Tyra's Gambler

by Velda Brotherton

  Together they ate. After a tasty repast of fresh sliced ham, boiled eggs, fresh baked bread spread with butter, and glasses of milk, they dangled bare feet in the cool water and shared stories of their families

  Dolores went first, telling how she was the youngest girl in a family of seven brothers. “The boys dragged me around like some sort of prize, often fighting over the privilege.” She chuckled. “Once Papa told Pedro, the eldest, to chase the cow from the garden before she ate the green beans. Juan had me in his arms and Pedro, he throws a rock at the poor cow. It bounces off her hard hip bone, flies back, and hits me in the head. I, of course, do not remember this, but the boys used to tell the tale over and over, laughing and rolling around on the floor. It knocked me out cold, and everyone was so frightened. They did not know what to do.”

  All the angels were laughing by this time. Ramona asked what they did.

  “While they all rushed around grabbing ice and jabbering, I came to and toddled across the floor, saying ‘cow’ over and over. It was the first word I ever spoke.”

  This sent the women into another paroxysm of giggles. Dolores sobered enough to end the story. “Papa always said Pedro shocked my brain into speech with that rock. They had all been concerned that I hadn’t begun to speak. But my brothers teased me every time I did something silly, said it was because I’d been knocked silly by that rock.”

  Ramona splashed water with her feet, wetting the hems of all their long, white garments. “I wish I had brothers or sisters.” She paused, gazed across the water toward the snowcapped San Juan mountains. “Or even a mama and papa. I was raised in an orphanage, and when they could no longer control me, I was sent to the convent.”

  Experiencing visions of her unhappiness at St. Anne’s, Tyra stared open-mouthed at the pretty young girl. “How old were you?”

  “Ten. I was ten, and totally uncontrollable. So angry, violent even.” She shook her head, looking down to avoid eye contact.

  Tyra wanted to take Ramona in her arms, but Donna sat between them.

  “And just look how you turned out. Were they mean to you at the convent?”

  “I thought so at the time, but they were only trying to set me on a good path.”

  “Their path.” Tyra snorted the words. “I know all about that sort of thing.” She told them a little about her experiences while they listened in silence.

  Dolores, who sat on the other side of Tyra, took her hand. “It’s a shame that all things meant to be good do not turn out that way. It shouldn’t prevent us from looking for the good first. We may be disappointed occasionally, but that is better than going through life seeing only the bad in everything. The good that came from your experience was your being brought to America by a decent man and finding yet another in our Zachariah.”

  “And now I’m afraid I will lose him.”

  “Have faith.” Dolores came to her feet. “And now we must put on our shoes and return. There is work to be done before sunset.”

  She had hoped to hear Dolores’ story, but evidently it wasn’t something the older sister shared. Tyra joined them at their evening chores, then shared a small supper of apples, cheese, and more of that delicious homemade bread. She did not tell them she was leaving the next morning to join Zach. They would only try to talk her out of it. Much as she enjoyed their company, she had to be with him, and something told her it had better be quick. Faith alone couldn’t save him, and she would not let him die alone.

  Later that evening, true to her word, Dolores supervised rolling up the parlor rug, and Tyra joined the five women in a fine romp that left them all red-cheeked and fanning themselves.

  That night after she crawled into bed, someone knocked on her door, called her name. “It’s me. Dolores. May I come in for just a moment?”

  “Yes, please do.” She sat up and dropped her feet to the floor. Something about lying in bed while Dolores sat didn’t seem proper.

  The older angel’s robes rustled when she ran her hands down her back and lowered herself into the only chair. For a long moment she didn’t speak. The room was so dark Tyra wanted to light the candle, but hesitated. She always liked to see expressions when she talked with someone, but for some reason this wasn’t one of those times.

  “You are going to him tomorrow. Yes?”

  Shocked, Tyra didn’t reply right away. “How did you know?”

  Without answering her question, Dolores went on. “You must realize you both could die out there.”

  “I do know that.” She shuddered before going on. “But I can’t let him die alone. I did everything to keep him with me, make him leave this place so we could have a life together.”

  “Men often do not see things in the same way as we do.”

  “You talk like you know about men.”

  Dolores chuckled and took Tyra’s hand in hers. “Some, yes. I am here because of a man who found his heart’s desire elsewhere. You must follow your heart, I know that. But please think long and hard about what you think is in your heart. Zachariah is a wonderful man, but he is still a man.”

  “I could hardly want him if he weren’t.”

  “Of course. He must place things first that you will never understand.”

  “It won’t mean he loves me any less than I love him.”

  Dolores rose, kissed the back of her hand. “No, it won’t mean that at all. We will pray for the both of you, but I do wish you would reconsider and wait here for him. He will come for you, no matter what.”

  What a strange thing to say. No matter what? He would not come if he got killed. She held her tongue. No sense in arguing. “Thank you so much for being so good to me. I know I’m not your kind.”

  “We are all of the same kind, Tyra. You take care of yourself and our Zach. You are both precious to us.”

  Feeling a tad foolish, Tyra answered, “Yes, I will.”

  The door closed, leaving behind a silence that drummed in her ears. Much more had been meant than was said. Would she ever truly understand? Maybe it was better if she didn’t.

  After Dolores left, she lay wide-eyed under the colorful quilt on the bed in the pleasant room. Damned if she could fall asleep. Beyond the windows, in the black night, every critter sawed and chirped and croaked and sang till she considered going to the window and screaming at them to shut up. In the darkness, she stared at nothing, imagined Zach facing down a hail of bullets from his enemies.

  He stood out in the open, fingers flexing, palm ready to slap his six-shooter from its holster and fire into the forehead of Geronimo Lanigan. The sun at his back, his eyes squinted when the wind sent a dust devil across his path, for a second blocking his vision. In that crucial moment a tall, dark man poised in his path pulled his gun, pointed, and squeezed the trigger, all so fast she missed seeing it happen. Only saw the barrel glinting in a ray of sunlight when a puff of smoke left that black hole.

  Clasping a hand over her eyes, she moaned and shut out the illusion of the bullet on its track to destroy the man she loved.

  That was enough of that. She sat up, swung her feet to the floor, and pawed around for her clothing. Piled in a chair nearby, the garments were invisible in the moonless night. Groping like a blind woman, she laid hands on her britches, slipped into them, then shrugged into the shirt. Saddlebags were draped over the back of the chair, boots sat somewhere close by. She found them, slung the bags over one shoulder, tucked the boots under her arms, and tiptoed from the room.

  Outside in the garden, the fragrance of roses hung in the warm air. Starshine helped her make her way to a bench, where she plopped down to slip into the boots. She was going to her man, no matter the consequences. She grappled through the bags, found her diary, ripped out a blank page, and using the stub of a pencil wrote a short goodbye note to the angels, thanking them for all they had done, ending with, “I can’t make it without Zach. Please pray for us,” and weighted it down with one of the smooth round rocks edging the rose bed.

  Leaning back for a moment, starin
g up at the star-strewn sky, her mind cleared. What was she thinking? She dropped her elbows to her knees and cradled her head. She had no idea how to get to the Valley of the Gun. They’d discussed the place in her company, said it was not too far away, gestured vaguely, but never did talk about its location. Well, that was okay. It had to be farther on down the trail, since they hadn’t bypassed it in their travels. She’d ride till she came to a settlement, or met someone along the road and, by God, ask. The way the five angels spoke of the place, it was well known and had a bad reputation for chewing up gunfighters. It was not going to chew up her Zach. Not going to destroy him.

  In the far corner of her vision, light moved across the yard toward the church. What…who? Everyone should be in bed. Leaving her things on the bench, she followed in silence. The light continued to bob as if someone carried a lantern. Its glow disappeared through the doors. She could do nothing but trail along, as if someone or something forced her. From the stoop she peered inside. Light shone on the altar. What in the world? No one was in the place, unless they hid in a dark corner or crouched between the pews.

  Her breath hitched, fear rode with her, and she moved up the aisle. Her name echoed off the walls but no one was there to speak. At the altar, she fell to her knees, unable to stop the action.

  “Pray for him, then go. Hurry.” A soft voice from all the dark corners, echoing back upon itself.

  Had someone spoken those words, or was she imagining this entire thing? As if she had always done it, she crossed herself, bowed her head and asked God to keep Zach safe for her. She hadn’t spoken to God in years. Would he even know who she was? Would he care what happened to her?

  Amazed at her own action, she leaped to her feet, ran out the door, and back to the bench, as unerringly as if something lit her way. After she grabbed up her things, she turned for one last look at the white spire gleaming against the night sky. The windows showed no glow.

  Speechless with terror, she turned and ran from the place. She wanted no part of any of this. It had all been her imagination, brought to life by those sweet-mouthed women who had nearly trapped her into believing the hogwash they dished out. In the corral, she saddled Morgan. Never would she set foot inside this place again, or kneel to a God who asked so much of his people. The whole thing had been a trick, an evil trick to convince her that prayer would save Zach, when she knew damned good and well it wouldn’t.

  Getting back on Marcy’s Trail was not too difficult, but dawn brushed silver along the eastern horizon before she reached the well-marked route. It was untraveled that time of the early morning, and Morgan trotted along, hooves drumming a pleasant rhythm in the hard-beaten earth. She would not believe what had happened during the night at the church. How could she, when it was so outlandish?

  The heat of the rising sun crawled up her back. Morgan hunkered to climb a steep incline, and once at the top she let him stand and rest a while. The valley below lay stark in early morning shadows. Formations rose like unknown creatures sheltering threats. If anything waited down there, it remained hidden, and though she yearned to get a better look, the sun appeared to hang in one place, refusing to give up the secrets of the Valley of the Gun.

  She had been led unerringly there. No doubt this was the place. Upsetting that she knew that. If Zach or Geronimo lay in wait down there, they weren’t visible. Perhaps she was wrong, and it was only another valley among the many in this New Mexico place. Her stomach clutched. No, this was it, the valley where men killed each other. The essence of violence and death hung over the place like heavy clouds.

  Clicking her tongue, she urged Morgan down the hillside. Rocks rolled from under his hooves, rattled in the silence. Her heart hammered, threatened to burst from her chest. At the bottom the usually calm horse danced sideways and nickered. She laid her palm on the butt of the six-shooter on her hip, relaxed as much as she could to keep him in check. If he sensed her tension, he could bolt on her.

  Heat stirred a breeze that whirled across the valley, kicked up dust devils, ruffled through ancient huge cottonwoods clustered along a creek bank in the distance. God, it was quiet. No birds sang, not even a hunting hawk’s scree from the blue sky. She ought to shout or cough or clear her throat, just to break the silence. A trickle of sweat ran from under the band of her hat, trailed to her jawline, and dripped onto her shoulder.

  No matter which way she turned her gaze, no one appeared. It was much worse than if someone actually rode toward her. Then she could see a target to home in on. This way, there was not a single threat to aim at. Where was everyone? Where, for goodness’ sake, were Zach and Geronimo? Already cut down by each other’s bullets? Teeth gritted to keep from shouting, she kept the bit taut so Morgan would continue to take cautious steps. The hairs on the back of her neck did everything they could to make her ride like hell from this place.

  Coming up on a huge boulder, the top of which caught the sunlight while the wide bottom could hide a man on a horse, she gripped tightly with both knees and reined the nervous gelding to a stop. Her breath came in short gasps; her eyes burned from staring into the darkness. Someone…something lurked there, whether it was real or imagined no longer made a difference. She could not make herself move on. It was as if something tied her to the spot.

  The last time she was this frightened was the first time Sister Margaret stripped her naked and tossed her in a dark cell for misbehaving. Sinning, the old biddy called it. It wasn’t long before she learned to deal with that type of punishment, even scoffed at those who feared it. Enclosed by the darkness, she would shut her eyes and make up stories, living in them until she was released.

  If only she could do that now. But every time she squeezed her eyes tight, she saw Zach sprawled face-down in his own blood, the ugly Geronimo Lanigan standing over him, pistol smoking.

  Far up the valley, a rider came into view. Too small, too far away to see who it was. She swallowed over a huge lump and choked. Morgan danced and whinnied. She patted his neck. “Hush, now. Let’s just wait and see who it is, ’fore we get all touchy.”

  That was as hard for her as for Morgan. He wanted to be on the move. So did she. He bowed up, came down stiff-legged, and tossed his head to get the bit in his teeth. She tightened the reins, smacked him between the ears. “Cut that out, or I’ll whallop you one.”

  Unable to remain there a moment longer, she urged him forward and cut across the valley at an angle away from the horse and rider and toward the tall boulder. The only sound in the thin air, hooves coming down in the dry earth. If someone, anyone waited on the high side of the valley, she made a perfect target. The boulder grew larger, a good place to hide and watch out of sight. At least until she could tell who that was riding her way. Once on the leeward side of the immense rock formation, she slid out of the saddle and cupped a hand over Morgan’s nose.

  “Now, keep it quiet, boy.” He flicked his ears forward at the whisper of her voice.

  The rider would be opposite her before she could see him without stepping out where he could spot her. If she waited very long, it’d be too late to do much of anything to protect herself if it wasn’t Zach.

  Barrel aimed down at her side, she slinked around the protrusion of rocks, back so tight up against them they cut into her flesh. A roaring filled her ears. One eye, then the other, got a view…of an empty valley. Absolutely no one there. Whirling, she bounced out in the open, pointing the gun like some sort of wild woman. Where did the son of a bitch go? How had he gotten away? One direction, then the other, behind, then in front. With a sigh she sank down to her butt. Morgan rubbed the top of her head with his nose. Snorted.

  A dream? Her imagination? Maybe she was still in bed back at the House of Five Spanish Angels, sleeping soundly. No, this was all too real. He had ridden into a cul de sac, was all.

  A shot. Then two. Then a volley. She scrambled across the ground, kicking up dust, mounted Morgan, and headed toward the sound, bent low over the galloping horse’s neck, the pistol still in one ha
nd. Ahead, shots coming from behind rocks on either side of a huge boulder back in a shallow cut in the rise. An occasional single shot from there, while bullets chipped away at the sandstone.

  Without slowing, she rode straight through the gunfire, leaped from Morgan’s back, and scrambled to Zach’s side. He sat on the ground back against the rock, blood on his shirt.

  “Tyra, my God, what are you doing here? I told you to stay safe.”

  She touched his shoulder where dark red blossomed. “You’re hit. Zach, please don’t die. Please.” Her throat burned with tears. Fear gripped her chest with a pain that bent her over. She couldn’t lose this man. How would she live without him? His tender touch, his sweet, warm kisses.

  She laid her cheek on his chest, whispered, “Please don’t die. I love you.”

  His dusty hand grabbed at her arm, his gaze caught hers, held for a long moment. “I love you. I’ll always love you. Don’t forget me.” His gaze caught at her, held for a moment, then went wide as if looking at something far in the distance.

  Her breath wouldn’t come, she choked on the dust rising around them. Leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His motionless cheek. “Zach, don’t go. What will I do? Please don’t go. The angels. They’re praying for us. Zach.” She shook him, but he didn’t respond.

  Bullets continued to cut away shards of rock all around them. He slumped forward.

  “No, you bastards. No.” In the hail of gunfire she rose in the open and emptied her gun at the hidden outlaws, bullets cutting into her body. She felt nothing. Saw nothing. Heard nothing.

  ****

  “Tyra, dear. It’s time to come down for breakfast.” Dolores’ sweet voice, a gentle touch at her shoulder. “Come on, child. Zach wants to leave this morning. You know how impatient men are.”

  She sat up, slapping at herself with the palms of both hands. “Zach’s here?”

  “Of course, dear, where did you think he would be? I told you he would come for you, no matter what happened. He rode in early this morning.”