  But nothing was the same, not with her parents gone. Not with her and Fonzo fending for themselves and not always knowing what to do. That was why she didn’t love the road as much as she used to—because the “how it once was” had been replaced with the bitter reality of the “here and now.”

  The town of Piedras Negras was only another dusty border town along the Rio Grande, that very same river the Mexicans called the Rio Bravo. Eagle Pass, Piedras Negras’s gringo twin, lay on the American side of the river directly across from it with a bridge connecting the two. However, it was the Mexican side of the river that looked more prosperous.

  The town’s streets were filled with men coming in from a shift at the coal mines, or farmers returning from their irrigated fields along the river. A new railroad line from the south was almost within reach of the town, and a tent camp of construction workers lay on the southern outskirts. Among the tents, men called out to one another playfully after a hard day’s work, and woodsmoke lifted from beehive adobe ovens where women prepared evening meals. The smell of hot corn tortillas, chili peppers, and other spices wafted through the air. Many people stopped what they were doing or walked to the edge of the street to watch Kizzy and Fonzo pass, with children darting through their ranks or waving at the Gypsies and running alongside the circus wagons.

  One of the local liverymen let them park their wagons in his barnyard beneath an immense oak tree. After pitching camp, Fonzo left to see if he could trade something for a bucket of axle grease, for one of the equipment wagon’s wheel hubs had screeched and squalled the last mile of road. He had barely left before several townspeople wandered over to their camp on the livery grounds.

  The liveryman had allowed them the use of a corral to hold the six white show horses, and the people looked through the corral planks or took a perch on top to admire them. Kizzy kept a close watch, admonishing her visitors not to go into the corral and not to try and feed the horses any treats. Once, in another city, some well-meaning soul in such a crowd had fed Sheba, the only mare in the set, some watermelon rinds, and by the time Fonzo noticed and put a stop to it, the horse had already eaten a healthy share. Later, Sheba had coliced—the horseman’s word for a dangerous digestive pain and intestinal spasms or blockage—and they feared that she would die. Since then, it was their policy to keep some distance between crowds and the horses, and at the moment all six of them were too intent on the stack of loose hay mounded in the center of the corral to wander over to the fence and visit with their admirers.

  The matched pair of feathery-legged, black draft horses that pulled their living quarters wagon were tied to a picket line strung between two trees, and proved to be almost as much of a draw as Fonzo’s white show horses. Although Kizzy let the children pet the draft team, she kept them away from the six-up team of little brown mules that pulled their equipment wagon. They were untrustworthy at best and often wicked, and Fonzo was the only one who could handle them. She feared that one of them might kick a child, and kept the mules tied to a picket line on the back side of the wagons.

  After an hour or so, the crowd fizzled out and filtered away, and Kizzy went about starting a pot of beans to soak and shucking some fresh ears of corn they had stolen from a field they had passed on the way to the town. The irrigated rows of corn were so heavily laden that neither of them felt too guilty about procuring a few ears for a night’s meal.

  She was still in the middle of cooking dinner when the men walked up. She had tethered both the dogs to the wagon wheels, and it was their growling that alerted her.

  When she glanced up from her cook fire she saw that it was five men of a look and bearing that immediately put her on guard as much as the dogs were. There wasn’t a single one of the men who didn’t have at least one pistol somewhere on his waist and a knife or two showing elsewhere on his person. All of them wore the large sombreros and black mustaches indigenous to the country.

  They passed a bottle among them while the cleanest cut and tallest stepped closer to her fire. He was a handsome man, in spite of the dust of the road covering him and several days’ worth of black whisker stubble on his jaws. The vest he wore caught her eye, being made of some kind of spotted cat hide—golden yellow with black spots and rosettes like that of a leopard or something.

  But it wasn’t the odd, fancy vest that left the greatest impression on her. He twirled the end of his gold watch fob in his left hand, while the other rested on the ivory butt of the nickel-plated pistol holstered on his hip. She could tell when he smiled and doffed his broad hat to her that he was a man used to women fawning over him, but for some reason, that smile made her more leery of him than enamored.

  “Hola, señorita,” he said with his voice as silky smooth as hot butter, but with more than a hint of slyness. “Buenas tardes. ¿Cómo está?”

  She tried to reply in halting Spanish, but he held up a hand and waved her off.

  “No need. I speak good English,” he said.

  In truth, his English was decent, although laden with a heavy accent.

  One of the men behind him burped and snickered, and the man talking to her threw him a warning glance. The one so rude frowned back at him, but nodded an apology at her and mumbled something in Spanish.

  “Please forgive Miguelito,” the tall one said. “His people are nothing but goat herders, and his manners are atrocious. That is the word, no? Atrocious?”

  Miguelito frowned at the tall one again, but didn’t say anything. She wondered why they called him Miguelito, for he was anything but small. Although shorter than the one who seemed to be their ringleader, he was as wide as any two of them, and so fat that his three chins made it look as if his head sat directly on his shoulders with no neck at all.

  “Fine horses you have,” the tall one said. “I think it took you a long time to find such a matched set.”

  “It did.”

  “You are circus people, no?”

>   “We are.”

  “Will you put on a show here?”

  “No, we’re only staying one night and then moving on.”

  “What do you do in this circus?”

  “Trick riding and a little shooting.” She looked past the men, hoping to spy Fonzo on his way back. He should have returned long since.

  “Who does this?”

  “My brother rides and I shoot.”

  “You?” The tall one turned to his friends and all of them laughed. He turned back to her. “What do you know of guns?”

  “I assure you, I’m a very good shot.”

  “Is that you?” The tall one pointed at the signage painted on the side of their living quarters wagon. “Buckshot Annie?”

  All of the men snickered at what he said, while Kizzy hid her surprise that he could read, and in English, no less. Miguelito handed the tall one the bottle, and Kizzy watched as he turned it up and took a long pull of the tequila, with his brown throat exposed and shining with sweat and the sharp knot of his Adam’s apple pumping in slow strokes as he swallowed. They were all obviously drunk, and though she was young, her life had been spent among strangers and she carefully considered the risk they represented.

  A pretty girl learned some things about men quickly, and she had known that she was pretty since she was but a girl. Perhaps she was petite to the point of tininess, but she knew that men found her attractive, and almost everywhere they went there was at least a man or two who made an effort to meet her after a show. It had been that way since she was barely twelve.

  When it came to how to fend off unwelcome advances, she had a good teacher, for her mother had been a beautiful woman and a veritable expert on the subject. That was all a part of the life. There was a subtle art to appearing friendly while politely handling the harmless, flirty ones. You didn’t want to offend someone who might come back and pay their admission fees for a second show. And occasionally there might be a handsome one worth talking to, but then again, there was the other, more dangerous kind altogether. The men before her were that other kind—men you didn’t want to be alone with. And the tall one in the spotted catskin vest? Every sense told her that he was another kind even worse than those with him.

  The tall Mexican stepped past her to the livery corral where Fonzo’s white horses stood gathered around the pile of hay. He ducked through the fence rails and went to Mithridates and ran his hand down his neck and across his back. “Very fine horses. Muy bonita. I don’t think I ever see better.”

  She didn’t like him inside the corral with their horses, but was unwilling to turn her back on his friends. She stood uncertainly between them, wishing either Fonzo would come back or that someone else would wander by.

  “Come out of there,” she said.

  He patted the horse’s neck and smiled at her. “I mean him no harm. You act like I might steal him.”

  Fonzo appeared behind the tall Mexican’s friends and quickly stepped past them. “Come out of there and leave our horses alone.”

  The tall one walked slowly to the corral fence. “And who are you?”

  “Those are my horses.”

  The man ducked through the fence and when he straightened back up he pointed to the painted words on the side of the living quarters wagon with that same smirk on his mouth. “Is that you? Fonzo the Great?”

  Fonzo stood straight and met the man’s gaze. Kizzy realized that he was trying to seem taller than he was.

  “Go to the wagon and get the shotgun,” he whispered to Kizzy.

  The tall one made a show of slowly looking Fonzo up and down. “I said, ‘Is that you?’ ¿Quién es, chico?”

  Fonzo was a proud young man, and always a little too aware of his small stature. Kizzy could tell that his scant Spanish skills were enough that he understood the tall Mexican had called him a boy.

  “I am Fonzo,” he said. “And who might you be?”

  The tall one rested his hand on his pistol butt again and pointed at Fonzo while looking at his friends. “He is proud for a little one, no?”

  “Un niñito afeminado,” one of the others said.

  Kizzy didn’t understand what the man had said about Fonzo, but from the way they all laughed she knew it wasn’t nice. She glanced at Fonzo and could tell he was frustrated that she wouldn’t go after the shotgun in the wagon. But she was afraid to leave his side.

  “What did he call me?” Fonzo turned slightly so that he could see both the tall one and his friends at the same time.

  “He said that you are almost as pretty as your sister,” the tall one said.

  The Mexicans laughed again and one of them flung the empty tequila bottle across the road.

  “You are all drunk. If you don’t leave I shall be forced to call the local constable,” Fonzo said, and managed to keep most of the quaver of temper out of his voice.

  The tall one looked down the street, making a show of acting like he was searching for someone. “I don’t think the constable is around. I think maybe he went somewhere else and won’t be back until tomorrow. He don’t like us much.”

  The drunken men snickered again and a couple of them moved closer to Kizzy and Fonzo. Fonzo pulled a small knife from his waistband. He held it out toward them with the cutting edge turned up, wavering back and forth between them and the tall one on his other side.

  “There is no need for that. Put away your cuchillo.” The tall one took his hand off his pistol butt and held up both hands. “We only came to see your horses, and maybe to see this Buckshot Annie who is written on the side of your wagon. What does it say there? The world’s best crack shot?”

  “I’ve already told you to leave,” Fonzo said.

  The tall one glanced at his friends as if they were a jury. “She says she is this Buckshot Annie, but I don’t think what you write on your wagon is true.”

  “Kizzy, go to the wagon,” Fonzo said, making a fake thrust at one of the men who came too close to him.”

  “Muchachos, do you think this gringo can outshoot me?” the tall one asked.

  More laughing. Kizzy noticed one of the men had drawn his own knife—a rather large one—and was holding it hidden behind his thigh.

  “How about we have a shooting contest? Me and you,” the tall one said with his eyes on her and his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his catskin vest.

  “Maybe another time,” Fonzo said, still brandishing the knife. Without thinking, he had taken a step sideways to place himself in front of his sister.

  Kizzy shoved past him. “What do we shoot for?”

  The tall one looked confused. “For?”

  “You think you can outshoot me. I don’t think so,” she said.

  “That is why we will shoot . . . to see who is best. A winner and a loser. Primero y segundo.”

  “And what do I get for my troubles?”

  It dawned on him what she meant, and that caused another of his smirks. “Do you mean a wager? You want to bet with me?”

  “Call it a small bet. Let’s keep it friendly.” She put a hand gently on Fonzo’s forearm and pushed his knife down.

  The tall one’s friends obviously didn’t speak English as fluently as he did and were looking questions at him. He spoke to them in their native tongue, and when they understood what she was proposing they seemed to find it the most hilarious thing they had ever heard.

  “Six shots at a peso a shot,” she said.

  “And what will we shoot at?” the tall one asked.

  Kizzy looked at her brother. “Fonzo, would you go get us some targets?”

  Fonzo looked at her and the Mexicans uncertainly.

  “It will be all right. Go get them. I will be fine here.”

  Fonzo gave them one last glance and went to the wagon at a brisk walk. When he came back he was carrying a sack containing the glass balls she used in their show and had her gun belt draped over one shoulder. She took her pistols from him and wrapped the belt around her waist.

  The tall one looked at the r
ig she was strapping on and shoved his hat farther back on his head. “¿Dos pistolas?”

  “I shoot with either hand.”

  “But do you shoot well, señorita?”

  “We shall see. Fonzo, will you throw for us?”

  Fonzo gave a smirk of his own to the tall one. “I’d be glad to.”

  “Where shall we shoot?” she asked. While she buckled her gun belt she noticed that several people on the streets had taken notice of them and had stopped what they were doing to see what was going on.

  Fonzo stepped through the tall one’s friends and walked farther up the road away from town. “Follow me.”

  The tall one made a graceful half bow and pointed for Kizzy to go next. She stepped in behind Fonzo, all too aware that the Mexican toughs were following close behind her.

  Fonzo stopped at the freshly graded railroad bed, on the edge of a small, freshly plowed field with nothing beyond it but the river. “This should work.”

  The tall one nodded in agreement. “I like to shoot toward the American side. Maybe we accidentally knock some gringo off his horse over there.”

  “Would you like the first shot?” Kizzy asked the tall one. She already had her right-hand pistol out.

  He looked down at her gun with a grunt and drew his own. “Ladies first.”

  Kizzy nodded at Fonzo and he pulled a red glass ball from his sack and threw it overhand high in the air and about twenty yards out in front of her. She raised her pistol to arm’s length and tracked her target for a brief instant on its arc. The boom of the Colt and the shattering of the ball into tiny bits of glass seemed to happen all at once.