by Paul Lederer
It was near dusk when I awoke. The shadows had shifted; the sun no longer cut harshly through the narrow window. The old man was gone. That was my intention as well. I couldn’t stay where I was even had I been welcome. Not knowing whether or not Sheriff Tom Driscoll was on my trail. I had to find my buckskin horse and assess his condition. If I could ride on, now was the time to do it, with the cool of evening beginning to settle. And if the horse had foundered – well, I would just have to take a shot at walking my way across Arizona Territory.
Getting up from the cot was trickier than I could have imagined. My head reeled as I sat up, and I had to pause to gather my strength before attempting to rise to my feet. I needed food, more water, rest. I had none of these. I looked in vain for the canteen, but the old man had taken it with him, wherever he had gone. Ray Hardin’s wallet was on the table, still apparendy unopened. I started to toss it aside and then, on impulse, pocketed it with the vague idea that I would glance through it and see if there was some sort of address there and then mail the contents to whoever it might concern in Yuma once I was safely out of the Territory. I was willing to do that much at least to fulfill my promise to the dead man.
I was a little surprised to find my Winchester still propped up in the corner of the cabin. Gratefully I snatched it up and checked the loads. I made my way to the door and swung it open, squinting into the distances. I rested one hand against the jamb and stood taking in a few steadying deep breaths before I made my heavy way into the dusky yard.
The sky had faded to deep crimson. There was a pleasing carpet of purple sand verbena spread spottily across the ground, a thicket of nopal cactus and one lonesome ocotillo, its spiny coachman’s whips undecorated by vermilion flowers at this time of year. There was not a tree anywhere. I smiled thinly. When was the last time I had seen a tree of any kind?
I found the buckskin, unsaddled, standing in the scant shade of a brush lean-to. There was no other horse there. But the lean-to was evidence that the old man did have a mount. That meant that he had taken it and intended to travel some distance. The buckskin lifted its muzzle from the fodder it had been given and glanced at me woefully.
I ran my hands over his legs and flanks. Despite ill-usage he seemed sound if not up to strength. It was with regret that I searched for my saddle and horse blanket and prepared to ride. I wasted little time. For all I knew the old man had gone to find help and would return with more trouble for me. I did not wish to be there when he arrived. Swinging aboard the weary buckskin horse I turned his head westward, toward California, through the purpling dusk.
The day was still warm, but the devil winds had subsided. The shadows stretched out long and deep before the dull glow of sundown. The land here was barren, littered with small reddish volcanic stones. Now and then there would be patches of drift sand, but the land was flat and the travel relatively easy. There were more saguaro now and stands of jumping cactus – cholla. To the south I could see a phantom glow of light which I took to be Yuma. I was not far from the Colorado River then.
Yuma could not have existed without the river. It was the last stop-over for water before the pioneers crossed to the Mojave Desert on the California side. I was well aware that there was no easy travel across that region either. In earlier times a few expeditions had tried following a new trail farther to the north, guided by the rumor that there was easier passage there. These travelers were the ones that had given Death Valley its name.
Yuma had one more reason for existing. Yuma Territorial Prison where the true hard cases were sent to be locked away in its vaults. They had chosen Yuma because although the prison might not be absolutely escape-proof, once a prisoner was on the run there was nowhere to go but out on to the desert where, beneath a cruel sun, the wilderness issued its own sort of death warrant.
The buckskin was moving easily beneath me, though not at his usual jaunty pace. The night settled in quickly, bringing that brief moment of comfort between the searing heat of day and the frigid temperatures of night. I had my rifle and my pony. Sheriff Tom Driscoll, if he was following me, was well behind and, anyway, with any luck I would be across the Colorado River and into California, out of his jurisdiction, by daybreak. I should have been breathing in a fresh sense of freedom with each passing mile.
Why then did I slow my horse, halt it and look over my shoulder toward the distant glow of Yuma’s lights?
Well, I knew why, but it was a foolish way of thinking.
A rash promise made to a dying man who would never know that I hadn’t lived up to my word, who could no longer even care. I regretted taking the wallet from the cabin. The old man seemed to know who Beth was. Maybe he could have delivered it to her. I had never even learned his name. For all I knew the old man was, himself, this Corson who had murdered Ray Hardin. I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my damp, longish hair. The buckskin shuddered impatiently beneath me, now eager to be going on.
Who was Beth? I wondered. A grieving widow, a lover, a friend, a little girl waiting for her daddy to return? Was there a last letter to someone in Ray Hardin’s wallet, something of great sentimental value, important news, some notification of prayed-for good fortune, a mortgage paper on some land or shop long-labored to obtain? What made any of it my business? Only a careless promise made to soften a man’s departure from this world.
I had my own life to worry about. They would be happy to stretch my neck for me back in Flagstaff, guilty or not, if Tom Driscoll caught up with me. I much preferred to go on living a little longer. I replaced my hat and sat brooding in the saddle as full dark crept into the skies and the brilliant desert stars blinked on one by one. The buckskin impatiently shifted his hoofs once more. I turned his head with my reins and muttered.
‘Let’s go. Change of plans.’ And started making my way toward the lights of Yuma. ‘Horse – you can tell the world that John Magadan is purely a fool.’
By the time I reached the outskirts of Yuma the moon was riding high once more, silver against the black velvet sky. I passed a sign that read ‘Pop, 1240’ – I assumed that didn’t include the prisoners locked up in the penitentiary. That made Yuma a not inconsiderable-sized town in the West, although people in the East or St. Louis, say, might view it as a fly speck on the map. The point is, that Yuma was of size enough so that I couldn’t walk down the street rapping on doors, hoping to find someone named Beth, not even knowing who she was.
The best approach to the dilemma seemed to be finding anyone who might know Ray Hardin. Hostlers, bartenders, inn-keepers. The town, though large by desert standards, was still small enough that if Hardin had lived for very long in Yuma I would eventually find someone who recognized the name and could lead me to Beth.
The buckskin had done well by me, as well as he could. The first thing to do was to see that he was sheltered, watered and fed. I hadn’t a dime in my pockets, though, and I frowned at that thought as I sat the quivering horse in the deep shadows of a shuttered hardware store on the outskirts of town.
For the first time I opened Ray Hardin’s wallet and thumbed through its contents. Tucked away in one corner of its fold was a yellow-back ten-dollar note, and I slipped it out. I did not feel like a thief. I was employing Ray Hardin’s resources for the job he had asked me to do.
Besides, from what I understand of matters, Ray no longer had much use for that ten-dollar bill.
It was too dark to glance through the papers the wallet contained, and the horse was impatient as any thirsty animal might be, and so I let him walk on down the silent street, searching for a stable.
On the far side of town I could hear the distance-muffled sounds of loud celebrations. That was where the saloons would be, grouped together away from the decent folks of Yuma. That might be a good place to start asking about Hardin, although I did not know what kind of man he had been. He may have never entered a saloon in his life.
Nor did I know if he had enemies other than Corson. I might be mentioning a name that would bring more troub
le down on my head. What was I doing here! I could have reached the river by now, been free of cares. I shook my head wondering at my own stupidity.
The stable I found was dark, silent except for the nickering of a single horse in the back of the establishment. I swung down anyway, leading the buckskin to the big double doors. It was uncommon for a stable to be without a watchman ever. People arrived at odd hours from the westward trail. People stole horses at any hour. I halted in the open doorway and called in. After a minute a thin, irritated voice answered.
‘Comin’. I’m comin’.’
When the stablehand emerged from the depths of the building I found a doughy, stubby man with a wide chest whose squeaky voice did not match his bulk. His eyes were red with sleep. He was annoyed and I couldn’t blame him much. He eyed me and then studied the buckskin more closely, a man who obviously knew much about horses.
‘About run him down to the nub, didn’t you?’ he asked, feeling the buckskin’s hocks for tell-tale heat.
‘It’s a long dry trail from Tucson,’ I said. Still he gave me a look of disgust for treating the noble animal so badly.
‘What do you want to give him? Alfalfa and a few scoops of oats is what I’d recommend.’
‘That sounds right. I’ll trust your judgement. You seem to be a man who knows your horses.’
‘’Course I know my horses!’ the hostler said with a flare of temper. ‘What do I do day and night, night and day?’
I had to smile inwardly at his attitude, but I was happy to see the buckskin in the hands of a man who not only knew animals, but cared about them.
‘I’d go easy on the water at first’ I said. ‘He hasn’t had a full belly for a while.’
The stable man didn’t even bother to respond to that. He gave me a sort of pitying glance, the sort a professional gives an amateur instructing him in how to go about his job.
‘Fifty cents a day,’ is what he said. ‘You want to tote that rifle around town with you or not? I’ve got a chain rack over on the wall there. Never lost a weapon yet.’
I glanced that way and saw the gunrack with a thin chain passing through the lever-actions of half a dozen rifles.
‘I’ll leave the rifle,’ I agreed.
‘Ten cents more.’
‘All right.’ I paused as he began to unfasten the double cinches on my Texas-rigged saddle, then asked him, ‘Do you know a man named Ray Hardin? He’s an old friend of mine. I heard he lives down this way.’
He didn’t look up as he answered. ‘Mister, I know where you can get a meal or a drink. I can tell you where the town marshal’s office is, or the hotel. Outside of that – I know nothing at all.’ He swung my saddle on to the stall partition, whipped off the buckskin’s blanket and began to curry the horse. I guessed our conversation was at an end.
The streets were cool, but not frigid like the open desert. I supposed the wooden buildings absorbed heat throughout the day and gave it off again in the night. I shivered a little nevertheless as I stood in front of the stable, looking up and down the street. I was hungry and thirsty and weary to the bone. I did, however, have ten dollars of Ray Hardin’s money, and with any luck at all I would awake in the morning a stronger, well-rested man.
First I started uptown toward the sound of the saloon crowds. I wanted to begin my search as quickly as possible because I had no intention of remaining long in Yuma. I am not a drinking man, but my throat and deprived body agreed that a tall beer would go far toward assuaging some of my lingering exhaustion.
And I had it in mind to ask around about Ray Hardin. Someone must have known the man. Someone must know who Beth was and how I could find her to rid myself of the burden of conscience I was carrying, and ride for the Colorado River and freedom. I was still unsteady on my feet. I cursed my own body as I had to pause not once but twice and lean against the fronts of buildings while I made my way across town. The silver moon still hung high in the night sky, still mocked my smallness. The shadows were deep before the false-front buildings along the street I now walked. A spotted dog stirred and scuttled away, tail between its legs. I passed one man and then another, neither showing any interest in a wandering stranger.
I emerged on to a lighted avenue where dozens of cowhands, soldiers, drifters and whatnots stood in front of a dozen saloons swapping stories, bragging, cat-calling to each other. I entered the first establishment I came to through green-painted batwing doors, and settled at the far end of the bar, leaning my forearms on its scarred surface, my hat tilted back on my head. I looked no rougher than half of the men in the noisy saloon, and the big-chested bartender served me a beer without comment.
The beer was tall, tepid, flat and wonderfully reviving. The tissues of my body seemed to be sparring each with the others for their own share. My eyes seemed to cool, my dizziness began to pass. As it did, I felt the beginnings of hunger growing. I could not recall my last meal.
The man with the shaggy red beard nudged my shoulder as he eased up to the bar, apologized, put his hat on the counter and called for a whisky. He slapped a silver dollar on the bar, and nodding at me, told the bartender. ‘I’ll pay for his as well.’
‘Never saw you here before,’ he said, tossing down his whisky in one gulp. He had a pleasant if crooked smile, wore a faded red shirt and black jeans tucked into run-down boots.
‘Just rode in,’ I answered. ‘Thanks for the beer.’
He nodded and asked me no more questions. He signaled to the bartender for another whisky. I decided to take a chance and said:
‘I’ve got some business with a man named Ray Hardin. Only thing is, I can’t find him.’
‘Ray Hardin!’ the man laughed. ‘You just haven’t been looking hard enough, friend. I could spit on his house from here. Let me point you toward it.’
He was still smiling, maybe because he was in a drunken-friendly mood, I don’t know. With his heavy arm across my shoulders we wove our way through the crowd of drinkers to the back door of the saloon. I stepped out into the darkness with him.
‘You see that white house across the vacant lot?’ he asked pointing. And when I nodded he laughed out loud and said, ‘Well, Ray Hardin don’t live there!’ and he threw a heavy punch at me. His fist landed solidly on the hinge of my jaw, and I staggered back against the wall of the saloon. When he hit me again I went to my knees in the dark alley. When he kicked my head I went down to stay.
THREE
‘What the hell happened to you?’ a deep voice was demanding of me. A rough hand shook my shoulder, and I opened my eyes to look up at the dark skies and the man with the silver star pinned to his leather vest standing over me. ‘Somebody beat you up?’ the lawman wanted to know. He crouched down beside me and peered at my face.
‘No,’ I groaned. The last thing I wanted was to be interviewed by a marshal. I could not give my name; I could not refuse to. ‘I guess I got a little drunk,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Must have fallen and banged myself up a little.’
The lawman stood, considering me. He probably didn’t believe me, but officers in these Western towns don’t have much time to waste with common drunks. After a moment’s thought, he ordered me:
‘In that case just get yourself to bed somewhere. We can’t have people passed-out in the alleys. And don’t go back into that saloon!’ he warned me. ‘Then I will have to run you in.’
I rose from the ground unsteadily and leaned my back against the wall. My head was ringing and I clutched my temples with both hands. The lawman seemed convinced by now that I was just one more man who couldn’t hold his liquor. He picked up my hat and handed it to me.
‘Remember what I said – don’t come back here tonight.’
‘No, sir,’ I answered quietly. I turned and started unsteadily away, feeling nausea and anger rise simultaneously. I would have liked to go back and find the red-bearded man, but that could only lead to more trouble, quite serious trouble for me if they discovered I was an escaped murderer.
I was making a poor job
of the search for Beth.
At the head of the alley in the silence of the night, I leaned against yet another building and patted my pockets. Ray Hardin’s wallet was gone! Cursing myself for my own carelessness, I stood there for a moment, breathing the night air in deeply. The scent of sage was heavy and I could smell water across the desert’s breadth. The Colorado River, no doubt.
I could recover the buckskin now, this minute, and ride toward California. It was the wisest thing I could have done. Instead I searched my jeans and found the much-folded ten-dollar note in the watch pocket, and started off to look for a place to sleep.
The window of my hotel room faced west and so without the morning sun to awaken me I slept late, dreaming the dreams of the dead. I stood at the morning window looking out across the length of Yuma toward the vast desert distances. I could not see the tombs of the Territorial Prison from there, for which I was grateful. I raised the window a bit and the warm desert breeze caused the thin white curtains to flutter.
I felt stiff. Weary. There were a few new lumps on my head. But somehow I felt happier. I was off the desert; I had enough money in my pocket to buy a real breakfast; my horse was being well-tended to. It wasn’t much, and I had come into a new set of troubles, but a man can’t have everything. I was certainly better off than I had been the day before.
I opened the door to my room and sat on the bed. After a minute or two I saw a young blond kid with a towel over his forearm and a ceramic basin in his hands scurrying along the corridor. I gestured to him and told him that I would be grateful for some warm water, a bar of soap, and a razor. Contemplating that made me feel even better. A shave, a quick wash down, breakfast. The day seemed to be growing brighter with each passing minute.