I wave a hand. “Go crazy, boys.”
“Hey, if Táági was here,” says Bigan. “That’s what he’d be saying.”
“Fuck sayin’,” I say. “That’s what he’d be doin’.”
Güero and I share blankets until midnight.
He gets up and returns to the still burning counsel fire to share a few more stories.
Bigan arrives, takes my hand and leads me to his blankets. He offers an evening greeting as we pass the counsel fire along the way, wiggling his eyebrows at them. I hear laughter and what sounds like a few pointed remarks.
Among the Nemene, plural marriages are common. A sign of wealth.
Quanah has quite a number of wives himself.
And I have a number of husbands. Isn’t that what equality for the ‘fairer’ sex is all about?
99 Ma’cho: Alternate Energy
The twins are standing around the morning fire, sipping their first cup of coffee.
“The sexual energy generated by those two could power a small town,” says Güero, nodding toward Bigan and Cha’a, who are smooching in their soogans just on the other side of a thin line of saplings. Clearly in earshot of their conversation.
Ma’cho grunts in agreement. “Cha’a needs a young man.”
“So, we should retire?” asks Güero. The twins are twenty-seven. “Hey, darlin’. We’re gonna retire from the marriage.”
“Fine by me,” Bigan says back.
“Stability is important also,” says Ma’cho, tapping his brother’s shoulder. “Cha’a needs us. She can’t live without many men.”
Güero chuckles.
Cha’a pulls away from Bigan and chucks a rock at them. Missing completely.
100 Cha’a: Separate but Equal
When we return to La Junta from the crossroads of the ancestors we find a friendly bar, The Vaquero, and have some fine steaks. Washing them down with the local beer.
“I still love everyone I’ve ever loved,” I say, looking around at the guys, tilting my head to review. “Wait, not Mitch. He was my practice love.”
“So, you can be cured?” asks Bigan.
“Only if it’s a trial by fire.”
“I’m married to each of you separately in my heart. And I love you each equally.”
“How is that possible?” asks Zastee.
I turn to her and say, “There’s no ambiguity. I’m sure, in and of myself, that my feelings are moral and true. Each one of the guys is an equal part of my life. And I love whoever I’m with at the moment the very best. Unless it’s this butt-head Bigan here, who I can barely stand.”
“The feeling goes both ways, babe,” he says, snarling. “I hate you, too.”
“So, to answer my question,” says Güero, already knowing because he’s in charge, but being polite about it. “Who’s on first?”
“Him,” I say, leaning closer for a kiss. “What say we find a quiet place and do the deed?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, holding out his pirate hook.
I grab the shiny sucker and wave a couple of fingers at Zastee and Góshé. Güero and Ma’cho, used to the routine, are already deep in conversation, ignoring our departure.
Bigan and I head for the loft of the livery stable. The stablehand only charges us a nickel for a nighttime of complete privacy.
At midnight, Bigan goes for a walk. Tall, dark and handsome takes his place.
Ma’cho and I find nirvana with the familiar sounds of horses shuffling and snuffling, and the fabulous down-home smell of horse shit for accompaniment.
101 Cha’a: Choo Choo
“Where do we start?” I ask, taking my first sip of coffee.
Güero purses his lips in thought.
“Train,” says Ma’cho. “Last see Táági in Trinidad, only two ways. We go east. Táági would cover west.”
Güero points at him. “What he said.”
We saddle up. Well, I do. Bigan packs War Chief. And jumps on Magpie bareback. Güero passes Góshé up to sit in front of him. Ma’cho takes the lead, his long barefoot strides covering ground.
Güero and Zastee run behind him. We horsemen, being the dust makers, ride tail end down the dry dirt road. With War Chief and the twins four horses picking their own pace ahead, behind and off to the side; wherever they choose.
We flag down the train, load the horses and, much to my chagrin, split up according to skin color.
Bigan sees my pouty lip and explains, “We’re going through Raton. You and Zastee together? No good. Splitting up makes you harder to recognize, right?”
“Well, yeah,” I say.
“And, this hook here,” he says, holding it up. “Keeps everyone’s eyes off of you.”
“Holy cow,” I say, tapping Güero’s arm. “We finally found a use for Bigan.”
Ma’cho, Góshé and the teenage terror are in the colored car, which all the train folks insist is actually called the nigger car.
So, goes our evil world, spinning on its madcap, but unfeeling axis. Humans beware; our worst enemy is us.
102 Cha’a: The Search
There’s a lump cutting into my hip joint.
“What the fuck?”
I stick my hand in my pocket and pull the pouch out.
“Oh, yeah. You know what?”
Güero pulls his sapphire eyes away from the prairie out the window, and aims them at me.
I loosen the draw strings, stick a finger in and pull it out. “I haven’t shown you this.”
Seeing the nugget, he raises his eyebrows.
I pass it across to him.
“There a story?” he asks, turning it over and over in his fingers.
“The gal they say I killed?”
He nods. I shared the story over the fire in the Nemene teepee.
“She said to take it,” I say. “I crammed the pouch in my pocket, because I needed both hands free to get her dress open and stop the bleeding. Didn’t matter. I was too late. She died.”
“Hey,” he says. “Look here. Someone scratched a little arrowhead here.”
“Arrowhead?” I say leaning over to see. “Wow, I didn’t see that. So, an Injin nugget maybe? Is it a tribal symbol?”
He taps his teeth. “Not one I know of shaped just like that.”
I say, “Hell, probably a thousand clans, all have their symbols. Who knows?”
“True.” He turns it over again. “Huh.”
“Not enough to go on, right?”
He’s rubbing his lower lip with his right thumb.
“Your thinkin’,” I say. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
He raises a corner of his mouth, then sobers, rubbing. Looking blindly out the window while going into his head.
“You need me to climb into the livestock car, get you some straw?” I ask, since he often puts a piece of straw between his lips when he thinks.
He ignores this completely.
Bigan shows up with a tray of beers.
Güero takes his without losing the faraway look.
I show the nugget to the kid.
He sets his beer between his legs, takes the nugget and examines it while I explain what happened.
I sip.
“Thirsty work, this train ridin’,” I say.
He glances up and grins. Goes back to the nugget.
“Arrowhead, huh?” he says.
Güero glances over and nods.
Bigan hisses at me, pointing his chin at Güero. He passes the nugget back, sips at his beer and stares out the window. Rubbing his forehead with his hook. Damn, he’s thinking, too.
“I used to be independent as all get out,” I say. “But, these past few days, the world seemed bleak, empty without you guys. I must be addicted.”
Nothing.
“I guess it’s quiet time fer me.”
“Hey,” says Güero, with a quick glance. “Feelin’ goes both ways, darlin’.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He’s already back inside his head.
I lo
ok out the window, too. Head regrettably empty of thought.
I glance at the nugget again, then put it back in the pouch and slide it carefully into my pocket.
I squeeze the kid’s warm thigh, hanging on to be sure he doesn’t disappear; put my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. Happy to be here with almost all the guys.
Apparently, he finishes his beer; because he reaches over and takes my hand in his, squeezing it gently. He leans his head on mine and is asleep before me, breathing slowly, in and out. What an awesome manly sound.
A good sleep with the two men close by does wonders. And I make the connection.
“Excuse me, Mr. Conductor,” I say.
“Yes, miss?”
“Is there any place to get a piece of paper?” I ask. “I need one. Just a scrap even. I just need to make a drawin’ to show my husband.”
“Of course, miss. I’ll get you somethin’.”
“Which one?” says Güero, after he leaves.
I scoff.
The conductor returns, and loans me a pencil, too. I scribble up a design and shade it in some. My hours watching the kid draw have given me some meager skills.
“You seen this?” I pass it to Güero.
“Sure, on the nugget.”
“Yeah, but nope. This,” I say, “is a drawin’ of a boot print I saw outside the adit of the mine we hiked out of. The same mine this gal was killed down the mountain from. See the shadowed notch here on each side of the ass end, where the tail merges with it?”
“Personal notch?”
“Looks to me. The way they double tailed it. Just like on the nugget, tiny and a bit crude, but I think they match.” I dig into my pocket again. “Here.”
Bigan takes the nugget and Güero holds the note next to it.
“Yep,” says Güero. “Let me take it back, show the others.”
“They already saw the boots off that blond guy I killed. They’re in my war bag.”
“They seen the nugget?”
“Not Ma’cho.”
After while he returns, nodding.
“Ma’cho and Z both agree, same sign,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “Wait. Z, not Zastee?”
“Easier to say,” he says. “Plus, I’m thinkin’ she ain’t no killer. Not of us anyway. Seems purty nice. She’s sure lovin’ up to our boy.”
“Tryin’ to work her way into his good graces. Could be a clever ruse,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Bigan, aiming his thumb at me and looking at Güero. “This gal here is never paranoid.”
Güero laughs.
“Fuckers,” I say.
“Z,” says the kid. “I like it.”
“Traitorous bastards.”
Güero waves a hand, looks at Bigan and says, “Jealous, eh?” Tilting his head toward me.
Bigan nods.
I ignore them.
We get off at Trinidad. And stay split up.
“I really didn’t want to be stuck with you,” says Bigan, holding out his right elbow for me to take. “Z is cuter.”
I lean my head on his shoulder and say, “Bastard.”
He holds his hook at waist level, so folk’s eyes are caught by it. I’m pretty much rendered invisible.
We saunter boldly down the boardwalk.
“…dress,” says Güero.
“Huh?” I ask. “Sorry. I was off somewhere. Daydreamin’.”
“We’re gonna dress you up, gal,” says the kid. He looks over at Güero. “Braid her hair and wrap it around her head?”
Güero nods.
“Yore plottin’ against me?” I ask.
“Darlin’,” Güero says, glancing around to see that no one is in earshot. “They told Z there would be a lynchin’.”
“Her, not me,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Yore a stranger. Yore word against two lawdogs? Still lynchin’.”
“Babe,” says Bigan, patting my hand. “Trust us.”
“Can’t I be Bob?” I ask. “I mean, they don’t even make women’s shoes my size.”
They look at my humongous feet.
“They’re proportional,” I say.
“No, they aren’t,” says Bigan, his emerald eyes challenging me to disagree.
“Bastard.”
“Keep the boots,” says Güero. “Dress will mostly cover ‘em.”
“No, it won’t be that long,” I say. “You ever look at regular size gals?”
“You’d smack us if we did,” says Bigan.
“Would not,” I say, smacking him. “Yore welcome to look. I just hope you go home with me.”
“As if.”
I elbow him.
He grabs his side, leans over, and groans like he just took a bullet.
“Yep, jealous. Just like she is of Z,” says Güero.
I want to poke him, too. Can’t reach.
“Here’s the dress store,” says Güero. “We’ll go see. Kid?”
Bigan straightens up from his fake pain. “Yeah?”
“We need that gal in there to wait on us, find us the dresses, but mostly not look at our darlin’s face.”
Bigan nods and wiggles his hook. “Gotcha.”
“Big tip might help,” I say.
“Táági’s the moneybags,” says Bigan. “I got this.”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “He was here; we’d be ridin’ in surreys with fringes on top.”
That gets a laugh.
“I got funds,” says Güero. “Relax.”
“You could always make eyes at her, blondie.”
He grins. “That I can.”
“You think he’s good looking?” asks Bigan, wrinkling his brow.
103 Cha’a: Butt Ugly
“Not hardly,” I say. “But, compared to yore ugly mug…”
Güero grins at him.
“Yeah, right,” says Bigan, grinning right back.
Bigan goes in first and chats up the girl. Once he gives us the high sign, Güero and I follow.
“You kin see what I was sayin’,” says Bigan, adopting the local accent. “Our sister here is big fer a skinny gal. Needs somethin’ flashy in a bit larger of a size.”
“Of course,” says the woman, looking at my body, thinking sizes. Mainly focused on the kid, talking to him, considering.
Güero turns to me. “You sit down, Sis. Rest while we pick something out.”
The shop gal overhears the sister comment and looks him over, too.
Güero leads me to a chair and joins them.
“Being in a family way,” he says, quietly. “Rest is important fer her. The poor dear lost her husband, Joe Bob, to Injins.”
They yammer on while I sit and fan myself, trying to look demure, widowed, sad and knocked up. With a trifle of morning sickness enriching my day.
The two men are flirting outrageously.
The sales lady is entranced. Flustered but able, she shows the two handsome men dress after dress.
“Red?” Güero holds one up.
“How about blue?” asks Bigan, lifting another.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let me try those two.”
“Just a nip here and a tuck there,” she says, pinning and chalking the spots. “You go head out for a bit have a spot of tea; they’ll be done in an hour.”
And, voila, an hour of ‘tea’ drinking later, during which we share a pitcher of cowboy ‘tea’, we have a dress for each of us gals.
We meet up with Ma’cho, Góshé and Zastee in a dark corner of the livery stable.
“This one has extra space in the bosom,” I say, passing the bundle to Zastee. “And is plainer, so you’ll look more like the other folk in yore car.”
“Hmph.” She unwraps it and holds it up.
“The key is to blend in,” says Güero.
“Good choice,” says Ma’cho. “Make wife look obedient.”
Surprisingly, Zastee doesn’t bristle at this. I would.
We change. Our boots do show, but they also cover our ankles, which aren’t suppos
ed to show. Unless we’re cheap Jezebels. Or maybe trollops.
Hers is a bit loose in the bodice, the skinny bitch, but fits well enough.
“We really are pretty close, size wise,” I say, looking her up and down.
“She wins the titty contest,” says Güero.
I stick my tongue out at him.
“You look fine and dandy, ladies,” says Bigan, touching his hat brim. “I’d be proud to escort either one of you.”
Zastee blinks. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“Unh uh,” says Ma’cho, offering an arm to Zastee. “All mine.”
Bigan winks at me.
“Hey,” I say, holding out a hand toward the Injin, yearning.
Ma’cho ignores it and leads her off, glancing over his shoulder and raising his eyebrows at me.
“Bastard,” I say, then break into laughter. “Oh, I shouldn’t laugh, there’s the damn racial deal. But they’re so cute.”
“Hey,” says Bigan. “You’re ours.”
“But,” says Güero. “Mostly mine.”
I take Bigan’s offered arm and reach out to accept Güero’s, too. We follow the others into the Copper Bottom Saloon.
“We came in here last time we were in Trinidad,” I say.
“Ma’cho, Táági, too,” says Ma’cho.
“You did?” I ask.
Ma’cho pushes in the chair he was holding for Zastee, and nods. “This table. Same as you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Truth.”
“Coincidence.”
Ma’cho shakes his head.
I pause. Holy cow. Nah, I watch his eyes. Genuine is the word that comes to mind. Still. Gotta be a coincidence.
He sits next to the dark teenager. Góshé clambers onto his lap.
“I’m hungry, redskin,” he says.
“We feed you, redskin,” Ma’cho says back.
“It’s weird that we sat at this table, too,” I say. “Not surprising, I guess, it bein’ in the back.”
“There are dozens of saloons in this town, that’s quite the coincidence,” says Zastee. “And, how did you know we sat at this bloody table?”
“No coincidence,” says Ma’cho. “Prescient connection.”
“What?” she asks.
Hell of a Horse Page 25
