Now he was in the mountain country of Arizona, less than a hundred miles from the border as the buzzard might fly. But for a man on a horse that could mean anything from a week to never.
He had less than eight dollars in the inside pocket of his black jacket and he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. There had been some bad water that he’d drunk from. It had been in a small pool at the base of some rocks and the shootist had suspected it might have been fouled. But it tasted safe, though warm and brackish. But there’d been something there that had given him agonizing stomach cramps that night. And the water had run through him, so that he could hardly sit his stallion and every jarring step pained him. A dozen times he had to swing down from the high saddle and squat hurriedly among the rocks. He was sweating and yet he felt chilled at the same time.
Finally Crow had heeled his horse off the trail, heading for higher ground. Riding carefully, looking down for herbs that he knew might help him.
Though very little is known to history about the man whose name was just Crow, there is reliable evidence that he had once spent some time with Indians, both plains and mountain tribes. And this had aided him in both his hunting and fighting skills, as well as giving him some knowledge of the healing arts of the Indian shamans.
He had lit a small fire, guarding it against the rising wind with his lean body. Heating up some of his own urine in a metal cup until it hissed and steamed, then sprinkling in three different herbs he’d found. Using the leaves of one of them. Shredded stems of a second. And a small amount of the crushed roots of the third. Stirring them round and round with a long twig, watching until the mixture began to change color. The acrid smell of the urine was swamped with a sweet, aromatic odor of the various herbs. Crow took the cup from the glowing ashes of his fire and drained it at a single draught, grimacing at the bitterness of the taste.
Then he had walked his horse back down to the trail and gone on his way. There had been two more attacks of the griping pains, and then, just before evening, he had been seized by a stunning fire in his belly. It raged for several minutes, making him almost fall from the stallion. He lay in the dirt, rolling backwards and forwards, utterly helpless, biting his lips until they bled to stop himself crying out like a woman at her first child-bearing.
The shaman who had taught him the medicine had warned him it would not be easy. “Like trying to shit out a melon,” was how the old man had described it.
In the end the spasm passed away, leaving him feeling utterly drained. But after it he began to recover and by the time he heeled the horse into the main street of Rosa Cruz he was in better shape.
His first need was for food, but he took the black stallion to the livery stables, handing him over to an old Mexican. Asking for a good brush-down and a careful watering.
“Don’t give him too much or it’ll make him take cold,” he said.
“Si, señor,” nodded the old man, not even looking up at the stranger.
“Do that well and I’ll be pleased.”
“Si.”
“Do it wrong and I’ll come back and break both your knees.”
“Si, señor,” replied the Mexican, starting to walk away, leading the big horse.
The gringo had a soft, gentle voice. More like a woman than a man, he thought. And the last words had been said in exactly the same tone as the others. So it took a few moments for them to penetrate all the way through to the thinking part of the old man’s brain.
“Break my knees, señor?” he said, turning at last to look up at the stranger, his face crinkling up into a smile at what he fondly imagined to be a Yankee joke.
“Yes. That’s right, old man. I’ll come back here and break both your knees. Man your age it could take a long whiles before you walked again.”
Then he knew it wasn’t a joke. Even by looking into this stranger’s face he could tell that it was nothing for him to smile about.
He felt himself starting to shake and he clenched his hand tighter on the horse’s bridle to try and control himself. Never in his long years had he ever seen a face that frightened him more. Yet there was nothing there to terrify anyone. A longish face, with high cheeks and narrow eyes. A mouth that looked as though it hadn’t ever done a lot of laughing. The stranger was tall with an odd gun at his right hip and a fancy knife balancing it on the left side.
“I am sorry, señor,” he managed to stammer, bowing his head so low that his battered sombrero threatened to slide off.
“Nothing to be sorry for, old man,” replied Crow. “Do it right and there won’t be any problem at all. Just do it right.”
He walked quietly out of the stable, closing the large door behind him, leaving the elderly Mexican still shivering, rubbing at his chest where a dull pain had begun to throb in time with the hesitant beating of his heart.
“Tell me where’s the best place to eat, sonny?” Crow asked a snot-nose brat in torn pants, preoccupied with chewing on something that he’d just excavated from his left nostril.
“Huh?”
“Good place for some chow?”
“There.”
“House with the sign. “Ma Holtom’s Eating Palace.” That one?”
“Yeah. Good grits and fresh eggs there. Lots of fine food for any man. Meat as fresh as if it was still walkin’ round and buttermilk bright as tomorrow’s sunrise.”
Crow couldn’t restrain a grin at the way the little boy rattled off the words.
“Why, son, I declare you are a fine advertisement for Mrs. Holtom there.”
“I’m her son. I get a nickel every stranger I send there.”
But the spiel had been true. The food was good and the tables clean. And the Widow Holtom had a big smile that looked as though it might—just might—be offering something extra for the right kind of customer. Crow filed that away at the back of his mind ready in case the need came on him. There was a young woman crying in one corner of the room. The Widow Holtom saw Crow’s eyes turn towards the lady, a slim, brown-eyed girl with very short dark hair.
“Left her valise with all her money on the stage. Time she found out it was long gone. Husband slapped her face and went off after it. That was six hours back and she’s still weepin’. Sticks in my craw, that.”
Crow ignored her. It was his experience that women spent a whole lot of their time in crying. As far as he was concerned they were only really good for two things. And one of those was cooking.
He finished a second cup of coffee and started to walk out across the main street. After looking to his horse and feeding himself his next stop in a town was generally at the office of the local lawman. See what flyers were out and what kind of rewards were being offered. If there was nothing over a hundred dollars he’d rarely bother, but right then times were hard and he would have gone after a five dollar thief.
A wagon rattled on by as he made his way across the baked ruts, leaping over deep furrows that in winter would be eighteen inches deep in freezing mud. The main saloon in Rosa Cruz was called the ‘Inside Straight’ and the shootist noticed that there was a lot of noise coming from there. A bunch of a dozen or so young men, drunk by the sound of it, though it was barely noon. They were pushing and jostling each other, all of them holding long glasses brimming with beer. Every time a woman came by she was submitted to a gauntlet of hooting and obscene jeering.
Crow turned and stared down the street at them. When boys figured they could get away with that kind of behavior then it meant that the township was being sloppily run. He didn’t hold out any hope of the sheriff being much of a man. As he looked away he saw that the wagon had stopped by the grocery store, right next door to the “Inside Straight’.
It was no surprise to find the office of the lawman was locked and shuttered. Thick dust coated the inside of the door and there was a smudged pencil notice pinned to the frame. The tall shootist craned himself forwards and read the note.
Owing to decease of Sheriff Zentner this office is closed until further notice. Any nominees f
or lawman of Rosa Cruz should apply in first place to Cattleman’s Bank.
It wasn’t signed.
Crow spat in the dirt behind him. It was bad news. The dollars would soon be leaking away through his fingers and then he’d have to think about other ways of making himself some eating money. It crossed his mind to apply for the job of lawman. At least he could go and talk to the man in the bank. Find out what they’d pay. Needn’t stay above a few weeks and then he could move on.
One place was much like another.
He stepped back into the street, watching through slitted eyes how his shadow lurked sharp and black beneath his boots. It was very hot and he reached up and pulled the brim of his hat a little further forward. He could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck, some of it caught by the yellow bandana at his throat.
The gang of boys were still there. This time gathered around the wagon, calling up at someone sitting high on the seat of the Conestoga. But it was all fairly good-natured and Crow took no further notice of it.
As he neared the grocery he saw a tall, stooping figure come out, clutching a large brown paper bag. It was a boy, looking to be in his early twenties, carrying his head on one side, like a bird looking down at a worm.
Although Crow had purged himself of the poison that had infected the water, he still didn’t feel at his strongest and best. And there was something about Rosa Cruz that didn’t set right with him. Over the years he’d developed a kind of sixth sense. A feeling for what were good and what were bad days. And so far it didn’t seem like good. The noisy gang of louts, and the locked sheriff’s office. It didn’t feel like a good day.
He was close enough to catch the jeering and catcalling of the boys. There was obviously a woman up on the rig, and he wondered vaguely why there weren’t any men there to come to her defense and help out against the drunks. But most folks’d probably prefer to keep their silence and not risk their lives. There were a dozen or so of the boys, and what was merely an irritation could easily turn into a fight and killing.
Crow took no notice of it. Wasn’t his business. No money in it for him.
With the sudden violence of a snakebite, things changed. The tall youth stumbled as he came out of the store, not seeming to see one of the boys, capering and waving his beer around at his left side. He bumped into the drunk, knocking the glass from his hand. It fell, shattering on the boardwalk, glass splintering and the beer foaming white before the dust beneath sucked it up.
The groceries fell as well, the bag ripping, spilling out small twists of tea and sugar. A dozen eggs cascaded from the young man’s arms, splattering into the mess, with a small sack of flour bursting in a cloud.
“You fuckin’ clumsy bastard!” yelled the young man who’d lost his drink.
“I’m mighty sorry, mister,” stammered the boy, trying desperately to hang on to the remnants of his purchases.
“Need more than fuckin’ sorry, you son of a fuckin’ bitch,” snarled the other. The rest of the gang had immediately turned away from their baiting to see what was happening and they began to encourage their fellow.
“Kick the shit out of the bastard, Clem,” yelled one.
“I said I was real sorry, mister. I’ll buy you another drink ifn you’ll let me?”
Crow stopped, less than ten feet from the edge of the ruckus, alongside the wagon. He noticed that someone inside had lifted up the canvas skirt and was peering out from the darkness within.
“I don’t want one fuckin’ drink.”
“That’s right, Clem. Make him buy us all a fresh round!”
“I don’t have that much money, mister. It was an accident. I don’t see well from …”
“I see you well enough,” yelped the boy called Clem.
Swinging a vicious right hand to the pit of the other boy’s stomach. The breath whooshed out like steam from an opened valve and he doubled over, dropping the remains of the food. Bacon and a few tins of beans dropped into the mixture of eggs and beer and flour at his feet.
“Yeah, Clem!” whooped someone.
“In with the boots, in with ’em!” cried another young voice, made vicious with drink and the desire to see someone hurt.
Clem grinned hazily at his friends. Crow watched him, knowing that the boy down on his knees, retching for breath, didn’t have a whole lot of chance. Maybe if he doubled up and protected his face and groin then they’d get tired of kicking him. But the circle was closing in, fists clenched, feet raising.
Crow had once met an old Cavalry scout, with grizzled hair. Carried a watch that he was mighty proud of. Engraved with some sentiment from the troopers he had once commanded. Crow had taken a liking to the old man and he still remembered something that he’d said. Brittles. That had been his name. Nathan Brittles. He’d said: ‘never apologize ’cos it’s a sign of weakness.’
There was a lot of truth in that. Once you backed down off a man then he could walk all over you and make you crawl to lick his boots. After the first apology the road lay all downhill.
It was a simple enough lesson and the boy with the stooped shoulders was about to pay the price for it.
Crow stood where he was, watching incuriously, eager only for it to end quickly so that he could pass by and get into the bank.
But it wasn’t going to be that easy for him, either.
In their eagerness the boys were pushing at each other and barely a blow had landed on the crouching figure. But the outer circle were jostling furiously and one of them stumbled backwards, treading on Crow’s foot, slipping over it and landing on his back in the street, looking up at the shootist with a flushed, angry face.
“Bastard! You tripped me a’purpose.”
“No,” replied Crow, quietly.
“Call me a liar, you fuck. You stinkin’ old fuck!”
The altercation had attracted the attention of the rest of the gang and they’d pulled away, leaving the crying boy, still on his hands and knees, smeared with the fallen groceries.
“That another of them saddle-tramps?”
“Yeah. Maybe he’s the pa of this one.”
“No. He ain’t more’n thirty.”
“Skinny fuckin’ nester.”
The boy staggered up to his feet, backing off a little from Crow, who stood very still, his shoulders almost touching the wheel of the wagon. The shootist kept his hands low at his sides, trying not to make any threatening move. Knowing that odds of twelve to one didn’t offer a lot of chances to him.
“You tripped me for no reason, mister.”
“You’re drunk, boy, and you fell.” The voice was calm and quiet. Yet the words carried to everyone in the group. And to the dozen or more town’s folk who’d come out to watch the ruckus.
“Kick the shit out of the bastard!”
“Looks like a breed to me.”
The boy gathered courage from his friends. His voice had faltered when he’d looked into that serene and deadly face, seeing something there that had frightened him. But he was too far over the line now to step back.
“You a breed, mister?” Crow didn’t say anything, still looking calmly at him. “I asked you a question. What’s your name?”
Still the shootist didn’t answer. Knowing that there was only one way that this might end. And all the talking in the world wasn’t much likely to alter that.
“Maybe he’s come spyin’ in here, Joey? For them Indians out yonder been raidin’ cattle.”
“That right? You a spy, mister? One way or the other, I don’t like the fuckin’ look of you. You’re a breed or a spy or a sheep-herdin’ nester.”
The boy on his hands and knees had stumbled erect, standing forgotten, then moving a few unsteady steps towards the front of the wagon, hands clasped around his belly where he’d been kicked. Crow noticed that he still held his head on one side as he moved.
“I said I don’t like you, mister,” sneered the kid. “And me and my buddies here are goin’ to teach you a lesson you won’t never forget.”
> Crow knew his feelings had been right. It surely wasn’t going to be a good day.
Chapter Three
In the deep shadow at the side of the wagon, Crow’s right hand casually flipped the retaining thong off the hammers of the scattergun. Calming himself ready for what he now saw was inevitably going to happen. The kids were all charged up and ready for a killing and there was nothing better than a total stranger.
“I don’t have a quarrel with you men,” he said, voice still quiet in the late morning peace.
“Well we got a fuckin’ quarrel with you and your clumsy kin yonder,” said the one called Clem, pointing at the trembling figure of the stooped boy.
“He’s no kin.”
“We goin’ to get him after you, you half-breed fuckin’ dog.”
“This’ll end in killin’,” said Crow.
“Maybe your’n,” laughed someone, but the shootist saw the flicker of doubt, so familiar to him, in the eyes of the three of four nearest young men.
“Maybe, son. Maybe. But if I see a man take a step nearer or let his hand drop to a pistol, then I’ll promise you a lot of blood.”
The boys—eleven of them—were grouped close together, a couple in the street, and the rest clustered in front of the window of the grocery store. The owner, a fat woman with a streak of flour on her dimpled cheek, was standing inside the window, peering out at the drama.
“He don’t have a pistol,” one of them said, his voice unnaturally high with tension as he realized that this was for real. It was going to be killing. Not just a drunk piece of funning with a drifter.
“That’s a shotgun,” said someone else.
Like a pool when a boy throws in a small stone, the group seemed to ripple, spreading out, everyone wanting a little more room for himself.
“Ten gauge,” offered Crow, as restrained and controlled as if he’d been discussing the warm weather with a group of spinsters at a quilting bee.
“Jesus Christ! Make a ...” began one of them.
“Get the fucker!” shouted the boy called Clem, his voice riding over everyone else’s, drawing his pistol from its low holster.
One-Eyed Death Page 2