Waltzing With Tumbleweeds

by Dusty Richards

  “I might be Jones,” he said with that he scratched his left ear and then tossed aside the thin green blanket, exposing his faded red underwear.

  The woman gasped and quickly turned her face away.

  “That’s right, you look off over there and I’ll get dressed.”

  “You are California Jones?” she asked, sounding concerned about his true identity.

  Who in the cat hair did she think he was? Wyatt Earp? He nodded in admission as he pulled on his waist overalls, then he realized she was not looking at him and spoke up in a gruff voice. “That’s my name. What’s yours lady?”

  “Colleen Swain.”

  He wrinkled his nose at the sour smelling shirt he picked off the nail on the wall. Never heard of her before. He frowned and silently repeated her name to himself as if to draw recognition from some recesses of his foggy brain. It still meant nothing to him.

  “Don’t reckon we’ve ever met,” he said as he shoved his arms into the shirt. “You can turn around now,” he said, primed for her next move. “If you come to preach for my soul, save your breath, sister. Better men than you have tried before. I don’t give to needy causes either because I ain’t got nothing and besides I like my way of life and ain’t fixing to change.”

  She raised her chin up, drew her shoulders back. “I have come here on business.”

  “What kinda business?” he asked, taken back.

  “I’ve come to hire you.”

  “I don’t take care of no lawns and gardens. Go two doors down. That old Messikin, Jesus Juarez, he’ll help you.” He pointed in that direction. but she stood unwavering and he began to wonder what her real purpose was in being there.

  “The Apaches have taken my son. I want him back.” She finished and chewed on her lower lip. Close to tears, she wrung her hands to control herself as she waited for his reply.

  He shook his head slowly. “If the Apaches got your boy, you need the law or the army, ma’am. not me”

  “But they’ve searched or so they tell me.” Her blue eyes began to flood. She turned away and dappled at them with a small handkerchief. “My Teddy is out there, Mr. Jones and they haven’t found a sign of him.” She drew up her shoulders and turned to face him. “They say you can do things with the renegades.”

  He felt her stare. There was a time that he could have helped—he wanted to tell her something. Sunshine streamed in the dirt streaked windows illuminating her fine features. She looked to him like a gold nugget in a pile of debris. He dropped his head in defeat. “You’ve come to the wrong place for that kinda help.”

  He squeezed his eyes to shut out the pounding at his temples. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth—he needed a drink. Why didn’t she leave—he’d done told her he couldn’t help her. She wanted to pin him down. He avoided looking at her as the cot protested his sitting down on it.

  “Go see the military.” He stared at the floor for strength to tell her. “Look at me lady. I’m nothing like the man you want.” His coughing began and it grew deeper until he bent over, fearing he would not stop until all his air was gone.

  He waved her help away. Finally half strangled but regaining his breath, he looked up at the knock on the door. Who else was coming?

  Before he could rise to answer it, Gladys Newton, his neighbor and drinking partner burst in. Gladys stopped at the sight of Mrs. Swain and clasped her hand to her mouth.

  “Hell, Cal. Why excuse me?” Her paunchy figure blocked the doorway, she acted undecided whether to come in or not. She drew in a deep breath exposing a generous portion of her large bosom in the low cut dress. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

  “This here’s Mrs. Swain. But she’s leaving,” he said with a wave of his hand. “But you could have saved yourself a trip. Ain’t a drop of anything to drink left in this house.”

  With some effort, Gladys came inside and looked at the stranger. “Nice to meetcha ma’am.” At that point, she kind of curtsied as much as her fat legs would bend. “Any friend of Cal’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes, er—nice to meet you too, Gladys.”

  “By gad, Jonesy,” Gladys said with a knowing chuckle and a wink at him, “You got yourself a real looker this time. I better get back—over there. And let you two get on with—ah, your business, huh?”

  “Go on Gladys,” he said in disapproval as she lumbered out the door laughing like a hyena. “Don’t mind her, ma’am, she don’t mean no harm.”

  “I guess you can see, I’m not easily put off Mr. Jones,” Colleen said, with a deep swallow to punctuate her sentence. “I want you to bring my son back to me.”

  Cal sighed aloud. Why did this stubborn woman persist to torment him? “Lady, if them Apaches did take him and I’m saying that because you need to know, he more than likely is dead by now—”

  She gave him a short nod to continue. She was tough, he decided, but she better realize the chances that boy was dead were ten times more likely than finding him alive.

  “Why I don’t even have a horse or anything.”

  She pounced like a mountain lion on his excuse. “You can use my late husband’s things. I’ll get you any supplies you need.”

  Cal knew he was licked. She would never leave until she’d badgered him into going on this wild goose chase. “I should have figured you was a widow woman coming here all alone and all.”

  “Yes,” she said subdued. “My husband was killed when they took Teddy captive.”

  Cal recalled something about the businessman getting murdered down on the San Pedro and the son being taken off by the raiders. He scratched the thin hair on top his head, trying to recall how long ago he’d heard of the raid.

  “They say you know these people. That you once lived with them.”

  He nodded. “Some—I scouted and rode with them, but it was a long time ago.”

  “You’re my last hope.” She wet her lips and drew her shoulders back. “And if he—Teddy, is not alive then I want to I know that too.” Then she shook her head so slightly. “It is the not knowing that is so hard.”

  He couldn’t stand to watch her any longer; he dropped his gaze to the floor. What could it hurt? Besides he was flat broke and she would pay him to go search. He knew some camps in the mountains. But they were many miles from Tucson—could he even ride that far? What the hell? When he got back, he and Gladys would drink her money up and rejoice.

  “Where’s your place?” he asked.

  “Then you’ll take the job?”

  “Hold on here.” He held up both hands to settle her down. “I’ll ride out in the hills and ask some Injuns I know. They may or may not have heard of this boy. He may be in old Mexico by now.” He wanted to be certain she understood he might come back empty handed.

  “I understand, Mr. Jones. I just know you will find Teddy.”

  “Where do you live?” he asked, feeling uncomfortable at her words.

  “Oh yes, on Fifth Street, third house from the corner of Congress.”

  “I’ll find you. Give me a quarter.”

  Colleen frowned at his outstretched hand. “What ever for?”

  “I need a bath and a haircut, lady. I smell too bad to stay sober for long.”

  Without hesitation, she withdrew two quarter from her reticule and placed them in his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said and closed his fist over the coins. “I’ll be along in an hour or so. Have someone saddle that horse, put some grub in a sack, couple small sacks of corn too and fill a couple of canteens with water.” He scratched his right ear, something inside it was itching like hell. “I’ll need a rifle and some shells.” He rose and walked her to the door still deeply engrossed in his needs.

  “I’ll have it all ready. Will you need money to trade for him?”

  “Money? No. Let’s see, I’ll need four or five bottle of whiskey. That should do it.” He looked directly into her eyes, expecting to hear a protest at his demand for liquor. To his surprise, she quickly withdrew some bills from her purse
and handed them to him.

  “You’ll have to buy it,” she apologized and then she started for the rig parked at his fallen down yard gate.

  “Ma’am,” he called out to her. “Try not to worry yourself sick. If he’s alive and in the country, mind you, I’ll try to find him. Worrying won’t help a thing.”

  She turned back dabbing at her eyes and forced a nod in gratitude. “Thank you, Mr. Jones.”

  Q Q Q

  Two hours later smelling like a Chinese laundry in his clean clothes and bathed, he arrived at her front door. He had allowed himself two short beers, which entitled him to a free boiled egg lunch at McCarthy’s Saloon. On her front step, he belched loud enough to wake the dead, then rapped on her door. In the time between their meeting and his recovery, he had grown more doubtful about the boy’s chances of being alive, but decided not to go over that with her again. She knew the risks—he certainly wasn’t God.

  “Oh, Mr. Jones, you’ve kept your word.” She stepped back to invite him in.

  “You figure I’d light out on some drunk?” he demanded.

  “There were folks said,—”

  “Listen, I been keeping my word all my life. That’s beside the point, is that horse saddled?” He followed her into the spacious living room.

  “Yes, he’s ready out back.”

  “I hope we can wrap this whiskey better, so it makes the ride,” he said showing her the poke he carried.

  “I have some towels?”

  “Sounds awfully good to use for that.” He looked around her fine house and felt helpless at what else to wrap the glass bottles with.

  “No, they would work.” She rushed off to get some. A maid returned with her and they made quick work of wrapping the half dozen bottles of golden liquor. He didn’t want to even look at the whiskey as they tied the Turkish towels with string at the neck of each quart. Damn he needed a drink—powerfully bad. His molars nearly floated away thinking how good the rye would taste flowing down his throat. He used his index finger to pry some breathing room between his neck and the stiff collar.

  “There, Mr. Jones, they should ride that way,” she said proudly as she repacked them in the cotton sack he intended to hang from the saddle horn.

  He took the bag and then looked hard at the tile floor. “I don’t want you to get your hopes all up. I may not find a thing out there.”

  Colleen shook her head violently. “I will not give up hope. My son is alive out there. I know it!”

  “All right, Mrs. Swain.” He followed her through the house, not satisfied that her intuition was right.

  He rode out of Tucson on the powerful sorrel horse; the whiskey bottles in the tow sack against his left knee, the 44/40 under his right leg in the scabbard. In his shirt pocket he carried a tintype, the one she’d given him. Teddy looked like a strapping boy. Somewhere out there someone knew something about the lad’s whereabouts or his demise. Cal’s half squinted eyes studied through the glare of the desert, past the saw tooth mountains he would find the answer about Teddy’s fate if he was lucky. His tongue grew thicker with each mile he rode, water never quenched the greater thirst.

  Four days later, he still rode through the empty canyons. No wickiups, only a few old fire rings in the cactus forested hills where he had expected to locate some of them; he found no inhabited rancherias.

  In late afternoon he crossed over a range and descended a narrow trail into a chasm. A hint of something teased his nose. When he drew closer, he spotted a grass wickiup under a palo verde. At last, he’d found a camp and the notion gave him new strength.

  A bare-headed Apache male came out with a single shot rifle. Cal reined in his horse, his movement slow and non-hostile. He took a hard look at the man and surmised him to be a reservation deserter. The absence of black war paint was one clue; the other fact that convinced Cal was that the rifle was not cocked.

  “You have come a long ways?” the Apache asked in his own tongue.

  “Yes, but I am not the Army or the Indian police.”

  The man nodded he heard and waved for him to approach. “We once rode together. I know you.”

  Cal squinted to recall the man’s name. A teenage girl came outside and took the reins to his horse.

  “My woman will care for it,” the Apache said regarding his horse. “My name is Billy Good and I remember yours, it is Jones.”

  Cal nodded he’d heard the man as he took a small sack from his saddlebags to give to her, before he let her have the reins. When she led the sorrel away he stepped closer to Billy.

  “It’s been a long time. Why aren’t you at San Carlos?”

  Billy never answered as he indicated to Cal to enter the lodge. He knew when Indians did not wish to speak of something, they ignored the question.

  “I gave corn to your wife,” he said. His host nodded in gratitude and motioned for him to be seated. Both men took seats on the frayed Navajo blanket spread on the ground. There was no food in sight.

  She ducked in with the pouch of flat corn. Without any reaction, she poured it onto her grinding stone and began to crush it as the two men made small talk about old times.

  “I came here on a mission,” Cal finally said.

  Billy nodded. He understood such things.

  “Some broncos took a boy in a raid. A white boy—” He fished out Teddy’s picture.

  Billy studied the picture and then he showed it to the woman who nodded, she had seen it too. No clue, Cal knew he was playing poker with tough players—not an eyebrow twitched, not a mouth broke a straight line.

  “His mother—she wants her son back. I have come to find him.”

  “What could you trade for such a boy?” Billy finally asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  Billy nodded his head, “What else?”

  “One new Winchester and ammunition,” Cal finally said with gut wrenching reluctance. It didn’t matter, whiskey or guns, both were illegal as hell to trade to known hostiles. If the Army ever learned of such a transaction, he’d be in deep trouble—but the Army had never got Teddy Swain back either. He looked at the stone face in front of him.

  “Whiskey, cartridges, rifle. That’s all I’ve got. Can I make a trade with them?”

  Billy shrugged. “Most of the broncos are in Mexico.”

  “Is the boy down there?” Cal demanded.

  “Maybe, maybe not. You got whiskey and rifle, we go see.”

  A week later, Cal arrived in Tucson, dismounted heavily. Forced to grasp the saddle horn for several minutes to let his aching legs become sea worthy. Bone weary, he swayed as he crossed her porch to knock on the door. When she opened the door, her eyes flew open in shock. Her face paled when she looked beyond him at the other horse and rider. Finally she managed a shriek at her discovery.

  “You found my boy! Teddy!” She rushed past Cal to hug the quiet boy who slipped from his horse.

  “Teddy! Teddy! Are you all right?” she asked, her hands touching his dust-streaked face, searching him for wounds and imperfections.

  “I’m fine, mother,” he said, sounding embarrassed by her attention.

  The boy would be better in time. The shock would wear off, Cal felt certain. Teddy Swain had been through a lot and he’d seen more than most grownups would in a lifetime.

  She turned with her eyes filled with tears that she couldn’t control. “How can I ever repay you, Mr. Jones?”

  “Well, ma’am, I reckon fifty bucks would be enough. But I have to warn you that I lost your rifle.” He shook his head to silence the boy’s protest.

  “A rifle? Who cares about a rifle?” She almost laughed aloud at his concern as she wiped at the tears on her cheeks.

  “Well ma’am, lets not talk about it ever again then?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Jones. I shall consider the matter settled.”

  Fine, he didn’t figure the boy would mention it either and perhaps the Army would never learn he had traded a new .44/40 and whiskey to some hostile Apaches for the ransom payment. It
would just as well be left unsaid.

  She paused in the doorway on her way to get his pay and looked back in disbelief at Cal and her son..

  “Won’t you consider moving in with Teddy and me? We have this large house—”

  Cal shook his head. “I learned a lot of things out there.” He motioned to the distant mountains. “Lately, I’ve wondered why I drank so much. Now I know, my scouting days are over. Ain’t nothing left for me to do, but three things.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Get drunk, being drunk and getting that way again.” He waved off her protest. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. You’ve got a fine boy here to raise. He’s plenty tough and he’ll make a good man. The Apaches thought so too.” If they hadn’t, the boy would not be alive.

  Cal and Teddy shook hands while she went indoors. Neither spoke but their nods were enough. Then the boy went inside the house.

  “Mr. Jones,” Colleen said rushing out side, “Here is a hundred dollars and it is not enough for all you have done. Take that horse too.”

  “No ma’am, I have no place to keep him. Besides I’ve got no reason to own one.”

  Unable to contain herself, she took him in a surprise hug and kissed him several times on the cheek. Wet kisses, for she had let the tears run down unheeded since he had arrived with the boy. “You ever need something, anything, money—for your whiskey, whatever, you come see me?”

  His face afire with embarrassment, he could only mumble thanks and close his fist on the money she gave him. He stepped back. Then he remembered Gladys. She’d like all the whiskey he could afford to buy with this money. Of course, when the word got out he’d brought the boy back, they’d buy him several rounds of drinks in all the bars. But after the notoriety wore off, he’d have to go back to swamping out saloons again.

  He looked forward to the whiskey that he intended to drink, it would make him forget, forget growing old and the sad state of his blood brothers, the wild Apache. His tongue was so thick for need of a drink, he doubted he could even talk as he hurried to find Gladys and share the good news.

  Old Man Clanton’s Last Fandango