Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  “I don’t even have a shovel to do you right, little brother,” he says, gulping in air.

  After a while, Angus says a few words, empties Harley’s pockets and trades boots. Leaving his threadbare ones next to his brother, he stumbles away. Only half able to see the ground, he heads for the meeting place. In case Sal left him a sign.

  It’s a bad sign.

  This body is much worse. It’s awful. The coyotes have already gotten at her innards. Strung them out across the land.

  But the dress, enough is left, he’s sure it’s her favorite. It can’t be anyone but his summer play gal.

  There’s dried blood everywhere, drag marks. Some confusing tracks.

  He stumbles on toward town, shovel forgotten; thinking of revenge. If only he knew who to go after.

  62 Cha’a: Separate but Equal

  I sit in a nice chair at a well-laid table and drink coffee with fresh cream. Warm, dry and pampered. Luxury.

  While I wait for the victuals, I try to figure out which of the three forks is used for what. Fruit, salad, nuts, meat? No, that’s four. There’s two knives and a whole slew of spoons, too. Makes my head spin to think on it.

  So, I think about the clan. Damn, I miss the boys. We’re a well-oiled team. Only weak spot is me, the floozy. Squeaky wheel with a hair trigger temper and lascivious ways. Sniper, slut, tramp, dyed-in-the-wool trollop. Hey, I’ve got it all.

  True, we’re in Colorado, just left a town called Trinidad. So, we’re found.

  Okay, not found by anyone but ourselves. We know the name of where we are. Question is, where the fuck is everyone else? My fingers drum the tabletop of their own accord.

  Someone shushes me. I look up to see a well-bred lady with salon-curled hair, thick makeup and tight bone corsets standing in the aisle; looking down her nose at me. The nose holder from the passenger car.

  She’s wearing a lacy tight-bodiced dress with big loose skirts and a fat bustle in the back. She has a leather-bound bible clutched in her daintily gloved hands. Got a big iron rod shoved right up her ass, too.

  “Consorting with Negroes,” she says, down her nose.

  “Injins,” I say. “Civilized ones.”

  Just a little lie. Apaches? Not civilized at all. Rarámuri? Hiding out in Barrancas del Cobre, Chihuahua to avoid the Mexican army. Might be lass warlike than my infamous Apache kin. I don’t know a lot about them.

  She huffs.

  I have to tighten my lips to keep my tongue from poking out at her. I won’t even mention what my trigger finger wants to do.

  The waiter arrives with two overfilled plates.

  I gulp down the rest of my coffee, pick them up and head to the back.

  There’s a porter just coming out of the passenger car.

  “You can’t take those into the passenger car, miss,” says the porter. A Negro man. All the porters seem to be.

  “Just passin’ through. The nice conductor said I could picnic out on the back platform,” I say, ducking through the open door before he can reply.

  Thank the spirits that Táági hid those dollars in my fenders to pay for it all. I still got the nuggets that poor dyin’ gal give me, too.

  Gold should be about seventeen dollars an ounce here with the impurities figured in. Be a nice wad of cash once I sell it off. But, nuggets are pretty. I always hate to have to part with nuggets.

  The one-dollar passenger fare to Los Angeles saved us some cash. A price war between the two railroads competing for passengers on the southern transcontinental routes. We had to pay extry for Ten Spot, though.

  I, however, am in the last place I wanted to be. Alone with my newly found son, totally unfit for parenting. I glance out the window at the passing landscape in disgust.

  Plus, I’ve got crazy woman with me. Crazy teenage woman, no less. I’m not enough years away from being a teenager myself. I remember how awful I was. She seems to be no better. Got that big ass, okay probably well deserved, chip on her shoulder, too.

  True, they’re not with me here, being in the separate but equal train car.

  Which, when I get back to the platform between ours and theirs, turns out to be an old half-wrecked, shot to shit, anything but equal accommodation.

  I see even more difference when I open the door and peek in, waving a hand at my little crew. The other arm crooked to hold the plates of food.

  The upholstery is all torn up. Some of the seats are canted at odd angles. A few of the windows are broken. It’s dirty. More hog pen-like than people worthy. And they aren’t allowed to dine. What the fuck?

  Shouldn’t there be a separate but equal dining car? And a separate but equal cleaning crew?

  Does equal mean something different than what I think it does?

  Someone with a dark face says, “Yore kind ain’t welcome heah.”

  “I’m…”

  “Quiet, Cha'a,” says Zastee, from a few seats back. “Close the door. Wait outside.”

  A few heads turn to look at the uppity teenager. Giving orders to a white woman. Shocking. And dangerous.

  Or do they realize that I’m a light skinned half breed? My skin can go either way.

  I take one last look at all the black and brown faces.

  I smile, wave and retreat. Chagrined, but refusing to show it.

  She comes out, holding Góshé. He looks bleary eyed, like he was asleep.

  “It’s a windy son of a bitch out here.” I say. “Can’t we go in?”

  “Give me our food, we’ll eat in there. You go back with your white folk.”

  “You damn well know I ain’t,” I say.

  “I’d kill to be able to pass, Miss Bitch,” she says, grimacing. “Enjoy your bloody privilege.”

  “Ma.”

  I hug the boy and hand him my deck of cards.

  “You get to stay and play with Zastee,” I say. “You make sure she eats all her food and drinks her water, okay? We don’t need her gettin’ sick again.”

  He straightens his shoulders and looks six-year-old gruff. “I dang sure will,” he says, clutching the cards to his chest.

  I take the newly-filled canteen off my shoulder and pass it to them. too.

  I check my quarters, and seeing no curious eyes, give the dark brown boy a kiss. And another hug.

  My son of a few weeks. Yikes. I need motherhood classes. The other MadDogs have been doing the bulk of the parenting.

  I was just there. A mother in name and birth circumstance only. Never before a practitioner of the craft. Fortunately, it’s a big family. Three grandparents, five aunts and uncles at the Bar None alone. Plus, four dads, all better at it than I.

  It’s a crazy world these days. African, Indian, Chinese, Mongolian. None are allowed to mix with white eyes. In this day and age, and this place, cross-cultural marriages are illegal.

  In practice, this means that no one of any darker color or different shaped eyes can mix with whites.

  On top of that, anyone who appears to be of mixed blood is treated as colored by the whites. And, believe it or not, also shunned by the browns and blacks.

  That’s where I often fit. But lately, maybe I’m bleaching out. Or, maybe, because baths are at high commodity hereabouts, the white eyes dirt covered skin looks a fair bit like mine. Tanner than most.

  I got the luck, be it good or bad, of light skin and Norse features. And Zastee’s right.

  I’m not well-armed enough to protest, having only six bullets at a time in my little revolver. I can’t kill all of the motherfuckers. All grit and no git am I.

  I take my plate and head back to white eyes country. The conductor glares at me. I set my plate on the seat and, standing in the aisle, get out my gun. I open the gate and click the cylinder. Counting off the loads aloud.

  When I get to six, I close the gate, reholster it and say, “Yep.” Looking at him with my hard lawdog eyes. A look I learned from Güero. “All loaded and ready fer bear.”

  He looks away.

  Then, I think about that other
‘b’ word.

  Fuck him.

  I pick up the plate and head back to the dining car. Elegant luxury untainted by flesh-eating darkies. What a world. And fresh mountain spring water, too. From the Rocky Mountains.

  Yep, Coors it is. I hold my bottle high and peer through the glass. My favorite ‘b’ word. Yee haw.

  Soon, with the aid of a full stomach and a couple of the chilled brews, I get a bright idea.

  63 Táági: Not Jamaica

  “Trinidad, Colorado, eh?” says Táági, as they ride past the sign. “Not quite the same look as the one in the Caribbean.”

  “City,” says Ma’cho. “Three thousand. Too many people.”

  “You’ve been to bigger,” says Táági.

  “Only as prisoner of brother,” says Ma’cho, with a desultory shake of his head.

  They split up to search.

  Walking all the main streets, Táági asks most everyone he sees.

  Ma’cho take a different tack. Clad in a wool Navajo blanket poncho, he stands against a gun trader’s storefront like a cigar store Indian, practically motionless. Watching. Listening. Solid, stoic.

  He’s almost invisible in the background. Looks wooden even to Táági. Few of the passersby give him a glance.

  After hours of walking the boards, the big guy returns and meets up with his friend.

  “I’ve drawn a blank,” he says, standing next to Ma’cho. Alert, eyes scanning the street. “No one has bloody seen them.”

  The Apache grunts.

  Keeping his left hand near his gun, Táági reaches up with his right hand and pushes his poncho up over his left shoulder. He pulls a small cigarillo out of his right breast pocket and sticks it in his mouth. He then gets a wooden match out of the same pocket. Striking it with his thumbnail, he lights up.

  “Bigan?” asks Ma’cho.

  “Bloody bastard knows all the one-handed tricks,” says Táági. “Seemed a good idea, defensively. I’ve been practicing.”

  Ma’cho nods perfunctorily, eyes focused on the street also.

  They watch a while, feeling something in the air.

  They’re running out of daylight.

  “A bloody huge white dog, two extremely tall statuesque women, a boy, and a spotted horse,” mumbles Táági, as he leans over to light another cigar. Sheltering the match from an errant breeze, cupping the same hand that holds the match. “How could they possibly pass unnoticed?”

  A while later, Ma’cho murmurs, “There. Pistol.”

  “What?” asks Táági, glancing over at him.

  “Mine,” says Ma’cho, pointing with his chin at an unkempt man passing by out on the street in front of them.

  Táági turns to look, he sees just another a man carrying a sidearm.

  He asks, “How can you tell?”

  “Güero carve grips, buffalo head into buffalo horn,” he says. “Ma’cho loan to Cha’a. Other half of pair, here, in holster.” He lifts his poncho and pats the leather.

  “Ah.” Táági steps into the street, avoiding the rough looking man. He asks the next passerby instead. “Who is that fellow?” He points with his chin.

  The man turns for a look, grimaces and says, “That fella calls hisself the deputy sheriff over ta Raton. Might be self-appointed. Apparently, they’s some question as to how official it is.”

  “Ah, I see. Thank you, kindly.”

  Once the passerby is out of earshot, he returns to Ma’cho and explains.

  “Trouble,” says Ma’cho.

  “Time to visit a watering hole and reconsider our options,” says Táági. “See if we can gather some bloody intelligence.”

  Ma’cho nods, taking a detour to light finger the scruffy man’s pistol along the way.

  64 Angus: Stogies

  After a long hike in, Angus ends up in the Shiny Copper Bottom, ready to scalp the first sucker that looks guilty.

  He palms a tiny nugget onto the bar. The barkeep weighs it on the balance scales, fills his order and pronounces him flush.

  He takes the bottles and cigars provided to a table in the back. And has a long pull. And a smoke. And another. A second cigar. More whiskey. A short nap. And more.

  It’s nice to be the warm comfort of town after his ordeal.

  Staring at the moist bottom of his first bottle, he contemplates revenge.

  “Damn women,” he mumbles, peering unsteadily around the saloon. “Salt and Pepper bitches. Never give a gal a gun. Not never.”

  He looks around again, checking the faces of the other customers. Looking for men tall enough to be Blondie and friends.

  He doesn’t see any giant, pistol packing women or tall men. So, he plots. And goes over what Harley told him of them. While he half listened.

  He prefers tiny gals himself.

  He glances around occasionally. Just in case his good luck kicks in.

  65 Táági: Billy Red Bone

  Separate but equal is all the rage lately.

  Because of their multicultural appearance, Táági and Ma’cho search out an older establishment. The Shiny Copper Bottom looks good. The sign caught his eye. It has a voluptuous painting of a buxom woman’s curvaceous ass hanging out front.

  They’re hoping for a money hungry, easygoing proprietor who won’t run the redskin off. Táági buys a big pitcher and orders rib eyes.

  The barkeep keeps glancing at Ma’cho during the transaction, looking nervous as hell. The blanketed man looks too much like the Apache he is.

  “I, kind sir, am Lord Buzzard Branahan of the British Isles,” says Táági. “And, this fine gentleman is my faithful Injin scout, Chief Lone Wolf. I’ve employed the chief to guide me on a Grand Tour of your North American prairie provinces, er, states, I should say. Territories as well. We’re collecting trophies of all the North American big game. Small game, also. Quite the feather in one’s cap should one succeed.”

  He bounces on his toes a few times to seal the deal. Rich, crazy British tourist.

  The barkeep looks impressed.

  The big guy gets out a wad of bills and counts them off slowly, tossing in a prodigious tip. The bartender points out a table in the very back. They go sit.

  “Sorry,” says Ma’cho. “Poncho still on.”

  “What bloody for?” asks Táági. “Only the best of people get to sit here, backs to the wall. It’s safer. Like bloody Wild Bill Hickok, what?”

  Ma’cho grins. He pulls the poncho off over his head and drapes it across the back of his chair, exposing his clothing. He undoes his braids and pulls his waist length hair back into a ponytail to enhance the effect.

  His dress is cowboy now, not Injin. His twin bone handled pistol hangs low on his left hip. The bullet loops across the back of his belt are full of spare rounds. The second of the pair is stuck in the cross-draw position on the left front of his belt. He’s an ambidextrous shooter. His spurs have big Mexican rowels. He could pass as an extra tall Mexican. Not that Mexicans are accepted as white, either.

  “And, we’ve this fine gentleman here for a neighbor.” The big guy gestures toward the shaggy man at the next table.

  The man raises his chin in acknowledgment, and says, “Evenin’, boys.”

  “One might guess that you are a practitioner of the trapping profession,” says Táági, “Would that be the case, fine sir? Are you a mountaineer?”

  “Why, yes sir, I am,” says the man, looking over the top of his schooner and tossing his braids behind his wolf pelt covered shoulders. “I be Billy Red Bone. Lately of the Quahadi Comanche. Friend to Quanah Parker hisself.”

  “Ah, yes, pleasure to meet you,” says Táági. “We are Táági and Ma’cho. My friend here and I know something of the Comanche.”

  “Three and Wolf, eh?” says Billy. “Pleased to make yore acquaintance.”

  Ma’cho nods and says, “Comanche are cousins of my mother’s father, far removed.”

  Táági glances at the Apache, surprised. The Comanche and Apache are legendary enemies.

  Their food a
rrives; Ma’cho offers to share. The mountaineer waves it away with a smile and a thank you.

  “Got me a liquid meal set aside,” he says, patting the saddlebags that are hanging over the chair next to his.

  Táági and Ma’cho dig in.

  “Comanche, eh?” asks Billy.

  66 Angus: Work Hardened

  The two men that came in through the batwing doors caught his eye.

  They look hardened to life.

  The light haired one, with the long honey blond ponytail, goes to the bar to order. Angus can see his low hanging revolver. And his swagger. The man is casual, assured, slow looking. The mark of a man in charge of his destiny. A gunsel.

  He speaks with a foreign accent, though, and his hair is more reddish than yeller and it’s wavy not straight, so not Harley’s Blondie from the train.

  His friend is an Injin, not a humble, broken one like so many are anymore. This one’s a dead-eyed warrior. Likely an Army scout, trail and war hardened.

  When they go back to their table, the dark man removes his cowboy hat and pulls off his poncho. He’s wearing cowboy clothes underneath. So, maybe not. Might be a breed. Of the hard outlaw variety.

  Dismissing them, he goes back to his task. He drinks and tries to think.

  He hears the crusty old mountain man talking about two tall squaws to the hard pair.

  He listens close. Only catching a few words here and there. Sending covert glances in their direction.

  They talk of Comanches and such. Nothing important to him.

  He dismisses them, watching and listening to the poker game at the corner table. When a chair opens up, he goes over and sits in. He’s got the dough to stay a while.

  67 Cha’a: Góshé

  The next stop seems like a good place to stretch our legs, a small town. Las Vegas, it’s called, in New Mexico Territory. Only drawback, we’re getting close to country I’ve been to before.

  Hopefully, none of the people who wanted to kill or capture me are in town today. Okay, we faked our deaths, but the feel of a dinky, lumpy cell cot is fresh in my mind. And my newly itchy skin makes me think of fleas, lice, bedbugs. Ugh.