I walk, marveling at their total lack of crime scene work. But, this ain’t the first crime I didn’t do but got arrested for anyway.
Güero would never do that. In my experience, other lawmen aren’t so careful.
Apparently, they see their job as being to catch criminals, the sooner the better.
They seem to forget the middle part. Being sure. Protecting the innocent from false accusation. Which I consider to be much more important.
Okay, a touchy subject with me. Being wanted for a crime you never did will do that to a person. The big reward they’re offerin’ fer my sorry hide only makes it worse.
49 Táági: The Hunt
“Blimey,” says Táági. “It’s a bloody big country.”
“Where the fuck would they go?” asks Bigan.
“To a place we would look,” says Ma’cho.
“Smartass,” says Bigan.
“Truth.”
Bigan nods. “It’s not you I’m doubting. I need to have more faith in myself.”
Güero is watching them. He rolls a piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other and runs a thumb across his lower lip.
“Too many choices,” he says.
Pushing an errant strand of long yellow hair behind a shoulder, he returns his gaze to the big map.
They have it rolled out on the big oak dining table that sits behind the fireplace in the sheriff’s cabin.
“Place with Injins,” says Ma’cho, his black hair braided today, tamed. “Cha’a not like white eyes.” He looks hard at Bigan.
“Yep,” says the bigger man, grinning at his Apache friend. The pale faced Bigan has been adopted into their clan for less than two years, but is considered a full Apache because of it. White skin notwithstanding. Just like the Viking, Táági, was adopted before him.
They divvy up the country. Each picks a geographic area and memorizes the topographic information. After they pack up their kits, the four head out to get their horses.
Bigan catches Magpie. His best. The others pick carefully also. Each brings a pack animal that can be used as a spare mount.
“Might be a long trail,” says Güero, looking over their choices. “Guess y’awl agree.”
He looks around, catching each man’s eye.
“Okay. We’re packed. We’d best consult with Many Horses. He ought to’ve got home by now.”
Joseph Many Horses, Cha’a’s grandfather, is an old Osage warrior. He knows that country.
Ma’cho goes to his teepee to fetch him.
The others get the map and some beers and head outside.
Many Horses is a teepee Injin. Buildings are not his thing.
When Ma’cho returns with grandfather, they smoke a pipe out by the spirit circle. They have the map weighted down on the big table next to the hot spring pool.
After a quiet introspective time, and much examination, Many Horses points out a number of things that don’t show up on the map. He then draws the routes in the dirt with a sharpened stick. Adding hills, mountains and water features.
He takes each one aside and explains their particular area in more detail.
They are all standing together now around the table, looking once again at the map as they digest the mass of information.
“How do you know where she’ll be?” asks Bigan.
Many Horses looks hard at him and says, “How could I not? How would you not?”
“You should bloody well lead us,” says Táági.
“White eyes speak many words filled with hidden questions,” he says, in uncharacteristic vernacular.
He looks at them all. Eyes ending on Bigan’s, holding his gaze a long time. “You will know.”
“What?”
“Where my granddaughter will be. You will know when you get there.”
Bigan is silent, eyes hooded. He holds palm and hook up and shrugs.
Many Horses stands firm. Eyes black and steady. Sure.
Táági is unrepentant. Waiting. “So, you’ll go?”
“I would go,” he says, looking long at each of the men before he continues. “But, the spirits have spoken. This quest is yours.”
“Aren't you worried about her?” asks Táági.
“Of course. She is family,” he says. “My favorite granddaughter.”
“We find,” says Ma’cho. “Cha’a is strong like Many Horses. No reason to worry.”
Many Horses grunts.
“It’s a damn big country,” says Bigan.
“Why all four go,” says Ma’cho.
“Cha’a tells me you got an eye on that cute gal down the road, grandfather,” says Güero. “So…”
Many Horses eyes him, revealing nothing.
The men hold their neutral expressions. Tremors of a smile escape Bigan's lips.
“A quest,” says Bigan, leaning over the map to hide his mirth. But, also wondering how he could know where she would be. Even if the dream were prophetic, it was vague and has faded with the hours.
They chat a while, sharing advice about each of the areas.
Many Horses retreats with dignity after shaking each of their hands and, for the third time, looking deep into their eyes.
Outwardly calm, inside Bigan is shaken. Never a true believer in the power of dreams, especially not his own. The responsibility weighs heavy on his shoulders.
“We’re so far behind,” he says, looking at all the country covered by the map.
Güero looks at him, catches his eye, and says, “We’ll only find her, kid.” He claps Bigan on the shoulder. “If’n she don’t find us first.”
Bigan breathes, he hadn’t realized until then that he was holding his breath. Maybe his heart had stopped, too.
Güero is calm as always. At least outwardly. He sets up a meeting time and place. They split up and head out.
50 Cha’a: Warm, Dry & Fed
“We can’t share a cell?” I ask.
“It’ll rub off,” says Scraggles.
“What will? The black?”
Zastee scoffs.
He glares at her. “Don’t be gettin’ uppity, Jemima. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the cannibal instincts,” he says.
We both look sharply at him.
“The what?” I ask.
“These monkey nigrahs,” he says, gesturing toward Zastee. “They eat human flesh.”
“That’s the Guineas,” I say, making it up as I go along. “Over by Australia. That’s where the cannibals live. Not Africa.”
“It’s all the same out there,” he says. “Nigrahs, cannibals. Even Australia, they speak English there, but they’s all degenerates and convicts.”
“Penal colonies. So were Georgia and, um, Louisiana? Or is it Virginia?” I say. “To start with. I’d guess from the accent that yore from Georgia?”
He huffs, turns the key in the lock, and takes Zastee to the other cell, which is right beside mine.
“The cannibalism will probably spread through the bars,” I say.
“Cain’t be helped,” he says. “The damned chinks burnt down the nigrah jail out back last week. We gotta make do.”
“Sorry to hear that, I purely hate havin’ to set near a person with a suntan.”
“It don’t rub off, damn it,” he says.
“You rubbed up on one to check?” I ask. “Maybe stuck yore pecker in?”
“Shut up.” He goes through the door into the office. Slamming it behind him.
“Peace at last,” I say, laying back on the not too clean, more like filthy, cot. Good thing I’m tough. “One thing about jail. It’s warm, dry, and we get fed.”
I look over at Zastee. She’s looking back with a gleam in her eye.
“Don’t mean I like ya,” I say.
“You don’t take any bullshit,” she says. “That bloody idiotic attitude is liable to get you killed.”
“Not soon enough,” I say, placing my hat over my face.
I lift it back up. “Hey. What did they do with Góshé? He was just with us out there in th
e office.”
“Damned if I know.”
I get up, go over to the bars and yell, “Hey, what about my boy?”
“Shut up, we’re busy,” the sheriff yells back.
I continue yelling. Until I’m almost hoarse.
Finally, Scraggly peeks in and says, “Unclaimed kids get shipped off to the orphanage.”
“He ain’t unclaimed,” I say. “He’s mine.”
“You bed a niggah?” he asks. “If so, you can share with Jemima there.”
I open my mouth to hit him with an indignant answer.
Zastee interrupts, saying, “He’s her ward. An orphan. She took him in out of the kindness of her heart.”
“I give you permission to talk, nigrah?” He puts his hand on a stick that hangs from his belt. “Thought the two of you just met.”
Zastee moves her gaze to the floor of the cell. Face unreadable.
“Yeah,” I say. “While we was gettin’ acquainted I told her that.”
“Actually, he’ll be fine. We’ll get him took in by a woman who ain’t a killer,” says Scraggly, his thumbs stuck in this belt loops. “We got a good upstanding widow here. His own kind. We’ll get her over to take a gander. Give the boy a good home.”
“What kind is his kind?” I ask.
“Good nigrah woman,” he says.
“He’s Injin,” I say.
“Red niggah, brown niggah, even a black niggah like her.” He flips a thumb at Zastee. “They all ‘bout the same.”
I think that over.
“Why is she even in here?” I ask, pointing my chin at Zastee. “I’m the one you arrested.”
“She a niggah,” he says, turning to go. “Bound to be guilty a somethin’.”
“She could take care of my son,” I say. “Save you the trouble of findin’ someone.”
“You said ward.”
“A ward who’s like a son to me.”
I can see the back of his head nod, as he walks out. Closing the door once again.
“Maybe he’ll think on it,” I tell Zastee.
She scoffs. “What makes you think that I would take care of him?”
“Oh, ‘cause you said yore amigos, I assumed,” I say.
Her face is stony.
I say, “I just…I didn’t. Shit. Color me crazy, but it could have gotten you out of here. And, hopefully, you’d of saved me.”
I shrug and move the hat back down. Holding tight to the hat brim induced twilight.
We rest, there not being much else we can do.
“We need a bloody plan,” she says.
“You suppose they put Ten Spot up in the livery stable?” I ask through the hat.
“I know nothing of horses,” she says.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding, hat wobbling. “I’ll restate. I suppose they must of. I just hope he ain’t tied to the hitching rail dyin’ of thirst.”
“So?”
“We need a plan.” I say, and sigh.
She’s quiet. Not even breathing. There’s something palpable in the air.
I lift my hat and look.
If looks could kill, hers would.
I raise my hands, showing my palms. “I’m not mockin’; I’m agreein’ with you.”
She relaxes and nods. Rests her chin in her cupped hands and stares at the floor. Looking thoughtful.
I put my hat back over my face. The dark feels safe.
“Hairpin?” she asks.
I lift the hat and shake my head. “Not a girly girl. You?”
She lifts a handful of long dreads. “Beads, small leather laces. No pins.”
“We need to lure one close, get his keys and break his fucking neck,” I say. “Not necessarily in that order. And, preferably, when no one else is around to see.”
“Quite. Then I can use this,” she says, holding up a small knife.
I look. And sit up. My hat falls to the floor.
“How did they not find that when they searched you?”
“They really didn’t want the bloody black to rub off.”
I laugh. “I don’t fuckin’ believe it.”
She looks at the back of her hand and grimaces.
“No. Your skin is beautiful,” I say, meaning it. “People come in different colors. So do horses and dogs.”
“They bloody well disagree,” she says, pointing her chin toward the office. “Monkeys. My shiny black arse.”
“More like gorillas.” I can’t help myself.
“Bitch.”
“Hey, you related to them cannibals?” I ask.
She grins and says, “Maybe.”
“Cool.”
I settle the hat back over my face and close my eyes. Breathing deep.
And Ma’cho arrives.
“What?” I ask.
“You know,” he says.
I jerk awake. Jail. Shit.
51 Kabó: Cold Trail
Kabó is way behind them. He had found fresh tracks from yet another pair of boots in the tunnel, but couldn’t find the man wearing them.
Concerned about pursuit, he carefully brushed out all the tracks in the cave entrance before he headed down the mountain. Which left him well behind the trio.
Plus, those first few miles, the snow was soft. It slowed him considerably. He spent another night out before he hit upon the snow free part of the road.
On the main road now, he leans over, searching the dust. The tracks are thick. He searches for theirs. Back and forth across the dirt surface.
How hard can it be to find the tracks of a barefoot horse, a giant dog, a barefoot woman, a big booted girl and a tiny booted boy?
He finds his pointy notched adversary, but the one print is facing south. Perpendicular to the roadbed. He renews his examination.
Finally, he sighs. This particular road sees a lot of traffic. It’s impossible.
He stands hands on hips, looking east and then west. Which way?
And, once he does get into town, how can he buy another firearm? His pockets are completely cleaned out.
Maybe he can trade the sheath knife. Damn, he really likes the weight and balance of it, be a shame.
52 Cha’a: The Clink
I hear feet stamping into the office, spurs jingling. And voices.
“Sorry boss, I can’t find the little brown bastard anywhere.”
I lift my hat brim and look over at Zastee.
She looks back at me, eyes wide.
I give her a thumbs up.
“He’s a bloody master of flight at six,” she says.
“An early bloomer. Takes after his Ma,” I say, proud. And roll over, ready for sleep.
A few hours later, I’m awakened by a soprano hiss. I get up and look out the barred window into the alley.
“Ma,” he murmurs. “I got Tenner and the rope.”
I pull experimentally on the bars and examine the heavy sill and lintel timbers holding them.
Góshé has Tenner all saddled up, ready to go. Not sure how he did it. My saddle must weigh as much as he does.
I’ve said it before; I’ll say it again. This boy’s a pistol.
“Bars look pretty solid,” I say.
“Tenner's a top notch pullin’ horse,” he whispers. “Bigan said so.”
“Okay. Hand it to me. We’ll try.”
“Hey,” says Zastee. “This doorknob looks flimsy.”
I look through her cell at the worn, weary knob on the door to the alley, then turn to Góshé and say, “Put yore loop on the doorknob. Twist yore loop around twice and snug it up good so it don’t slip off, okay?”
He bites his lower lip and nods.
“Next get Tenner lined up to pull straight. Check his cinch is tight, crawl up. Put an extra dally on the horn. And kick. Watch yore fingers, eh?”
“I’ll be okay, Mommy, um, Ma,” he says. “Pa taught me how to hold it and when to let go.”
“Good boy. You might just save us. What about the noise?”
“The man in the office went down the st
reet to have a beer with his pal. You know, the big things. Um. Pitchers, he said.”
“Good man,” I say. “Let ‘er rip.”
The little boy is about four feet tall and doesn’t weigh an ounce more than a fifty-pound sack of grain. But, he sets his loop, checks his cinch, grabs the stirrup leather and scrambles up like a monkey.
He takes his dallies, gets his hand set on the tail end of his lasso and kicks.
Ole Tenner pops that door handle like the pro he is.
Góshé slides off and walks back.
“Reach yore hand in and pull the tongue back away from the frame,” I say.
He walks over and jams his tiny fingers in. Zastee tells him which way to pull.
“It’s tight,” he says. “It won’t move.”
“You might have to push or pull on the door to get it loose,” I say.
“I might can reach,” says Zastee, she sticks her arm through the bars. Can’t quite.
She opens her knife and uses the length of it to push the close edge of the door tight.
“There,” says Góshé, sliding it over.
He pushes on the door and trundles in.
“Where’s the key?”
“It’s on the peg by the other door,” I say, looking over. “Oh shit, it’s high.”
He walks over and looks up.
“Lift me, Ma.” He stands by the bars.
“Cripes, that’s a reach. When I get you up there, grab it quick as you can,” I say.
I take a deep breath, grasp his hips and lift. I straighten my arms to get him close. He leans out as far as he can and snags it with the tip of his fingers just before my girl muscles quit me. His trip to the floor is fast.
“Here, Ma.”
I get the cell open and go around for Zastee.
“I like the look of her bright red pussy.” It’s Scraggles voice. His boots hit the dirt floor, headed into the office. “Can’t hardly beat them randy dancers fer entertainment.”
“I’d sure like me a chance to hump that curly-headed bitch,” says another voice.
So much for retrieving Ma’cho’s sixgun. And my boot knife. Nelly was behind the cantle.
We tiptoe out the back.
I slip the doorknob back together, slowly and carefully, and tighten the set screw with the point of Zastee’s knife.
Hell of a Horse Page 13
