Vermijo

by Nelson Hunter

  ‘I had a sample tested and it’s pretty high-grade. The assayer figured we could be looking at eighty ounces of silver per ton. I have the report if you want to see it.’

  ‘Not necessary, I trust you.’ Piggot spoke the words but had a lingering doubt.

  Carl said, ‘And we didn’t get it done local. Got to keep a tight rein on that kinda thing. The man knows his business and he was looking for a piece of the action.’

  ‘You didn’t cut him in?’

  ‘He was…ah…persuaded from pursuing it.’

  ‘You all fired up over this, aren’t you, Jim?’

  ‘Damn straight. But I know you.’

  ‘You know me?

  ‘I know if we can do a deal here, then together we can do…what’s that smell?’

  ‘What? Oh, hell. Kate’s pie.’

  Piggot rushed into the kitchen. The Lockharts heard some cussing and banging about from the kitchen.

  Jim turned on his brother. ‘Carl, what the hell are you thinking?’ He stabbed a finger at him and didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in his voice. ‘Don’t ever let it be known how we do our business. That stays between us. Understand?’

  ‘Sure, Jim but—’

  ‘No buts. Not a one. Just keep your mouth shut and let me do all the talkin’.’

  Piggot came back into the room carrying a very burnt-looking apple pie.

  ‘What’s your offer?’ he asked as he put down the pie on a side table. He didn’t make any attempt to offer it to his guests. He took his seat again and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees and waited for a response.

  ‘You’ll get twenty per cent. If my figures are right, then you could be looking at a quarter of a million in the first year.’

  Piggot gave a low whistle. ‘You are willing to pay me all that money to provide my services for legal protection and my influence over the council?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What’re you going to provide?’

  ‘Given all the hard work me and my brothers are going to be doing, deliver protection to miners and townsfolk and such, I reckon we’re going to provide you with peace of mind. That plus a pocketful of money.’

  ‘That’s a rock solid guarantee, is it?’

  Jim and Carl looked at each other and nodded in agreement.

  ‘So Sam, what’s it to be?’ asked Jim.

  Both men stood and the bank owner put out his hand. ‘My answer is yes. Congratulations on the new business, and let’s hope it does well. Very well, indeed.’

  Jim and Sam shook hands. Carl didn’t shake, instead took out a cigar and lit it.

  ‘I’m glad our interest didn’t conflict, Sam. I’d hate to see that wife of yourn a widow at her time of life.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No telling what could happen to her.’

  ‘I’m…no, ah…’

  Jim hadn’t let go of Piggot’s hand and pulled him closer so they were standing toe to toe and gave Piggot a hard look.

  Piggot felt his heart banging in his chest.

  ‘We’re fine, Sam. Fine. The business is settled. But you talk to anyone outside this room about what we’ve spoken about, then…well, I can’t protect you.’

  The silent deputy let his hand drop to rest on his holstered gun, defiantly holding his stare.

  ‘We don’t want you meetin’ them prospectors, eh?’ Carl thought that was funny and laughed.

  Piggot bit his lip and looked at Jim.

  ‘I’m not going to do something stupid.’ He paused to look from one Lockhart to the other. Then said to Jim, ‘You’ve got no cause to threaten me like that, Lockhart.’

  ‘Don’t give me cause to worry about that.’

  Piggot was too scared to answer back.

  After a minute Jim said, ‘Quit the tough hombre act. How long do you think you could keep it up? This is the friendliest negotiation we could’ve asked for. This is going to be good for all of us, yes?’

  Piggot nodded. He had no other choice. He stood silent as the three turned and left. Stood at the front door as they mounted up and rode out. He could feel a cold sweat forming on his face as he fully realized what he had gotten himself into…with no safe way out.

  Four

  It was around seventy degrees in the shade and a light wind blew in from the northwest. Despite that, the man had already lit a campfire set away from the mouth of the cave – protected from the wind and prying eyes. The whole of the mountainside was honeycombed with caves. He recalled being told once that they had been inhabited by prehistoric men and animals. But that didn’t bother him. And the chill that ran through his body had nothing to do with that.

  Even though he had recently turned sixty, Frank Tyler still considered himself fit. He wasn’t particularly tall, just reaching five feet nine, but he made up for the lack of height with a set of wide shoulders. He was also fighting a losing battle with his ever-expanding waistline. His thick mustache hung down beyond his strong chin and was shot through with gray. Back in ’58 he had gained a reputation for himself riding with John Rip Ford at the Battle of Little Robe Creek. He remained with Rip Ford when they fought against Cortina at Rio Grande City. That was back in the days before the militia became known as the Texas Rangers.

  A bank of huge black thunder clouds drifted sluggishly across the sun. Frank tilted the small daguerreotype he held in his scarred hands to see it better. The image stared back at him. The man was dressed in a formal suit with a white shirt and black string tie at the throat; his hair was slicked down and parted to one side. He gripped the right lapel of the frock coat, the one that displayed a lawman’s badge. The other hand lay softly on the shoulder of the woman seated next to him.

  He hadn’t been able to hide just how proud he was feeling at that moment. The woman was dressed in her wedding finery. They hadn’t been able to afford a veil nor lace, and so chose tulle. The camera couldn’t capture the intensity of her bright blue eyes or the depth of her beauty. Her smile was brilliant and her eyes said: I am in love with this man.

  He married Arabella Adams on Saturday, May 5, 1860 – the same time he became a deputy sheriff. She was just eighteen years old and originally from Sand Creek, Wyoming. He was three years her senior and hailed from Arizona. They had met at a fandango. Arabella was there with her mother and elder sister. Frank was in the process of recovering from a couple of broken ribs he’d suffered in an accident. He had accidently bumped into her and almost spilled his drink down her floral dress. He was apologetic of his clumsiness and soon they found themselves dancing late into the night.

  Two days later he called on her. He already knew from Arabella that her father had been dead the last six years; a victim of a Mexican bandit raid. The rest of the family had been lucky to escape with their lives. So it was her mother that Frank eventually asked for permission to marry her daughter.

  Margaret Adams was taken aback at the request. After all, her elder daughter Jasmine was far the better prospect as she was a school teacher, as was Arabella, but with three more years’ experience. Mrs. Adams simply ran her eyes over the young man standing ramrod straight in front of her.

  ‘You want to marry my Arabella?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said frowning.

  He felt uncomfortable under her intense scrutiny. His mouth was dry and he nervously ran his hat brim through his fingers.

  ‘You love her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be askin’ if I didn’t, ma’am.’

  She smiled.

  ‘But Mr. Tyler, you’ve only just met. Barely had enough time to get and know each other.’

  ‘Ma’am, from the moment I set eyes on Bella, I knew—’

  ‘Bella, is it?’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Her name is Arabella. If we wanted her baptized as Bella, then we would have done so.’

  Frank blinked a couple of times. ‘I’m sorry Mrs. Adams.’

  Margaret nodded. It was his signal to continue.

  ‘Well, the moment I set eyes o
n Arabella, I just knew that she was the one for me. And I do believe she feels the same towards me.’

  The mother turned to her daughter. Arabella’s smile was all the confirmation she needed.

  ‘And how will you support my daughter?’ she asked turning back.

  Tyler showed off the deputy sheriff’s badge he wore. He resisted the temptation to snap back and said, ‘I’ve a job. It pays. And I’m a hardworking man. I can provide.’

  She knew that this young man was proud of his position in life. And without a husband’s support Margaret was under constant pressure to provide for her two daughters; something that was becoming harder with each passing month. Arabella’s marriage would release some of that strain.

  ‘Very well, Mr. Frank Tyler. You may marry Arabella. But listen to me and listen very carefully.’ Her benign expression turned to one that could have soured a basketful of lemons. ‘You will love, honor and cherish her all the days of her life. Break your bond, and never mind how many Mexicans you may have killed, you will have to face me.’

  Tyler smiled at the memory. The light breeze had now turned more forceful and bent the treetops. A single bird had gotten Frank’s attention and as he returned the photograph into his jacket pocket, he watched as it twisted and turned on the thermals. The bird suddenly dipped out of sight and Frank sighed and turned toward the cave that had been his home for the last five days.

  He was stopped by a sound. Something that wasn’t natural. Out of place.

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  As he waited for an answer he reached for his Winchester ’76. There was no need to jack a shell into the breech, for by habit he always had one in the chamber.

  He raised his voice and called out, ‘Come ahead an’ welcome, if you’ve a mind to.’

  This too, was greeted with silence. He tracked his eyes over the terrain, dust and vegetation moved in the persistent breeze. He waited. Suddenly he felt he had been mistaken and lowered the rifle, admonishing himself for being an old fool.

  His mule was tethered by a long rope to a low branch of a madrone tree. Its ears twitched but was more concerned at feeding himself rather than being frightened or even alerted to the sound that Frank had thought he had heard.

  But he couldn’t let it go. A body didn’t survive as long as he had without heeding the nagging thought in the back of his mind that something or someone had made that sound.

  So Tyler stood and listened. Apart from the sound of the breeze and the rustling of leaves, it was tranquil. Perhaps too tranquil. He stepped down onto the narrow trail, no wider than his boot, alert for any danger. He stopped when he saw what he thought was a boot wedged between two rocks, twisted at an awkward angle.

  He recognized the spur attached to it immediately.

  He stepped cautiously around the rocks, rifle at the ready and held his breath. He moved a little further and stopped abruptly. Not five yards away lay a hatless man, face-down on the ground. His clothes had been ripped and were covered with dust. The backs of his hands had cuts and dried blood on them.

  Immediately, Tyler dropped into a crouch. Instinctively making himself a smaller target. He waited, ears straining to pick up any noise from his surroundings. And only when he was happy enough, did he move towards the sprawled out man.

  He stared at the figure for a moment or two, all the while remaining vigilant. And only when he sensed no danger did he bend down and roll the body over.

  He brushed back the long hair and looked down at the unconscious man’s face. It was pale and drawn, lips cracked and dry but Frank saw the shallow rise and fall of his grandson’s chest…he was breathing, but only just.

  ‘Sweet Jesus. Luke, is that really you, boy?’

  ~*~

  Frank placed other piece of wood on the campfire and looked across at his grandson, laid out on the ground with a blanket covering him. Frank’s hazel eyes betrayed the deep concern he was feeling at that moment. The youngster was in a sorry state, and had remained unconscious when Tyler had hauled him back to the cave, stripped him down to his long johns and placed his clothes, hat and boots close to the fire to dry out. All that the elder Tyler could do now was wait – and hope.

  The sun was going down and it bathed the mountainside in shades of gold. The view never failed to excite Frank. The day would soon be gone. He turned around when he heard movement behind him. Luke had woken and pushed himself up on one elbow. He blinked several times as he looked about him, slightly confused by his surroundings. He was even more surprised when he saw the man sitting at the campfire, looking back at him.

  ‘That you, grandpa?’

  ‘It’s me, all right, boy. How’re you holding up?’

  Luke sat upright, the blanket falling off his shoulders, and groaned aloud. ‘Tol’able.’

  ‘That’s funny, ’cause you sure look like hell.’

  Luke touched the lumps and grazes about his head and face. ‘Been better, for sure.’

  Frank pointed at Luke’s spurs – silver with large rowels decorated with double jingle-bobs – and said, ‘Still wearin’ your old man’s spurs, I see. Guess they ain’t brought you any more luck than they brought him.’

  The youngster was surprised at his grandfather’s bitter tone. Had something gone on between them that he was unaware of? The spurs were the only reminder he had of his father. Luke decided that there would be nothing to gain in pushing it. So he said in his own defense, ‘My luck can turn, can’t it? I managed to find you.’

  ‘Yeah. How’d you know you’d do that, anyway? Thought you’d have made straight for the ranch.’

  ‘That was the plan, but I lost my horse, g-got caught in that storm, and that about finished me. Knew I didn’t have the strength to reach the ranch. The only other place I could feel safe was here.’

  Frank smiled. ‘Remember all the times we used to come up here hunting, did you?’

  ‘Huh-uh.’

  Silence settled between them.

  ‘You look like you could do with some coffee.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be the best you’ve ever had,’ Frank said as he poured coffee into a tin cup. ‘You struck lucky, kid. But I judge that’s the only luck you’ve had, from the looks of you.’

  ‘Sure is, grandpa. Tell you the truth, I didn’t expect to find you here, but I was hopin.’

  ‘I come out here pretty often these days.’

  Luke frowned. ‘What about the ranch?’

  Frank sighed and dropped his chin to his chest. He remained that way for a couple of seconds before replying. ‘Too many ghosts there for me these days. I come here to get away from ’em.’

  Luke was bewildered by the response and figuring it to be just an old man’s ramblings. He tasted the coffee. His grandpa was right. He pulled a face and put it down. ‘How long you been comin’ here?’ he asked.

  ‘Five years, closer to six, now. But every time, I stay longer and longer.’

  ‘How long’s it been this time around?’

  ‘Seven days…I think. Sometimes it’s easy to lose track of time.’

  ‘What about grandma?’ the boy asked. ‘What does she say about all this…runnin’ away?’

  Frank wasn’t a man with a quick temper, but he was suddenly angry now. He stood up and went to the edge of the cave. There he turned his back to Luke.

  ‘You don’t know?’ he said.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Your grandma…she died.’

  ‘That’s…when…?’

  ‘Almost six years now.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. How the hell could you? You weren’t here.’

  Almost immediately Frank punched his right fist into his left palm.

  ‘Damn it,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, Luke. Shouldn’t be takin’ it out on you.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s been awhile, but I guess I ain’t moved on yet.’

  ‘How did she…die?’ />
  Frank hauled back his shoulders, looking thoughtfully out across the darkening mountainside. He said, ‘Fever. It didn’t take long. Was over almost before it got started.’ He drew a breath. ‘Well, there’s my misfortune. Now tell me about yours.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Frank arched his back, putting his palms on the base of his spine to ease some of the pain. ‘Boy, I ain’t seen you for God knows how long. Now you suddenly show up lookin’ like you been rode hard an’ put up wet, but you’ll tell me, I guess, when you’ve a mind.’

  Turning at the hip, Frank glanced back and saw that Luke had drifted off to sleep.

  ‘Well, when you’re awake, then.’

  Five

  Frank spent a restless night worrying about his grandson. At first light, he rose and dressed. He collected up his Winchester before leaving the cave. Running his hand over his stubbled beard, he looked out across the slopes that swept downwards before him. They were dark, and quiet. He shivered against the early morning chill. A glance at his watch told him it was a little after six and he listened to the surroundings.

  Hefting the Winchester into the crook of his left arm, his right hand close to the trigger, he began his routine of checking his snares for prey and found they were all empty. There was one trap, set further down the slope that was meant for something bigger than a lizard or a javelina. Examining that one, it too was empty but still set to go.

  That should have satisfied him, but something was troubling him this morning and he couldn’t shake it off. He stood as still as a rock and strained his ears, listening for something. For anything.

  Finally, giving up trying to figure out what the hell it was, he headed back to the cave.

  Frank looked down at his grandson. Luke turned restlessly in his sleep, his brow beaded with sweat. The old man wondered what the boy had gotten himself into to cause him such distress. He watched over Luke for a while and caught some words he muttered as he tossed his head from side to side: Ace; don’t; dead; run. Disjointed words that didn’t mean a thing to Frank. But it worried him that they did to Luke.