The Man from Misery

by David C. Noonan

  “My Pa learned me to shoot long before the war ever started,” he said.

  “Have you killed a lot of men?” She had lowered her voice when she posed the question, almost as if she didn’t want anybody to hear.

  “I’ve killed my share but never bothered to count. I figure when I meet my Maker I’ll just issue one big apology for the lot of them, in case any of them deaths was undeserved. But I’ll tell you this: I never killed nobody who wasn’t trying to kill me first.”

  Emmet knew this was a lie, but he wanted to get closer to Mariana, not drive her away.

  “Me and Big Betty have logged lots of time together,” he said.

  “Big Betty?”

  “My favorite rifle. She was good to me all during the war and the years after. Big Betty’s put food on my table and silver in my pocket on account of the buffalo.”

  “I’ve never seen a real buffalo.”

  Emmet brushed the dirt off the end of a carrot and took a bite. “They’re big hairy beasts. To my mind, they’re better animals than steers,” he said between crunches. “They taste as good and don’t need a lot of pampering like cows. They can go a long time without water; they can handle the toughest winters, and—believe what I’m telling you—they’re the best darn swimmers. They can cross a river a half-mile wide without so much as sneezing.

  “I prefer cows,” she said.

  “Cows are stupid beasts that need a lot of water. Plus they wither up in the cold. Downright fragile critters, to my mind, compared to the bison.”

  “You know a lot about buffaloes,” Mariana said. “Are they dangerous?”

  Emmet swallowed the last bite. “Buffaloes are unpredictable animals. One moment, they’re peaceable enough and give you a look as bored as a kid at a Sunday sermon. Next thing, you know, for no apparent reason they’ll attack you hard.”

  “Ever been attacked?”

  “Lots of times. They are frightening beasts when they want to be and ain’t a-feared of any other living thing walking the earth. Well, except for a man toting a gun.”

  “How many buffalo have you killed?” Mariana shook her basket to settle the contents and make room for more.

  “Hundreds. Back in the old days, these animals was so dumb of us that we could take them down one by one without any of them so much as turning a beard in our direction. But as the herds thinned, I swear they recognized the danger we posed, and they would turn tail and scatter at the first crack of gunfire.”

  Emmet needed to stand up because his leg had gone numb but didn’t. He shifted and waited until the tingling passed and then switched to a new row.

  “Miss Mariana, I’ve spent most of my life killing, and I’m sick of it. I’m hoping to change, maybe start growing something, raising something, like you do with this here vegetable patch. It takes time to grow things. It takes no time to kill.”

  “Do you know anything about farming?”

  “Enough to know I’d like to learn more.”

  “It’s hard work. Our plots are small, yet my father and I still work from dawn to dusk to make things grow.”

  “I think I got the gizzard for it. I’ve got two strong arms and a will that won’t quit.”

  “Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to fulfill your destiny.” Emmet sensed a change in her tone. It was flat, resigned. It almost seemed like she was losing interest in what he was trying to tell her.

  “It ain’t a matter of luck,” he said. “It’s a matter of choice. I just need to set my mind to things.”

  Emmet’s instincts were right—she wasn’t listening. She examined the beans in the basket for a few seconds. Her face darkened, and her tone turned touchy. “Well, don’t plan on settling around here as long as Salazar and Garza control things. Don’t plan on living a normal life. Don’t make any plans for the future.” She dropped the basket, cupped her face in her hands, and sobbed.

  “What’s wrong?” Emmet asked. He set his basket down and draped an arm around her heaving shoulders. A breeze brushed her hair against his hand, and the strands felt as soft as spider silk.

  “You asked me if I would ever remarry, and I told you no,” she said. “The reason is that I can’t, because of Garza.”

  “Garza?” Emmet scratched his head. “Chew it finer, if you would, Miss Mariana.”

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story. When I was younger, Garza fell in love with me. I never wanted his affections. Never encouraged them. Never returned them. But that didn’t stop him from coming after me.”

  “So you and Garza go way back,” Emmet said. “What did you do?”

  “I told him to leave me alone, that I wanted nothing to do with him, ever. He said if he couldn’t have me, nobody could. I fooled him though, or at least I thought I had. I met a wonderful boy—Miguel—who was kind, gentle, a hard worker. We fell in love, and Father Ramirez married us on a beautiful summer day.”

  Emmet tried to imagine how stunning she must have appeared clutching a bouquet of colorful flowers, her wedding dress billowing about her, her black hair in blissful contrast to the white veil.

  “When Garza found out, he was furious,” Mariana said. “Two weeks after our wedding, Miguel visited his mother and never came back. Two women doing their wash by the river saw him floating by. To this day, people believe that his drowning was an accident.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “I know that Garza and Tito killed him. They kidnapped my husband, staked him in an arroyo, and waited for rainwater to flood the canyon and drown him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Garza told me,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Mariana,” was all Emmet could muster. Inside though, what he wanted most in the world was to have Garza’s head in the middle of Big Betty’s sights.

  Mariana aproned away her tears. “He told me he would kill any man who approached me, and that if I told anybody that he drowned Miguel, my father would be the next man to be found floating in the river. That was my punishment. A life sentence born out of spite.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Emmet repeated.

  “He didn’t want me after he learned I had married, but he wouldn’t let anybody else have me either. Not long after, my mother got sick and died, and my father was lost without her, so I decided to make him my first duty. Over the years, I’ve never had another man because no man in Santa Sabino would dare come near me.”

  “So you and your pappy have your own reasons for seeing Garza dead,” Emmet said. “Did Miguel know about Garza’s threats?”

  “Yes.”

  “He wasn’t afraid?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds to me like your husband was willing to die for love.”

  She flashed a weak smile. “That’s a kind thing to say.”

  “Does Major Kingston know?”

  “He’s the only one, besides my father. And now you.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” Emmet said with a nod.

  “Now you know that I’ve lived most of my life in fear and shame.”

  “That’s nonsense. I don’t blame you and your pappy for not taking on Garza yourselves.”

  Emmet’s words did not have their intended effect. Mariana grabbed her basket and stooped to pick more beans. “It doesn’t matter. Nobody will take on Garza. All Major Kingston wants is to save his niece. Once he ransoms her, he’ll pay you for showing up, and then you’ll all go home. Nothing here will change.”

  “We all hope things will go well tomorrow, but there ain’t no guarantees. Personally, I think Major Kingston’s a fool to go in there alone, because the cousins don’t play square. And just so you know, I have no home no more, so I may have to stick around here for a spell.”

  Emmet hoped for a warm reaction at the mention of staying on. She dismissed his suggestion with a faint frown and a quick wave. “Do what you want. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It will matter if Salazar won’t come to terms. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. L
et’s see what happens tomorrow. We just may need to unleash the firepower sitting in front of your father’s house.”

  She remained silent, snapping off the beans in quick, brusque strokes.

  Emmet realized words were no longer of use, that he might as well reason with the rain. “Hand me your basket, and I’ll fetch them over to Soapy,” he said with a sigh.

  She passed her basket and thanked him without looking up.

  Emmet walked over to Soapy, who was leaning over the cook-pot. The smell of the stew diverted Emmet’s thoughts and reminded him how hungry he was. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and savored the delicious aroma. When he re-opened them, he noticed Abe off to the side, squatting on his haunches and snickering at a fly on the ground. The fly’s wings were missing on one side, causing it to flap and flit in a jagged circle.

  “Did you pull the wings off that bug, boy?” Emmet asked.

  “Yeah,” Abe said with a quick laugh. “Look at it dance.” He poked at the insect with his finger.

  Emmet tilted the toe of his armadillo-skin boot over the fly and then pushed down hard on it like he was crushing out a lit smoke. Abe didn’t draw his finger back in time, and Emmet caught the tip of it.

  “Ow! What are you doing, Mr. Honeycut? That hurt.”

  Emmet’s eyes fixed on Abe. “Never laugh at suffering, boy. Especially if it’s suffering you helped make.”

  Abe sucked on his finger and then shook it in the air. “It was only a stupid fly. I was just having some fun.”

  “Find it some other way.”

  Soapy snatched the baskets of vegetables from Emmet and took each vegetable out, cleaned it by wiping it on his pants, and set it on a large cutting board he’d placed on a stump. After he diced the pickings into thumb-sized pieces, he slid them into the pot with the flat side of the knife.

  “Trouble with Abe?” he asked.

  “I worry about that boy. Might be a bad seed like his daddy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean plant a tater, get a tater. His daddy got his neck lengthened for robbing a stage.”

  Soapy stirred the stew with a large wooden spoon. “Zack isn’t so bad,” he said.

  “I like Zack. Never cottoned to Abe though. Something in his eyes betrays the kind of man he is.”

  “What kind of man is that?”

  “Merciless,” Emmet said with conviction. “Abe prefers stabbing a man to shooting him. He likes to do his killing up close.”

  “I best be staying on his good side then.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  Kingston appeared on the porch and asked if supper was ready.

  “Good timing, Major,” Soapy said. “M’lords and m’ladies,” he called out as he bowed and made a fancy flourish with his hand, “your banquet awaits. Time to tuck on in.”

  The men jumped up, holding their plates in front of them like dowsing sticks and clustered around the kettle. Emmet waited his turn, plated up, propped his back against a tree, and slid down the trunk until he was sitting. Just as he was about to plunge his spoon into the stew, Kingston walked over and sat beside him.

  “Salazar said to come alone, Emmet, but I’d feel better knowing you’re up at that lookout tomorrow, watching what happens.”

  “I’ll be there, Major.”

  “You know, in case something goes wrong.”

  Emmet looked up at the sky and shook his head. “Not that I could do anything about it if it did, but what could possibly go wrong? You always think of everything.”

  “I might not come back,” Kingston said.

  Emmet gave no reply. He looked down and lowered his spoon into the bowl of stew.

  CHAPTER 16 CAPTAIN ORTEGA

  Captain Javier Ortega led the column of carriages and soldiers towards Rio Rojano, the last village of any size before reaching Santa Sabino from the west. Even after the long journey, his blue tunic and white pants maintained their crisp, laundered look. Gold epaulettes, chunky as shaving brushes, perched atop his shoulders and gleamed like canaries in the late afternoon sun. The caravan included two dozen cavalrymen, half of them lancers, filing on either side of five town carriages and two fancy buckboards.

  Inside the vehicles, well-dressed men with well-trimmed beards and ivory-topped canes lolled on thick, red cushions and peered out at the hills. As the column lumbered across a wooden bridge, the steady rhythm of rolling wheels and heavy hooves rumbled along the planks, and the deck beams groaned and heaved under the weight of the wagons and horses.

  The parade proceeded up the main road and into the center of town. Ortega’s detachment had departed from the garrison at Colonia Nueva with singular purpose: to escort the landowners to the Salazar estate so they could conduct their business and return them without incident.

  The townsfolk stared as the group passed. People on the street edged backwards to make room for the cavalcade. Ortega stared ahead with resolve, as if gazing on the locals would somehow damage his eyes. The peasants didn’t know the strangers under escort but could guess from the ornate carvings and brass fittings on the outside of the carriages that they were men of wealth and power.

  A boy on horseback wearing a white guayabera and black pants approached the column from the rear and made his way to the front, shouting, “A message for Captain Ortega.”

  Ortega held his hand up, and the caravan rumbled to a stop. Lieutenant Torres intercepted the boy before he reached Ortega, took the letter, and passed it to the captain, who ripped open the envelope and read:

  Dear Captain Ortega:

  I have changed my mind and am not going to Santa Sabino. I have decided I want nothing to do with Enrique Salazar or Yago Garza. This will save you time because you don’t have to come get me. I’ve only recently learned that a granddaughter of one of my long-term laborers was included in the last auction. Salazar’s is a dirty business, Javier, and I don’t want to be part of it anymore—and neither should you. I know you harbor political ambitions, and, when you are ready, I am ready to offer you financial backing to help you get elected. In the meantime, I urge you to end your association with the cousins. Nothing good can come of it. Consider your long-term future.

  With respect,

  Luis Muñoz

  Ortega shoved the letter back into the envelope and said, “Lieutenant Torres, it seems Señor Munoz has other plans and will not be making the trip with us. Send a man ahead to Salazar to tell him we’ll be arriving a day earlier, but with one less bidder. We don’t want to surprise our host, eh? The sooner we get there and transact our business, the sooner we depart.”

  Torres saluted and turned his horse back to the line of soldiers. “Romero,” he hollered. A soldier atop a black and white Appaloosa disengaged from the formation. Torres gave him the order, and Romero took off at full-pelt towards Santa Sabino.

  Ortega watched the horse and soldier disappear over a crest in the road. He turned and eyed the line of fancy carriages trailing him. Personally, he found the auction a foul business, but these men were rich and powerful. He catered to them for his own selfish ends—financial support if he decided to run for governor of the territory. Escorting the gentry to Salazar’s auctions for three years had ingratiated him, not to mention enriched him far beyond his meager military pay. Muñoz was the first person to distance himself from the unsavory enterprise. Ortega wondered if others would follow.

  The captain motioned the caravan forward and continued to mull over the contents of the letter. He knew Muñoz was right. If exposed, his seeming complicity in the abductions could destroy any chance for elected office. He spent the next three hours fretting over his situation, stopping only when the group reached the outskirts of Rio Rojano.

  Ortega turned back to Lieutenant Torres. “We’ll be staying here tonight,” he said. “Have the men pitch their tents around the plaza. Find rooms for our guests. We’ll leave at daybreak.”

  The lieutenant snapped off another salute, spun around, and yelled orders to the men. Ortega dismoun
ted. His back and neck were stiff from the long ride. He twisted his body to one side, then the other, swiveled his head back and forth, squatted up and down. Although he never participated in the auctions, he was always interested in seeing the girls. The more appealing they were, the more money they would bring in. His take was a direct percentage, so if this was going to be his last auction, he hoped all the girls were beautiful, or at least shapely. He doffed his shako, wiped the ring of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and sat down in the shade of an enormous elm. A soldier hurried over with a gourd filled with cold well water. Ortega took a long drink and wiped his mouth with his hand. Tonight he anticipated a good meal and a bottle of fine local wine, knowing Salazar’s hospitality tomorrow would be even better.

  CHAPTER 17 BREAKFAST

  Faith remained in the large room that served as a dormitory while the rest of the girls breakfasted. She had fashioned a long pocket on the inside of her smock using strips of a facecloth stitched together with a needle the tailor accidentally dropped on the floor. Now she hunched over, stitching the pocket into one of the inside seams of her smock. The door opened, and the girls poured in just as Faith flipped her smock over and flattened it out.

  “Why you didn’t eat with us?” Valencia asked.

  “I got told I have to eat with Salazar this morning.”

  “Just you and him?” Toya asked with a wary look.

  “I don’t know what he has planned,” Faith said, and then she noticed Calida in the corner, stooped over, clutching her stomach. “Are you okay?”

  “Terrible cramping,” Calida said with a gasp. She was a slight girl with sparkling green eyes and wiry hair. Faith yanked a cot over for Calida to sit. The ailing girl said, “I’m going to be sick.”

  Faith grabbed a chamber pot and slid it in front of the girl just before she threw up. As Faith stroked Calida’s back, the outside guard stormed in.

  “Not again,” he bellowed. “You were sick yesterday, too.”

  “We’ve been eating a lot of rich food,” Faith explained. “Her stomach’s having a tough time adjusting.”