Tyra's Gambler

by Velda Brotherton

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  With a stricken expression, she stared at him. “Am I keeping too much?”

  He laid his hand over hers. “No, Callie. No. I’ve already kept out what I want so I can win some more tonight, plus I’m needing to get a horse. This walking is killing my leg. That’s all yours. If you need more, I’ll take the jewelry back to a game tonight as your investment.”

  She yanked the chair out and fell into it, cupping her cheeks. “I never—no, Zach, it’s too much. And I still have Mama’s jewelry. How did you—I mean, goodness gracious. All I did was feed you a few times.”

  A heady feeling rushed through him, and he savored it. Damn, this helping someone sure did make a fella feel better than taking from them. He grinned widely at her. “Plus you gave me a bed to sleep in. And you didn’t shoot me. Most of all, you trusted me. I reckon that counts for something. If you need more, say so. I’ll get you more. You and Bobby have to get out of this shack. It’s falling down around you. Come winter, you’ll freeze here. There’s holes in the walls big enough to sling a cat through. There’s surely something in town you can buy with this.” He swung a hand over the gold pieces.

  Silence fell, for so long he wondered if he’d done something stupid. “I want to go home,” she said so soft he strained to hear her. “I can’t believe you’re doing this for me. Total strangers, me and Bobby.”

  He took her work-worn hands in his. “That’s what I was when you took me into your house and helped me.”

  “I didn’t do it for pay.”

  He kissed her cheek. “I know you didn’t, Callie. I want you to have this.” He held her for a moment. “Where is home?”

  “My parents have a place down near Victoria. It’s a small ranch, but Dad does okay there. Mama isn’t well, and she could use my help, cooking for the hands, you know, washing and cleaning. And it would do wonders for Bobby. I’ve never been able to put the money together to go back since Henry was killed. He come out here for a job working for the Paladins, then went off to fight for the Confederates, and I never saw him again. Bobby was just a baby.”

  “You been here alone for more’n ten years?”

  “I’ve made it. I do washing and ironing for the railroad workers and cowpokes. And I make bread and trade it to Mr. Masdon at the mercantile in return for what food I can’t raise out back.”

  “Callie, take this money and go home. Buy yourself some pretty dresses with what’s left.” Holding her close set up a longing in him he couldn’t recall ever feeling. She felt so soft, smelled so good, her voice sweet, that of a good woman. Something he’d only known briefly with Josh’s ma. Never knew his own. “You can go by train. I’m pretty sure one goes into Victoria. If not, there’ll be a stage.”

  She made no move to pull away, instead laid her head on his shoulder and cried until his shirt was wet with her tears.

  “I gotta sit back down, Callie. You okay?”

  Shamefaced, she stepped back, pulled a hanky from her apron pocket, and dried her face, then blew her nose. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never forget you for this, Zach. If you ever need anything, you just stop by the LazyJ north of Victoria. I’ll be there, and I promise no one will shoot you.”

  He laughed and began folding the bandana. “I think if it’s all right I’ll just lay down for a while before I head back to the saloon. I promised the boys I’d give them a chance to take my money away from me.”

  “Of course it’s all right. But, Zach, don’t go back there and lose it all.”

  He rose with a groan. “Don’t you worry yourself none. I won’t lose. Those boys are lousy poker players. Besides, I’ll go by the livery and buy myself a horse first. Then it won’t matter none. There’s always another game in another town. Long as I keep a bit aside to buy in.”

  She helped him into the bedroom, where he stretched out on Bobby’s bed. Sitting beside him, she said, “Let’s take off that boot and let me check your leg. It probably could do with a clean bandage.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Callie.”

  “Hush up. I do have to do it. Now help me get that boot off.”

  To his dismay, they ended in removing both boots and his pants so she could get to the bandage. Embarrassed to have her see his less-than-clean under drawers, he closed his eyes, like that might help. Thinking about it, he laughed, and she joined him.

  “You wasn’t in such a hurry to get back to that saloon, I’d strip you down, put you in a washtub of hot water, and wash your clothes along with you.”

  Imagining her doing that, he stared in surprise.

  She flushed bright red. “I didn’t exactly mean it that way.”

  “I know. Much as I might enjoy that, it’ll have to wait till another time, Callie. I do appreciate it, though.”

  “Well, you just close your eyes and relax. I’m going to get some hot water and a soapy rag and clean up that wound. I have some old sheeting I can make you almost as good a bandage as this one.”

  He was nearly asleep when she returned and gently removed the dirty cloth, washed the wound with a great deal of care, and wrapped clean muslin around his calf. It had been a good long while since anyone had cared for him in such a way. For some reason, that made him sad.

  When he awoke sometime later, his bare lower half was covered with a sheet. The sun had sunk to the horizon, and the house smelled of baking bread and onions cooking. He darn near wished he had this kind of life, but backed off that nonsense. He had to get out of here and on his way to Cuero before they hung that dumb-ass brother of his. If it weren’t for that, he might do something foolish like ask this good woman to marry him. Whatever got into him, he had no idea. Under his breath he scolded it right out of himself while pulling on his britches and boots. One thing to do a good deed, quite another to do something so stupid.

  After a delicious supper of fried potatoes and onions, some kind of meat he reckoned Bobby had killed, and hot bread slathered in butter, he readied himself to light out once more for the saloons of Gonzales, where he hoped this night to make another killing. With a horse to ride, it wouldn’t take him too much longer to get to Cuero. He hugged Callie for a long moment, tousled Bobby’s dark hair, then walked away. He would not be back. She must’ve known it, because she wiped tears from her eyes when he turned and waved goodbye.

  In Gonzales he found the livery with the door closed. He hammered on it with a fist. A tall thin man with an impressive moustache finally answered, sliding it open a crack. He had a fried chicken leg in his hand.

  “Cain’t you read, you blamed idjit?” He pointed a greasy finger at the handwritten sign on the door: CLOSED FOR SUPER. “Let a man eat in peace. Whatcha need?”

  “I can come back. Didn’t see your note.” He squinted at the letters so scrawled they were barely legible. And that P missing. Well, lots of folks couldn’t spell worth a hoot.

  “Hell, no. You’re here.” Skinny tossed the bone out into the street. A mangy old dog snapped it up before it stopped skidding in the dirt. “Get on in here and state your business.”

  “Need me a horse. A good riding horse. Hope you got one.”

  “You’re in luck. Just bought one yestiddy from a fellow catchin’ the train. Not a bad-looking little gelding.”

  “Hope he’s not too little.”

  The man eyed Zach, tilting his head back to look him in the eyes. “If he was, your legs ud drag in the mud, I reckon. Naw, he’ll probably suit you. Fifteen hands, I’d judge, jest fine built.”

  While he jabbered, he led Zach to a stall toward the back of the gloomy stable where several animals hung their heads over the stanchions to watch the two men. A chestnut with a star on the forehead greeted them with a whinny. Graying a bit around the muzzle showed his age, but he was strong-looking. The stableman led him out for Zach to look over. Zach rubbed a hand over a front leg, lifted the hoof, and felt around it with a finger. He’d like to have seen the horse in full daylight. But after examining him and taking a quick look
in his mouth, he began to dicker.

  “Tell you what,” he finally said. “You throw a saddle and bridle in for that price, and you’ve got a deal. And I’ll pay for the night ’cause I want to leave him here. Now, if you’d just get me a bill of sale, I’ll be on my way and let you get back to your supper.”

  The man brought him a saddle, a little the worse for wear but serviceable. “Had these saddlebags, thought you might as well have them too. Oh, and here’s his blanket and bridle. I’ll get you that bill of sale.”

  Zach led the horse back into the stall, set the saddle and tack across the stanchion, and when he came out the man was back with a bill of sale. If it was written in any way like the sign on the door, no one would ever be able to read it. Still, he thanked him, folded the paper into his shirt pocket, and left to return to the saloon and find himself a poker game.

  Three hours later, he stepped through the swinging doors onto the boardwalk, up another fifty dollars. He’d probably have to work four or five months on a ranch prodding stupid cows to earn that much, so he was pleased and itching to be on his way to Cuero and see what was up with Josh.

  In the middle of the war he’d left young Josh behind and followed Pa’s lead. At the age of fifteen he joined the southern side, serving with Sibley. Coming home, he’d joined up with some of the wildest owl hoots in the West, soon drawing his brother into the gang as well. Now, more than ten years later, he’d moved on, but Josh still rode with them. He might not have done what they were hangin’ him for, but he’d probably done worse.

  Zach was six years older than Josh, who was really no blood kin. Pa had married Josh’s ma soon after moving to New Mexico. She was Tewa Indian, and Josh was seven years old. At nearly thirteen, Zach took over the raising of the young boy and loved him dearly. When Zach left three years later, Josh was already what Pa called wild as a March hare. Nothing scared him. Probably sitting in that cell watching them build his hanging scaffold without turning a hair. Zach feared what might have happened to get him accused of something that was a hangin’ offense. ’Course, in Texas that could be anything from stealing someone’s horse to killing the owner or insulting his wife.

  One thing for sure. Zach wasn’t letting his little brother hang. And he knew a few things about killing, himself, even though he didn’t like what he’d done and seen during the bloody war. He’d prayed never to have to kill again, and that made it doubly hard to deal with the fiery hot temper that had come upon him sometime during all the fighting. If only he could stay away from people, he wouldn’t have to worry that the dark rage would someday make him kill.

  After the poker game he picked up his horse at the livery. A full moon had risen, casting enough light to see the trail, and so he mounted up and rode out of town, saddlebag filled with money. He could follow the well-trod Chisholm Trail south and make some good time till he got too bone weary to go on. That might be only a couple of hours, with the damned leg. The moonlight silvered the land like icing on a great cake, and the chestnut appeared ready to move out after being penned up a few days. He’d ride till he could go no farther.

  Off to his right in a stand of cottonwoods, a whippoorwill sang a mournful song and was answered by another who sounded even sadder. Probably the female. The moon grew smaller as it crossed the sky, and Zach began to favor that leg, letting it hang in the stirrup. If he kept that up, he’d wear sores on the horse, so he rode off into a stand of trees, the only shadows against the bright night sky, and was soon bedded down, the horse hobbled in a patch of grass nearby.

  He dreamed of Shiloh that night, all mixed up with Callie running through the piles of dead bodies, Bobby following her yelling for his pa. Zach just kept shooting a man over and over again, and then Callie fell to her knees beside the fallen soldier. He startled awake when she leapt to her feet and screamed at him and beat him in the face with her fists. Gasping for air, he wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and cursed under his breath.

  Enough of that, you dumb bastard. He looked around, half expecting to see that battlefield, for so many times he’d awakened from a dream of war to find himself still there. It was enough to make a grown man weep.

  It’s over. Over and done with. So get it out of your mind.

  He sat there for a long while. The moon had gone down, the sky the silver of pre-dawn, and it was earthly still. Somewhere nearby water gurgled. He rose, stumbled his way through the woods, and almost stepped off the bank into a river. Could be a good-sized stream, but he was sure there was a river around here somewhere. Still sweating, he remembered Callie mentioning how he needed a good wash. He sat down on the bank, took off his boots and pants, unwrapped the bandage carefully and folded it on them. Stripping off the shirt, he waded into the blessed cold water still wearing his under drawers.

  Dear God, that felt good.

  Once the water reached his waist, he lowered himself plumb under, stayed there a while, then came out with a wahoo shout that scared up a bunch of birds perched in a nearby bush and caused his horse to whinny. Laughing, he thought of what Callie had said about his drawers and managed to slip out of them so he could try to scrub them clean. No use in a man going dirty when it felt so good to jump in a river once in a while. He wished he had some of that lye soap his ma used to make. He could get really clean then.

  He bobbed out there in the water for a long while before wading out. His leg felt a lot better after the bath, but he rewrapped it anyway, just to keep his britches from rubbing on it while he rode. Carrying his clothes and boots, he ambled back to where the horse was tethered. There he hung his drawers in some trees. He sure could do with a cup of hot coffee. Maybe he’d run across wranglers breaking camp this morning, before heading out with their herds, and he could bum some.

  Still a week before they dangled poor Josh from a rope, and he had no idea how close he was to Cuero. Surely close enough to make it with time to spare.

  But that was before he rode right up on the fight. In the damned middle of the trail, amidst milling longhorns. Texans. He’d be damned if he’d ever understand them. Must be his southern background. Men in Tennessee, where Pa and Ma lived while he was younger, had better sense. Once in a while there was a feud between clans, usually over some boy crossing the barriers put up by the families and courting a girl from the wrong side of the mountain. This, however appeared to be one of those “I don’t care who I hit, just bring it on” things these tough wranglers got into once in a while, mostly to get rid of excess meanness.

  All he wanted was coffee, but he didn’t want it bad enough to get in on this, so he reined up, intending to ride out around them. One of the men hollered, “Hey, you.” He ought to have lit out, but instead he paused just long enough for a couple of others to spot him.

  “Ain’t you that dandy that took our hard-earned wages up in Gonzales?”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Get him, men.”

  And they did, surrounding him, dragging him down off his horse into the dust, where he landed painfully on the shot leg. Stars blazed through his head, and he swung wildly, landing a couple of well-aimed punches before they piled on him. He’d won his share of fights over the past few years, mostly because he didn’t have good sense and had a lot of buried anger. This one, he had no chance of winning, but he did flatten a couple of the cowboys before he lost consciousness.

  He awoke much later. It had to be way later, because the herd and the men were long gone, and the sun was overhead. Thankfully, they didn’t want to see him stomped to death and had dragged him off into the bushes before pushing on. The chestnut horse he’d bought stood a few feet away, chewing on sprigs of grass, not paying him any mind at all.

  “Well, son of a bitch.” They probably took his winnings, too.

  He patted his pockets. Empty. His head ached, his ribs hurt, and his lip pounded, so he figured it was swoll up pretty good. Worst of all, he couldn’t stand on the leg. His britches were soaked with his blood.

  Dragging himself on his butt,
he made it to the horse, gazed up at the stirrup. Now what? First calm the chestnut down. Evidently smelling the blood, it had snorted and danced a little jig. “Almighty hell. Come on, fella.”

  The animal swung his head around, eyed Zach as if saying, “Do I know you?”

  After several tries at looping an arm through the stirrup, only to have the gelding dance sideways, he finally got him to stand still long enough he could pull himself up by the saddle skirts. Trouble was, he couldn’t put his weight on the right leg long enough to stuff the left foot in the stirrup. But he discovered he could walk, more or less, if the chestnut would cooperate and let him lean heavily on him. So together they walked till they found a good-sized boulder, and he spent a long time inching up the slanted side while hanging on to the reins.

  Soaked in sweat, he crawled to his feet—or in this case his foot—on top of the boulder and gazed down onto the back of his horse. Before the cooperating animal could bolt, he worked the useless bloody right leg over the saddle and dropped into the seat.

  Whuffing, the gelding double-footed a few steps, nearly sending him back into the dust. He clasped both knees tight, leaned forward, and spoke into one of the laid-back ears.

  “Easy there, son. You’re a good boy. Now, let’s see if you can see your way clear to walk slow and easy so I can stay up here.”

  With a toss of his head, the gelding moved off, animal and rider having found a bit of trust in each other. It was a good thing, too, for there was a long, painful ride ahead for the man of the partnership. And without so much as one cup of coffee.

  The world around him became a constant blur of pain and bouts of unconsciousness. Sometime in the distant future he rode into a good-sized town, slumped forward and barely conscious. The street was wide and busy, and a hot sun bore down. Hell, he’d been riding all night. Everything was numb except his right leg. It was on fire. How he always managed to get into such predicaments was a mystery to him. Wasn’t he minding his own business? Or at least he thought he was. Last evening and the long night were a blank.