Читать книгу The Last Ride - Thomas Eidson - Страница 8

‘He can find anything, just by dreaming about it. He conjures things,’ Dot said, exaggerating her talk with her grandfather, and pouring a line of peas out of a pod into the large bowl on the ground in front of her. ‘Even if it’s a tiny diamond buried in a mountain of sand, he can find it. Just like that,’ she said, snapping her fingers.

‘He’s a liar and a fool,’ Lily said.

‘You shouldn’t talk that way about him,’ James called back over his shoulder. ‘He’s our grandfather.’

‘Not mine.’

It was late afternoon and the three of them were working in the big vegetable garden down near the creek. The long lines and trellises of dark green plants – hot weather beans, tomatoes, onions, squashes, Mexican peppers and chard – seemed to overflow the space of the garden, thriving in the heat and bright sunlight of this dry land. Dot wasn’t looking at the plants; her thoughts were focused on how Lily was dressed. That was one of the things Dot admired about her sister.

Dot scrutinized her closely, trying not to let her notice. Lily was wearing a beautiful red mannish-tailored shirtwaist with padded shoulders and long gigot sleeves that puffed stylishly at the shoulders, and a long black skirt. Her shoes were the new high-buttoned black kidskins. She looked magnificent, Dot thought. Under her stylish hat, her soft brown hair was done in a Paris style: a chignon on top and the front hair carried back without parting. It was all the latest from New York and Europe, Lily had told her.

Dot felt her sister was one of the prettiest girls in the world. She and Lily were sitting cross-legged on a blanket shelling peas for the evening meal. James was working nearby opening the irrigation ditches that watered the sprawling rows of plants.

‘You heard what pa said,’ James continued, shoveling mud out of the first trench and watching the little stream of water snaking its way down through the vegetables.

‘And you saw mother’s face,’ Lily returned. ‘She didn’t look too happy about it. She just wasn’t going to fight father.’

‘And you are?’ James challenged, wiping at a mud smudge on his sunburned cheek.

‘No. I’m just not going to accept that man as my grandfather.’

‘Just because you don’t like him, that doesn’t mean he isn’t our grandpa,’ Dot said firmly, spilling another line of plump green peas into the bowl sitting between them.

‘He can be your grandfather if you want him to be, Dotty Baldwin, but he is not going to be mine. I don’t want anything to do with that stinking old man and his Indian ways.’ She was positioning a lock of her hair as she spoke.

‘Better not let pa catch you talking like that,’ James warned, shoveling piles of mud into the ditch to cut off the flow of water from the creek.

Lily ignored him and placed her bonnet back on her head, straightening the long satin bow. Dot was mad at her for talking badly about their grandfather. But she liked Lily. Not only was she pretty, she was smart and took chances: like going to Denver to school. Sure, she put on airs – but Lily was always good to her. Bought her things, books and pictures, and talked to her as though they were equals. She went back to shelling the peas. James was leaning on his shovel and watching Lily now.

‘Why do you wear that dumb hat when the sun is almost down?

‘It’s the stylish thing.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I would if it made any sense,’ James said, then he squinted his eyes and stared hard at his older sister’s beautiful face.

‘What are you looking at?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said quickly, as though trying to hide a secret. A moment later, he sneaked another furtive peek at her.

Lily began to look uncomfortable. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, running her hand carefully over her soft cheeks.

James shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘James, tell me.’

‘No, really, it’s nothing. I’m not even certain.’

‘Certain about what?’ Lily asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘Really, I don’t think it’s anything.’

‘James Baldwin – tell me!’ Lily looked anxious.

‘Okay, but don’t get mad at me. It’s just in this light,’ he said, squinting again and studying her face from a couple of angles, ‘I can see your resemblance to grandfather.’

Lily leaped to her feet and stomped off toward the house, wrapping her long flowing dress tight around her legs. James was rolling in laughter on the ground.

‘Don’t tease Lily,’ Dot ordered. ‘And don’t joke about grandpa.’

Jones was sitting quietly at the dinner table, his attention focused on the plate before him. He had only pretended to eat out of politeness. Baldwin studied the distant, haunted look in his eyes, and knew with certainty the old fellow wouldn’t last much longer. He wondered what was going on in his ancient heart. Baldwin sensed he wasn’t prepared to go on living but still wasn’t quite ready to die, a clock winding down.

Jones wasn’t moving at all, just gazing at his plate. He appeared to have receded to some distant place inside his mind, escaping this world. Baldwin didn’t blame him. His world had disappeared. The rancher noticed that the little finger on one of the man’s huge hands was missing, and the hands themselves were badly scarred. They belonged to a man who had fought the earth and its inhabitants hand-to-hand. Who was this old bastard? And what had his life been like, this man who’d fathered the woman he loved? Somehow tragic. That much he knew.

There were stories here. Not pretty ones. Why had he left his wife and daughters? Was he simply crazy? Baldwin didn’t think so. He figured the old giant had known what he was doing, however strange it might seem to others.

Lily was in her mother’s chair at the end of the table, wearing a frilly high-collared dress, ignoring the old man, and pouting.

‘I’ll clear the dishes,’ James said.

‘Before you do, son,’ Jones said, breathing hard, and leaning down and picking up a gunny sack from the floor, ‘I have things.’

He’d seemingly come here with a list of items, and was hurriedly checking them off, as though he might not finish. Baldwin figured he was right – Jones didn’t have the time. It was a shame.

The old man reached inside the sack, pulling out a pillow-sized parcel covered in brightly colored parfleche. He looked at Lily and held the package out to her. Already uncomfortable, she stood as though she might turn and run.

‘My wife’s.’

‘Grandmother’s?’ Lily asked, her voice incredulous.

The old man’s skin shaded red. ‘Yopon’s,’ he said quietly.

‘No thanks.’ Lily said.

‘Lily, it’s a gift.’ Baldwin’s voice was low and measured.

Lily took the package, her hand shaking, glaring at it, as if even holding it was distasteful.

‘What did you get, Lil?’ Dot asked excitedly.

As Lily unwrapped the package Baldwin saw the blue blanket he’d seen in the barn, and something else. Lily’s mouth opened, and she tossed the bundle down in disgust. ‘What is that?’

‘An eagle’s claw. The blanket belonged to Yopon,’ he said solemnly.

‘Why would any woman want that rotting thing?’ Her face contorted in a grimace.

‘Lil—’

‘To give her strength,’ Jones interrupted, ‘and the ability to flee from danger.’ He studied Lily’s face for a moment. ‘You may need that some day.’

‘That’s absurd,’ Lily said, suddenly looking past them all. Baldwin turned, following her gaze, and saw Maggie in the doorway.

‘Stop telling these children your Indian lies.’

‘Margaret,’ Baldwin said.

She kept her eyes on the old man’s face. ‘Brake, don’t. I won’t have him filling the children’s heads with pagan beliefs, glorifying himself and the devil. He’s nothing more than a man who abandoned their mother and grandmother for an Indian squaw. Nothing more than that.’ She walked to the table and glared down at the old man. ‘Admit it. You’re a blasphemer – a bigamist who loved savages more than your own family.’

Samuel Jones stared blindly at his plate as if coldcocked.

‘Margaret, that’s enough.’

Jones held up his hand to silence Baldwin.

‘No it’s not,’ Maggie said. ‘But I won’t interrupt the rest of his great Indian foolery.’ She climbed the stairs and disappeared into their bedroom, and seconds later, they could hear her crying.

Lily’s eyes flashed. ‘Why don’t you just leave? You don’t belong here.’

‘Lily,’ Baldwin said. ‘You’re not your mother. I won’t have you talking like that in this house.’

Lily stalked swiftly away from the table and into her bedroom, slamming the door.

Baldwin fought the urge to go after her, then Mannito sighed loudly and said, ‘Ahhh, the señoritas, bonita creatures, yes? Beautiful, yes?’

The kindness broke the spell, and the little Mexican and James laughed awkwardly. The old man didn’t move. Baldwin helped him from the table. Dot watched him hobble toward the door, and wiped her sleeve across her eyes.

Jones started hacking badly when they stepped into the night air, the sound deep and watery. Baldwin set him in the rocker and moved to the railing. The night was cool and starry. A lone coyote was yipping close to the house. Baldwin stepped down the porch to get a better look. The yipping stopped.

Baldwin waited a second, then said, ‘Maggie was wrong to—’

‘Don’t.’ Jones looked at him sternly. ‘I don’t want to hear bad said about Margaret. She’s a fine girl. I’m proud of her. She had every right to say what she did.’

Baldwin just nodded.

When Mannito left the house, he paused by Jones and draped the blue blanket over his thin shoulders. ‘Good night, viejo,’ he said, using the Mexican word for old man.

Jones shrugged him off.

It was after midnight. The fog had come in one the place fast from the creek bottom. Rarely did that happen, but when it did, the air was like a silt-laden river. Mists to lose a soul or a mountain in.

Lily had slowly followed the path to the outhouse behind the infirmary, bringing a candle with her and one of her fashion magazines. The little shack smelled awful, reminding her of all she hated about the ranch. People in cities were using indoor necessaries. She had tried to convince her father to buy one, but he’d only laughed.

She stopped reading and peered at the walls around her. The inside seemed gloomier than usual, the rough weathered boards wavering eerily in the dim candlelight. She guessed the unnerving sensation came from the haze of fog.

She was wearing a cabriolet bonnet to keep her hair from frizzing in the moisture, but suddenly her hair wasn’t important; she felt blinded by the cloth and yanked it off, sitting straighter and holding it in her trembling hand, not sure what was bothering her. She looked down at it, forcing her mind to other thoughts. The hat was a perfect example of what was wrong with this whole wilderness. Her father, and every other man in the territory, called this style a coal scuttle bonnet. No matter how many times she corrected him, it was still a coal scuttle bonnet.

Lily stopped and listened. The first hint of a sound had come to her. Something large. Perhaps a horse. She waited to hear it again, her pulse quickening. Nothing. Just the wind. It had a way of coming off the sandstone cliffs, shrill and crying, hurt and womanish sounding. She hated it. She went back to her magazine. Then moments later, it was there again: faint footsteps in the night. She sensed them as much as heard them. ‘Hello? … Mannito?’ she called. There was no answer.

She started to call out louder, then caught herself. The old man could be trying to scare her. He knew she didn’t like him, that she thought he was a fraud. She felt somewhat better, certain it was him.

She turned her head slowly to catch any sound. Nothing. Only the phantom perception of someone moving in the darkness. Lily fought the panic inside her. There was no lock on the door, just a simple wooden latch that could be yanked off with a hard pull, leaving her trapped. She got herself ready.

The night seemed tense with a strange silence. ‘Father! Mannito!’ She listened, knowing she was too far from the thick-walled house and barn to be heard, but hoping her screams would frighten the old man away. She stared at the door, sensing that it was about to be jerked open.

Lily darted out into the wall of dense fog, staying low, instinctively, and driving forward. Something moved in front of her; something dark in the night that grabbed for her and missed.

She ran twisting and dodging in sheer terror, unaware of where she was running, just doing it, afraid to scream. Then she fell tumbling into deep sand, realizing that in her panic she’d run away from the house toward the north slope. She crouched, her heart beating a ragged rhythm inside her chest, listening for sound in the darkness that surrounded her.

She waited a long time before she heard them again. Footsteps. He was looking for her. She got down in a tight ball, making herself as small as possible. The soft sound stopped.

Lily fainted when the hand touched her. She did not wake until she was being carried in someone’s arms, screaming her way out of a dazed, half-conscious nightmare.

‘Granddaughter,’ Jones said. ‘Hush.’

Baldwin studied the old man. They were standing in the barn and Lily had just finished accusing Jones of stalking her in the darkness. The night wind was blowing hard beyond the walls. Maggie had her arms around her daughters, holding them close and glaring at her father.

Jones had stripped to his breechcloth and deerskin boots and was rubbing red paint onto his face. He was paying no attention to any of them. The little Mexican watched him closely.

Outside, the wind was working itself into a hard blow, the fog gone. Maggie and her girls stood near the door, in the circle of faint lantern light, as if it gave them some sense of security. The Mexican stepped close to Baldwin.

‘What, Mannito?’

The little man turned and looked at the old giant, his face and body covered now by eerie red and black designs. ‘He did nothing, señor. He saved her, perhaps. Nothing more.’

‘From what?’

Mannito continued watching the old man as he prepared for battle with this thing of the night. ‘I don’t know. I just know this viejo, that’s all.’

Baldwin studied the little Mexican’s face for a moment, then nodded. Jones was carrying his bow and arrows and moving for the door now. Lily stumbled away from him, as though she expected him to try and slit her throat. Maggie stood her ground.

‘Brake,’ she called across the shadows, her eyes still on her father’s hideous red face, ‘he tried to frighten Lily.’

‘Ma, don’t say that,’ Dot pleaded.

Jones stopped in front of them. ‘Granddaughter. You’ll find your cat in five days.’

‘Poppycock,’ Maggie snapped.

He slipped silently into the darkness and the stinging sand.

Samuel Jones did not catch the night beast. Nor did they find tracks the following morning, the sandstorm having obliterated any trace. Any trace except for a blurred footprint that looked odd to Jones. Lily’s candle and magazine were still in the small shack. Her bonnet was gone. Baldwin thought it had been blown away by the wind. Jones did not. Neither did he figure that the dead sparrow he found lying behind the shack was there naturally.

With the pink smudge of dawn two days later, the gray pony was missing and Jones was stumbling wildly through the barn. The truce was broken. He charged Mannito in the corral, slamming the little man against the wall, pulling his knife and shoving it against the Mexican’s throat.

‘What did you do with her?’ the old man wheezed.

‘Que?’

‘Don’t give me Mexican! My horse – caballo – where is she?’

‘No se. I don’t know.’

‘You better say unless you want to lose a handful of brains.’

‘You loco? I don’t see your horse. She probably died. She’s old.’

‘She better not have!’

Jones threw the little man to the ground and stormed around the corner of the barn, whistling for the old horse. Baldwin and Lily had ridden out early to check the cows in the high valley, while James and Dot had gone for mail at the railhead. Alice, the mule, was braying in the distance. Jones headed in her direction.

The gray was on her side in the pasture, tongue out, bloating badly, breathing fast and shallow. Sometime during the night, she had broken into the field of dew-covered plants, and made a feast of it. Alice was running frantic circles around her, still braying.

The old man moaned from deep inside as he dropped to his knees beside her. Her belly was swollen twice normal size, rising above her backbone on the left flank. He knew she was dying and nothing he could do would save her. He had seen other horses die from the lush green forage of the whites.

The People thought it was the magic of white witches that killed their horses. He knew better. The killer was gas that blew the guts open. It was an ugly death. He didn’t want the gray to go through the agony.

He pulled the little pistol from its hiding place and sat next to her, stroking her head, and thinking back over the years they had been together. They had ridden through the worst of his life. She had never let him down. He admired her toughness and loyalty. His throat was tightening and he knew it was more than admiration he felt. The little mare was in terrible pain, panting hard, sweat covering her body.

The Mexican squatted near her middle and placed his hands on the enormous belly and felt around, drumming with his fingertips on the tight skin. Chaco approached the old horse slowly, sniffing her and whining, then he sat beside the Mexican, shivering. Mannito continued feeling the horse’s stomach. Jones watched him. The little man pressed with his hand at a spot between the stifle and the ribs and the gray squealed and tossed her head. Alice darted in and nipped at him. The old Mexican waved her off.

‘Leave the horse be!’ Jones snarled.

Mannito ignored him, continuing to explore the belly; then he stood and trotted off toward the barn. Chaco followed. When he returned, he was carrying a small wooden box. He squatted and rummaged inside it, pulling out strange-looking metal instruments and setting them to the side, until he finally found what he wanted. It looked like a foot-long hat pin. Jones didn’t like the determined look on the old Mexican’s face. He cocked the derringer. The gray was suffering enough, he wasn’t about to let the Mexican torture her more.

Mannito pulled his hat off, tossing it behind him and rolling up his sleeves. His hair was a dead white color. Jones was watching him closely.

‘Keep your hands off her.’

Jones placed the pistol’s muzzle against the gray’s skull.

Mannito dropped to his knees between the animal’s legs. She was kicking in her death throes. Alice darted in again, nipping at him. He paid no attention.

Mannito drummed once more with the tips of his bony fingers on the swollen loin, listening for the organs below. Time was running out, he knew. He turned his head toward Jones, concentrating, trying to visualize the critical spot.

Staring up at the old giant, Mannito knew that they were friends, even if Samuel Jones wasn’t consciously aware of it. The idea of this friendship with Jones seemed an odd thing to the little Mexican. Nevertheless, he was sure it existed. It didn’t matter that Jones had never uttered a single kind word to him. Kind words were nothing. The two of them shared, Mannito knew, far more than words, shared more than just their two long lives. They instinctively understood one another. And understanding, he had always felt, was the foundation of true friendship. The evidence was everywhere. They had both lost their wives, lost most of their children, had lived hard existences, in solitude, far away from their own kind. They were poor men, but men who possessed another kind of wealth: they believed in something far greater than themselves. That was true wealth. These things, Mannito felt, bound them as amigos.

As further proof of their friendship, Mannito recalled that since Jones’ arrival, the old giant had silently shared the barn work: tossing hay, cleaning stalls, and filling water troughs. Mannito greatly respected this about his friend. Though deathly ill, he was no loafer. He was a man of character who mindfully paid his own way. The week before, Mannito had found his burro, Peso, carefully brushed and curried, the animal’s hooves cleaned and polished, and its little weathered halter expertly spliced with fresh rawhide. He had thanked Jones. But the old man had simply ignored him. Still, they both knew. Mannito smiled to himself as he stared at Jones, pleased that he recognized these little signs that betrayed their friendship.

From that day forward, Mannito had talked to him whenever they were in the barn. Jones never answered but Mannito sensed that he listened and calculated and weighed the things he said. These one-sided conversations cut the loneliness. He wished Jones had longer to live. Wished that he would acknowledge their friendship.

‘I’m warning!’ the old man bellowed, pointing the pistol at Mannito, and struggling to stand. ‘You hurt her and I’ll splatter you all over this ranch.’

Mannito looked back at the old horse. He knew his friend Jones would not shoot him but he wasn’t certain he wouldn’t turn the little gun on himself if they lost the gray. Mannito’s hands were shaking. He had never tried to save a horse with the bloat. The long, thin metal trocar was slippery in his sweating hands.

He looked up at Jones and tried to smile, prayed silently to Jesus’ Mother, then leaned forward and plunged the huge pin into the gray’s paunch. Jones raised the little pistol; then he heard a loud shhhhhhishing and watched in amazement as the mare’s belly shrank like a punctured ball.

Even more astonishing was the effect on the old horse. She stopped panting and moaning and lay still on the grass. Minutes later, she struggled to her feet and started to graze again, as if nothing had happened. Jones pulled her away from the wet plants and looked down, stunned, at the little Mexican. Mannito just squatted and grinned up at him, then began to laugh, looking like a small wrinkle-faced monkey, enormously tickled that he had saved the old horse.

‘Damn bueno thing, right?’ the Mexican said, holding up the large pin. ‘A damn good thing.’

Chaco was dancing on his hind legs. Alice was sniffing the gray. Jones nodded, still shocked at the mare’s miraculous recovery. Mannito held out his small hand for the rope that was looped around the horse’s neck.

‘I walk. She needs to move. I watch her. Muy bueno,’ he said, running his hands over the old pony. ‘I walk,’ he said again, sticking his hand closer to Jones.

Jones looked at the man’s hand, then his face. He still looked stunned.

‘I walk,’ Mannito said once more.

Jones continued to look at him. Finally, he handed him the rope. He nodded at the little man again, but said nothing. It was enough. Mannito understood.

‘It was nothing, viejo,’ the Mexican said.

Darkness was falling hard. Baldwin and Lily hadn’t returned from checking the herd in the high pastures. Jones was growing concerned. Baldwin was smart enough. Since the night of the sandstorm, Jones had noticed that he had been wearing his pistol and sticking close to his oldest daughter. But the man wouldn’t believe that anyone but a love-struck cowboy had chased his Lily. Jones had tried to convince him otherwise. So had Mannito. But he wasn’t listening. Jones studied the rust-colored mountains surrounding the little valley, hoping the rancher’s stubbornness hadn’t got him and the girl into trouble somewhere out on the trail.

Hard-headed and hard to scare, Baldwin was like most of the men who built things out of this wilderness. That was why the People had such a hard time with them, Jones knew. They did what they had to do to survive. They weren’t bad people, just tough and self-reliant. And for the past few days, Brake Baldwin’s cows – all the future his family possessed – had been dropping calves, unattended, in this rough country. Some of these animals, the rancher knew, would need his help or they’d die. Therefore, Brake Baldwin had headed for the high pastures, no matter what, and taken his daughter with him so he could keep a protective eye on her.

Mannito had been left at the house to watch over Maggie. In the rancher’s mind, Maggie was safe. Some young cowboy had simply fallen dumbstruck over Lily. The girl certainly had the looks to rattle a man. But Jones didn’t have it figured exactly that way. There was more to it, he felt. He just didn’t know what it was for sure.

From conversations overheard in the barn, he knew that James and Dot would take the wagon and spend the night in the little railhead town. So that afternoon, after watching the gray to make certain she was truly recovering, and leaving the Mexican with Maggie, he had taken a Baldwin horse and trailed the two youngsters well out onto the desert, until he was convinced they were safe. Three times, he rode wide of the wagon’s trail by a mile on either side to see that there were no horse tracks following them. Nothing.

Satisfied, he had returned to the ranch, arriving late in the day, his body shot through with a numbing exhaustion. Chaco barked to announce their arrival from his perch on the horse’s rump. Maggie was sitting on the porch. She didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Mannito was standing hidden in the shadows of the barn, holding the reins of a fresh horse, his ancient shotgun slung across his back. Alice was braying happily.

‘Los niños?’ Mannito asked, mounting the horse he held and pointing toward town. ‘The children?’

Jones nodded.

‘I ride to Señor Brake.’ He stopped and looked hard into Jones’ face and started to say something else, but then seemed to think better of it. Jones could tell he was tense. It was a feeling they shared. Finally, Mannito just smiled and said, ‘Good night, viejo.’

Jones didn’t say anything.

Mannito watched him a moment longer, something obviously on his mind, then he turned the horse and began to kick hard for the hills that were fading in the gathering purple dusk.

Jones would have ridden with him, but he didn’t want to leave Maggie unguarded. Whatever was wrong, might involve her as well. He followed the dark speck of the little Mexican and his galloping horse for a while, trying to figure out what the man had wanted to say to him. He wasn’t sure. But he had definitely wanted to say something.

Jones turned and gazed through the deepening shadows at the darkened house. The moon was rising over the rim of the mountain. Maggie was right: he didn’t belong here. That was why he had never come before. It wasn’t fair to her. Wasn’t fair just to walk back into her life after all these years. If he hadn’t been dying, he wouldn’t have done it. But he was, and he had come to see her one last time. Now he had to move on. Any fool could have guessed how she would feel. He didn’t blame her.

Thinking on it, he figured he might return to the heart of old Chihenne country. The thought tugged at something that was hurt inside him. Yopon and he had been there years before. It was the last time they’d been together and free. He found himself retracing their wanderings in his thoughts a lot. He forced himself to stop.

He stood outside the barn, feeling physical pain like a deep boring inside his chest, and turned in a slow circle, studying the darkening trees, the barn, the pastures and the house. He wanted to remember everything here, everything about her, for as long as he could.

He took a pull on the bottle, then left it on the ground, and walked awkwardly toward her, not knowing where to place his hands. He stopped in front of the porch where she sat. Chaco trailed along behind him. Jones watched her for a moment, her eyes gazing past him, then he leaned forward and set a pure white chunk of quartz on the step beside her.

‘I found it in the hills. Thought you might like it.’

She didn’t say anything or look at the stone.

‘The Mexican went to find them,’ he said quietly. ‘They probably decided to spend the night with the herd, rather than try the hill trails in the dark.’ Jones knew that hadn’t happened. If they were spending the night, it was because something had gone wrong. He had watched them saddling up and saw nothing for making camp; no canvas, no grub sack, no skillets, nothing. He had seen Dot slip the eagle charm into Lily’s saddlebag when her sister had gone into the house. The child had a large heart. But then Lily had found it and tossed it angrily to the ground. Dot had retrieved it.

‘If they aren’t down by morning, I’ll go find them,’ he said, almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘Then I’ll ride on.’ He turned and looked at her, seeming for a moment to soak her up with his eyes. ‘I used to think about you,’ he said quietly. ‘At night mostly. Where you were, and what you were feeling.’

She didn’t say anything for a long time, just continued to gaze past him at the hills. When she finally spoke, he was unable to see her face. ‘I don’t need anything from you any more,’ she said, her voice sounding tired. ‘Just go.’

He walked slowly past her into the house, deciding to sleep near her tonight so that he could keep an eye out, but also wanting to sleep one night in her home. Chaco sat down beside her.

Maggie contemplated the falling darkness, shutting out all thoughts of the man. She had been praying to God about the cat. Nothing had come to her. She was now convinced it was dead – convinced that was her answer from God. Harriet was lost.

She stood and picked up the quartz rock, studying it for a moment, then tossed it with all her might into the darkness. Chaco scrambled off the porch after it, barking as he ran. A few minutes later, the little dog returned with the rock, dropping it at her feet. She began to cry.

Morning light came grudgingly to the valley of the ranch. Baldwin and the others had not yet ridden down. Jones had awakened early in the darkness, unable to sleep, feeling both the searing pain, and something else, something anxious in a place deep inside him. Slowly, he shook it off and crawled stiffly out of his blankets. He had been lying on the floor in the big room of the house, his rifle next to him. Maggie had slept outside on the porch in the rocker. He had listened to the grating sound most of the night. It was silent now. He looked out of the window and saw her asleep in the chair. Chaco was lying beside her. Jones sat and watched her for a long time, listening to a white-winged dove calling.

Finally, he forced himself to stop looking at her and wandered slowly through the empty dwelling, moving from room to room, examining things that he knew or guessed belonged to her, trying to visualize her in these rooms with these objects, sometimes holding them in his hands. He knew he was intruding. But he also knew that the only way he would ever be a part of her life was by this last moment of intrusion. This was his last chance to be alone with her – or at least, alone within her world. That would have to do him. He understood that. She would let him no closer.

It was sitting in the shadows on the dresser in the big bedroom. He studied it, unable to move for a while, adjusting his little glasses on his nose. It was almost a dream to him. He cupped it in his hands, committing it to what he knew was his fading memory. That scared him. He knew that when he left this room, he would never see it again. It was the only time in his life that he had felt the urge to steal. He couldn’t do it. Not from her. He had stolen enough from her life.

He let his eyes move slowly over it: a tintype. Maggie, a teenager, and her mother, Susan. He couldn’t pull his eyes off her face. She had been a good wife and mother; he felt the familiar remorse and forced his gaze and thoughts along. Why had she never remarried? She had such beauty. He shook his head sadly, knowing the answer too well. It didn’t matter. It was over. He could change nothing.

Their two images alone would have been enough to bring the sadness, but there was another person in the tintype: a small brown-haired girl of eight or nine. It was she who shattered whatever rigid structures were left inside his being, so that his emotional world sagged. A bittersweet pain coursed through him as he stood before the dresser.

He had never seen her before. He knew only that she had been born after he left, and that she was dead. Seeing her now was both a mysterious gift and a curse. He fought a moaning sound welling within him. He had heard that her name was Thelma. His throat tightened. It had been his mother’s name. He smiled wistfully: just like Susan to have honored him, even after he had dishonored himself. He kissed the photograph of this child he had never kissed in life, never known.

It was a long time before he could stop looking at her, staring so hard at the small face that her image began to blur. He relived times that he hadn’t thought of in a long while. Why had he left, when they had needed him so? He pulled himself up straighter and set the picture back in its place. He knew the answer. He knew he would do it again. He also knew with painful clarity what he had lost. And what he had found. He took his glasses off, then turned and walked out of the room.

He was riding stiffly, he and the gray picking their way carefully up a narrow trail through the pines on the western slope. Chaco was sitting on the pony’s rump. Alice ambled along behind with all Jones’ worldly possessions strapped to her back. He didn’t want to ride any more. He wanted only to lie down and sleep. He was ready to take the last long trail.

He fingered the old Sharps absently, every once in a while taking a pull on his bottle and turning to look back down at the ranch house. Earlier, he had tried to say goodbye. She hadn’t acknowledged him. It was best, he thought. It gave him a chance to look closely at her. He had placed Baldwin’s loaded shotgun across her lap. Still, she had not paid him the slightest mind. Not a glance.

He drew a shallow breath and told himself to stop. It was over. He tried to visualize Thelma’s small face, vaguely seeing her, the sadness creeping over him. Things were now so different from what he had once believed. Life had seemed so alive, so real and tangible, so easily toted up and carried from place to place. But he realized now it never had been; the things of greatest worth he had never touched.

An aspen, its bark girded by the claws of a bear, stood dying beside the trail, its yellow leaves dropping silently in the breeze. He watched the sunlight shining on the tree, making it look like a sparkling, spiritual thing, the leaves floating in random patterns down towards the earth, drifting away on their separate journeys. At one time, the tree had been a whole thing, unified in life and purpose, now it was disassembling, its different lives dying different deaths, each alone. He felt much like that.

Only superficially had he sensed life’s essence, the unseen things which held its true meaning, which throughout the years had touched him like a soft breeze to the skin. Now they were drifting away, leaving him to journey on without them. He was truly alone.

The hills were still, making the sounds of the animals seem loud and intrusive. It didn’t matter. If there was trouble ahead, whoever was going to cause it already knew he was coming, and what he was carrying, and from what direction he rode. He thought again of the Indian face – the face he’d seen in the vision in the cornfield two nights earlier – wondering who he was and what he wanted … and why he bothered him so.

He picked up Baldwin’s and Lily’s trail in the red clay above the pines, then spotted the hoofprints of the old Mexican’s horse; the little man was riding to the side so he could read the signs without ruining them. In a couple of places, he could see where Mannito had turned off and sat watching his back trail to see if he was being followed. The Mexican knew some things, Jones figured.

As soon as Jones saw the cactus, he cocked the hammer on the Sharps, squinting his eyes and studying the path through the broken plants. He sat still, and listened. The gray felt tense under him, her ears pitched forward. Chaco whined. He raised a hand to silence him.

The steer had been skinned in some blue bunch grass; its hindquarters were missing. Jones sat squatting next to what was left of the carcass, ignoring the buzzing flies and the stink, while he counted footprints and pulled as much information as he could from their sign. There was a mix of them. All moccasins – badly worn; not a prosperous bunch. He looked for the one who had gone after Lily the night of the sandstorm, some dark echo in his head tugging at him.

He found his glasses and fumbled them onto his face, and leaned down closer over the dusty prints. Different breeds: Chokonen, Chihenne and Mescaleros, all Apaches, but an odd, motley bunch. They didn’t figure to fit together.

His eyes, focused now behind the glasses, moved carefully over the tracks. He studied the criss-crossing, the repeated circles, the back-and-forth patterns. He looked up at the sky and tried to visualize each of the men, committing their walk, size, weight and habits to memory. When he felt he had a good picture, he looked back down at the dirt. Then he saw the lone set of footprints and understood why the track had appeared strange to him that night.

Apaches were all dangerous. This one, he sensed, was somehow worse. Jones moved closer, studying the imprint, the right foot turned and dragging some. It wasn’t a fresh wound, maybe lame from birth. He wondered what bothered him about the man. He was big. Short framed. There were splashes of dust at the front of the tracks indicating the Indian’s heaviness. Jones guessed him to be over 200 pounds.

He reached down and closed his eyes and touched the track softly, reading its telltale characteristics, feeling the disturbances in the earth. The bad feeling stole over him again and he pulled his hand away.

He could smell fire and saw smoke drifting near the crown of an oak. He moved cautiously toward it. A dark shape was swinging grotesquely from a branch in the tree. He stepped closer trying to stay out of the breeze and the nauseating smell it wafted. The object came into a fuzzy kind of focus: the green cowhide. It had been sewn into a big bag and a fire built under it. Lily’s dress was in the dirt next to the fire. ‘Bastardos,’ he muttered in Mexican, as if the word might reach those who had done this. It was a language the Apaches knew well.

Thick smoke rose and shrouded the hide and made it harder to see; then a breeze came and the smoke cleared, and he saw a small blackened foot protruding from a break in the tightly stitched seam. Staring at that foot and thinking of Lily’s grandmother and mother, Jones vowed to find the cripple – and kill him.

He took a deep breath and then held it and slit the stitching of green thongs; the cowhide flaps spread wide, releasing a cloud of putrid smelling steam, and Jones gagged on it, turning away. Death, in general, had never bothered him much. But this one did.

The body was curled in a tight ball and disfigured to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. Nevertheless, he knew it wasn’t Lily. He picked up one side of the cowhide and rolled the corpse onto its back. Mannito. The little Mexican was naked and covered with thousands of tiny puncture holes; but those had not killed him. His death had come from the green cowhide. The fire slowly drying it, shrinking it, until it finally crushed his ribs and suffocated him.

Jones studied the little man’s shattered face and felt the bad sense creeping inside his guts. He had never had much truck for Mexicans, but this one had been somehow different. In just a few days, they had come to a silent understanding; and he felt that the Mexican would have honored it. There was something about the little man that he had trusted. He felt pressure building in his chest and he stood quickly. He’d been close to few people during his life. Hard as it was for him to understand, he believed the little man could have been one of them.

Now he was gone. The Lame One and the other Apaches had tortured him to death. Jones felt the beast in him stir and struggled to control it. Killing a man was one thing – torture another. The disrespect of it bothered him.

He brought his pipe from the gray and lit it and squatted in front of the body. He blew smoke over Mannito, and sang his death song. It was an honor he would never have guessed he would bestow on a Mexican. For a long while he sat and watched the body. Mannito had saved the gray, had stood up for him. And Jones knew instinctively the little man had fought to save Lily. Those things counted by Samuel Jones’ reckoning.

Jones shifted on his haunches, his eyes moving steadily over the ground. The rancher’s tracks weren’t anywhere around. He hadn’t made it this far.

Chaco sniffed at Mannito’s corpse, then flopped down beside it and whined. That surprised him. The dog had seen a lot of death in his nine years of life. He had ignored it. Even children. Ignored it up until this day. Jones blew smoke over the body again to purify it and chanted while Chaco whined. The little Mexican had been different. That was certain.

He moved away from the body and squatted again and smoked, thinking through what had happened here. They had the girl. He figured she was still alive; for a time. Baldwin – probably dead. Most likely they’d ambushed him and Lily, shooting the rancher and grabbing the girl, and then, later, been surprised by Mannito. Somehow they’d caught the little Mexican alive, stripped him naked, put a rope around his chest and dragged him back and forth through the prickly pear. Afterwards, with a thousand cactus thorns impaling him, they’d beaten him with clubs and then sewn him up in the hide and hung him from the oak like a giant cocoon.

If he had the tiny man figured right, he hadn’t let out a cry. He was different. He deserved better. Jones could see where they had squatted and lounged around, drinking and smoking. Lily had been forced to witness the killing. ‘Bastardos,’ he muttered again. The Aravaipa had sat off alone, pointed so he could watch her. Jones felt the beast shifting again, and fought the urge to ride after them. He had to know more. He was too weak to chase wildly after anything. And they were expecting pursuit. So he would wait.

As Jones sat by the corpse, a large wolf spider scurried over Mannito’s body. Spiders were sacred beings and he felt this was an omen. ‘Hear, brother – attest my words. I will avenge this man.’ He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘This friend.’ He stopped talking and stared off into the bright sunlight at the distant hills. He realized now what Mannito had wanted to say to him last night in front of the barn. That they were friends. Jones wiped his mouth in the palm of his hand, looking down at the little body. ‘I heard you,’ he said. Then he looked away again and continued his oath, ‘I will avenge this man. The earth hears me, the spider hears me.’ Jones blew smoke in the four directions.

Samuel Jones closed his eyes and tried to rest for a moment in the scant shade of a mesquite bush. He was thinking about Lily and her chances, when suddenly the image of the Indian face was before his eyes again, looking so real that he sat bolt upright, clutching at his pistol and squinting at the surrounding brush. Nothing. Jones trembled and stood and walked the scare off. He knew now that it was the face of the Lame One.

Looking down at Mannito’s body again, he wondered where the small man’s clothes were. Then it came to him: they had made Lily put them on. They were about the same size. It could mean only one thing. They didn’t plan on killing her, so they had dressed her to ride. Hopefully, they’d keep her alive long enough. For what? His powers had been fading over the months. He had no idea where to start. All he wanted was to lie down and rest. That was all he ever wanted any more. That, and Maggie’s love.

Samuel Jones tracked the rocky ground hard for an hour until he found Baldwin chest-shot and nearly dead a quarter mile from the tree. He rigged a travois to the gray, placed the wounded man on it, and started out of the mountains, Mannito’s corpse slung across the mule. Halfway down, he came upon an Apache sprawled in the dirt, nearly decapitated by Mannito’s machete. He had been right, the little man had fought hard to defend Lily. He had been a warrior to respect.