MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Ride, boys, ride!” Jace Martin shouted.

  MacKinnon landed hard against a rock. He turned, and saw Honey somersaulting her way down the slope toward him. An eight-hundred-pound mare would crush him, so MacKinnon dived again. He dropped another six or seven feet, and this time his right side smashed against a boulder.

  Honey kept coming down the embankment though. Despite the pain in MacKinnon’s side, his head, his whole forty-and-more-year-old body, he came to his knees and staggered four or five more feet before he collapsed.

  The earth stopped moving. He tasted dust, sweat, and blood. He heard Honey scream, come to her feet, and bolt. Which way? He wasn’t sure.

  For a minute, he lay there, breathing hard, each breath causing him to shudder. His left hand clutched his ribs. Blood flooded his right eye.

  He was alive. That much he knew. He heard a voice, and he knew that if he lay here, he would be caught, maybe lynched. Sitting up almost killed him. Down the ridge, a few yards to his left, he saw a massive boulder, and a fallen log.

  It wasn’t much of a hiding place, but MacKinnon could see nothing better.

  All he had to figure out was how he could cross those ten yards.

  But he made it.

  * * * * *

  Now, after an agonizing eternity spent hiding and sweating, MacKinnon found himself alone in the mountains. But he remembered Jace Martin, who had betrayed him. That started him walking, somehow.

  Only not for long.

  His feet shot out from under him. Landing hard on his buttocks, he slid down the embankment—before he could cry out in pain or curse his luck—kicking up stones and dirt, till he came to a stop.

  MacKinnon cradled his ribs, eased over onto his side, and waited till he didn’t hurt so much.

  He coughed, and finally chuckled.

  “That was,” he said in a dry whisper, “faster than walking.”

  Chapter Five

  Honey had loped off this way, which was not why he had started walking—hobbling would be a better choice of words—in this direction. Nelson Bookbinder and his posse had ridden off the opposite way. So had Jace Martin, that Judas, and his three followers. If Charley the Trey came up this mountain with his own group of gunmen, they would be far up the ridge and unlikely to hear him. He followed a deer trail through the forest and the rocks. Eventually, he might even hit the road.

  Then what?

  He answered his own question. Don’t get ahead of yourself, MacKinnon. Focus on the job at hand. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Stop here. Grip that young Douglas fir and wait here till you catch your breath.

  How cold would it get after sunset? He turned and lifted his head. The treetops stretched up toward the sky, which might have started darkening, but he couldn’t really tell. He didn’t feel any cooler right now. His ribs hurt. His head throbbed, but not as painfully as earlier, and at least the gash above his right eye had stopped bleeding.

  The hat came off, and MacKinnon wiped his brow, carefully maneuvering around the cut, and he wet his lips again and studied the countryside.

  He just stood there, sore, dazed, and pretty much lost, for maybe five minutes, possibly fifteen, perhaps as long as an hour.

  That’s when he heard the noise.

  MacKinnon blinked. Had he imagined it? He turned and looked down the rock-rimmed ridge. Bear? No, bears did not come with saddles and bridles, and he had never seen a sorrel-colored bear.

  “Honey,” he said, and repeated the name louder, but not so loud that anyone along the ridge could hear.

  The mare stopped scratching her hide against a tree, and lifted her head. She whinnied, and started pawing the rocks.

  MacKinnon moved away from the sapling. A while back, he had found a stick that served as a crutch, and this helped him ease his way down without breaking more ribs, or his neck.

  The mare did not move, did not run, and MacKinnon gathered up the reins, and began rubbing Honey’s neck with the flat of his hand in a circular motion. “That’s a good girl,” he told the horse. “Where’d you run off to, Honey? Miss me?” He shook his head. “I sure missed you.”

  He found the canteen, surprised that it had survived the tumble down the mountainside or Honey’s lope through the forest. He brushed pine needles and bark off the saddle, saddlebags, his bedroll, and from the reddish coat tied behind the cantle. He tried to remove the canteen. Tried harder. Cursed, and began working on the knot.

  “No wonder this didn’t come off,” he said. For a moment, MacKinnon thought that he might have to break out the pocket knife and cut the straps. But at last he solved the puzzle, and brought up the canteen, shaking it, and hearing the reassuring sound of water sloshing. After unscrewing the cap, he lifted the canteen with both hands, ignored the pain that sliced through his ribs, and drank long. He stopped, wiped his mouth, and almost brought the canteen up again. This time, he stopped.

  He removed his hat, laid it crown-down on the rocks, and partly filled it with water. He let Honey drink as he moved around her, staying close to her body, and checking for injuries. He found scratches, along with more rubble from the mountainside. He checked her legs, the iron shoes, her feet, her withers, and ran his hands underneath the saddle blanket. She needed a good brushing and some healthy work with a currycomb, but she should be able to carry him—after he straightened and cinched the saddle. If he could manage to do that.

  He splashed more water in the hat, took a final swallow for himself, and wrapped the strap around the horn. He still couldn’t figure out how that knot had formed, but chalked it up to the roll down the drop-off. He opened one of the saddlebags and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

  He pulled out the neck, which still held the cork, but there was nothing else but shards of busted glass.

  “Can’t have everything.” He tossed the trash against a tree trunk. He would have to empty the rest of the busted glass later. MacKinnon went back around Honey and opened the other bag. First he found a stupid dime novel about Kit Carson, which he pitched to the ground. Next he pulled out a leather purse, and he tugged on the rawhide thongs to loosen the opening. He brought out a piece of jerky and devoured it. He pulled out a larger pouch, and dumped oats on the ground for the horse.

  Picking up his hat left him hugging his ribs, and putting the battered old thing on his head hurt just as much, but the wetness of the fur felt revived him.

  As the mare kept eating, MacKinnon drew the Winchester from its scabbard. The carbine was an 1873 model in .38-40 caliber, twenty-inch barrel, not fancy, pretty battered up from the years MacKinnon had owned it, and even more scratched and nicked after Honey’s lope through these woods and rocks. He carefully worked the lever just enough to make sure he still had a cartridge in the chamber. After brushing off the straw and dust, he slipped the carbine back into the scabbard and unbuckled his belt and holster. The gun rig might be enough for a judge and jury—and certainly more than enough for Charley the Trey or even Sheriff Nelson Bookbinder—to convict him of the saloon robbery.

  If he happened to get caught.

  MacKinnon had no intention of getting caught. At least, not until he met up with Jace Martin.

  Belt and holster fell to the ground.

  Honey had finished eating, so MacKinnon shoved the saddle to its proper position and cinched it tight.

  That took about all he had, and he squatted by the horse for a few minutes, and used the stirrup to help pull himself back to his feet. Which left him gasping for breath.

  His horse stared at him. “You ready?” MacKinnon said to the mare, and answered for himself. “I ain’t.”

  After leading the sorrel from the rocks and the trees, he found a spot that seemed high enough for his needs. He kept Honey on the low ground, lifted his foot into the stirrup from the high spot, paused, grimaced, and swung into the saddle.

  That hurt enough
that he waited a moment before sliding his right boot into the other stirrup.

  “All right,” he said after he could breathe again. “You pick a path, girl. You’ve seen more of this mountain than I have.”

  * * * * *

  His mistake had been thinking that riding horseback wouldn’t persecute his ribs. He had not counted on all the ducking he would have to do underneath branches, or all the leaning to one side or the other to avoid trees and boulders. Honey picked paths down loose rocks, up steep ridges, and over fallen timbers.

  MacKinnon often leaned over, wondering if he would vomit. He came to places where any sane man would have dismounted to walk alongside his horse up or down or around or between. Yet he couldn’t climb out of the saddle, because the blinding pain in his side convinced him that once he was out of the saddle, he’d never be able to pull himself into it again.

  He rode. He weaved from one side to another. He couldn’t even carry on a conversation with himself. He just rode.

  Slowly, MacKinnon began to feel less enclosed. The air felt cleaner. The sky, even though the sun had started sinking behind the mountains, seemed brighter.

  Straightening, he realized that they had reached a clearing. He recognized the sound of splashing water. Honey stopped, lowered her head, and began to drink. Glancing down, MacKinnon was surprised to see the water. Honey had found a small pond, or lake, from snow melt, or maybe it was a beaver pond. He didn’t care. He dropped the reins over the sorrel’s neck, and pulled the canteen close to him.

  Still, he couldn’t dismount, no matter how the water beckoned him. He unscrewed the canteen’s cap, and leaned low, dropping the canteen in the water—but only after wrapping the canvas straps twice over his right hand.

  He dragged the canteen toward his mare’s head, and pulled it back toward her tail. Back and forth. The container grew heavier. He kept at it.

  This is harder than it looked, he thought.

  The canteen was made of wood, and lined on the inside with beeswax. Wood floated, and the canteen had been practically empty. He kept trying, though, and when Honey started to walk, MacKinnon grabbed the reins with his left hand and pulled her up short. Maybe, he thought, I should just let Honey walk through the water and let the canteen drag behind.

  It helped. He reined Honey to a stop and pulled the canteen out of the pond. He drank.

  Honey snorted.

  “You had yours,” he said. “My turn.”

  He shook the canteen. He sighed. Maybe a quarter full, and by now darkness was coming quickly. He turned Honey to cross the pond again, dragging the canteen, feeling it become heavier and heavier as it sank deeper under the clear, cool water. Honey stopped again, and this time MacKinnon felt the horse’s movement.

  “No.” He straightened, and brought the reins up short. You ain’t rolling. A bath comes later. He kicked the mare’s ribs, cursed her, urged her out of the pond. Horses like to roll in the water, and MacKinnon had laughed at cowboys, experienced and greenhorns alike, who had been caught unexpectedly and wound up soaking wet while their mounts rolled in some pond or river.

  When he stopped the horse on dry land, MacKinnon’s ribs blazed with pain. He bit his lips, and remembered his canteen. It wasn’t quite full, but it would have to do. He took another sip, screwed the lid on tight, and wrapped the straps around the horn. Horse and rider moved back into the hills and trees.

  A few minutes later, the darkness of night covered them like a shroud.

  Chapter Six

  Katie Callahan stepped out from the hole she had managed to scratch out thus far, and began massaging her head. It felt like someone had been driving twelve-penny nails into her temples. Her eyes closed as she squatted, and she felt the wind cool her, but only slightly.

  When she looked again at what she had dug, she sighed. Deeper, maybe, but not deep enough for even the body of a woman ravaged by consumption and too many miles of hard traveling from one mining camp to another. It might have to do. She wouldn’t be able to do much more now that the sun had begun to sink and, over by the broken wagon wheel, Gary kept kicking a baseball, and mumbling: “I’m hungry.”

  She rose, her knees stiff and her hands and shoulders throbbing, and moved to the barrel on the side of the wagon.

  When she opened the lid, Gary changed his tune. He even stopped booting the dirty, old ball. “I’m thirsty, Katie,” he said.

  After finding the ladle, Katie had to strain to reach the water. “I thought …” She didn’t recognize her voice. It was if it wasn’t hers. That dry, ragged sound belonged to one of those cigarette-smoking strumpets in Chloride … Vera Cruz … “I thought,” she tried again, bringing the ladle up, “that you were hungry.”

  “I’m thirsty, too.”

  She nodded, motioned with her head, and he came quickly to her. She let him drink.

  Why not? she thought. Seeing him drink, watching him revive with just that little bit of water, made her smile, but smiling hurt her lips. He grinned as he handed her the ladle, and she dipped it again into the barrel and brought it up, emptied about half of it, and drank what was left.

  * * * * *

  Gary gathered bits of dead cactus spines, dried brush, and blew softly on the tinder once Katie had managed to get that lighted. He did not always act like a stupid, lazy, kid brother.

  Gary could learn, too, and pretty quickly. She didn’t have to remind him to let the small pieces catch first, let them burn hot, before slowly adding more wood to the fire. Once they had the fire going, she moved to the front of the wagon, climbed on the wheel’s cap, and reached onto the driver’s bench for the skillet and the sack of salt pork.

  “Can we have something good to eat?” Gary asked.

  “We have what we have,” Katie told him, adding softly, “and not much left of that.”

  “If you’d let me go hunting,” Gary suggested, one more time.

  “That shotgun’s bigger than you,” she said.

  “I can shoot.”

  “Don’t you touch that shotgun, Gary. Don’t even think about it.”

  “You ain’t my ma,” Gary said. “You don’t boss me. I’m telling Ma.”

  “Shut up,” Katie snapped.

  * * * * *

  When she had the skillet on the coals, and the salt pork had started to sizzle, she fetched the kettle, and ladled enough water to cover the used tea leaves so that the three of them could have something to wash down the meat and soften the hardtack. There would be no more hardtack after tonight. Katie wouldn’t be

  saddened by that.

  “It smells yummy,” Gary said.

  Katie stared at him.

  “It does,” he insisted.

  She turned toward the wagon. “Go fetch Florrie,” she told him.

  “And Ma?”

  Katie squeezed her eyes shut. “Just … Florrie.”

  Gary rose, kicked the baseball toward the busted wheel, and moved to the back of the wagon, as Katie arranged the cups and began to fill the three containers with weak, flavorless tea.

  “Florrie says she ain’t hungry,” Gary called out.

  Katie tried to rein in her temper. “Tell her that she has to eat.”

  Setting the kettle, now empty, in the sand, she speared a hunk of salt pork and placed it on one plate near three hardtack crackers.

  “She won’t come,” Gary announced.

  She jabbed the knife into the next piece of meat and yelled: “Florrie, get out of that wagon and put your behind by this fire now! Before I drag you out by your red hair!”

  After practically throwing the last piece of pork onto the last plate, she grabbed the skillet’s handle and, cursing, pulled back, shaking her burning hand. She found Truluck’s old work glove at her knees, but did not bother pulling it on, just used it to lift the skillet off the coals and dropped it on a flat rock. Grease slopped over the s
ides, and some spilled onto the coals, igniting a small, brief, flame.

  Katie bit her lip. She turned toward the wagon. Gary stood by the tailgate, eyes wide, mouth open. Florrie climbed out of the wagon, glared at Gary, looked at Katie as though she were staring at the devil. Florrie snatched Gary’s little hand and practically dragged him toward the fire, the plates, the cups, and what would have to pass for supper.

  Florrie offered no apology. Neither did Katie. As soon as Florrie released her hold on Gary’s hand, he forgot all about the abuse, squatted by the fire, and picked up his plate. Katie realized she had forgotten to bring any utensils except for the knife she had used on the salt pork.

  She softened her voice. “Dip the crackers in the tea,” she instructed Gary. “It’ll soften them so you won’t break your teeth.”

  Florrie looked for a fork and, finding none, glared at Katie, who picked up the salt pork with her fingers and began eating. It was tough, burned, and, after two days of eating nothing but salt pork and hardtack, rather sickening. She tore off a hunk, like some wolf, dropped the rest on the tin plate, and wiped her fingers on her skirt. She wiped too hard, forgetting about the blisters and embedded slivers on her hands from digging.

  “Ohhh!” Gary sang out. “There’s worms in my crackers.”

  Closing her eyes, Katie wished she were dead. Then she thought about her mother, still lying in the back of the wagon. When she opened her eyes, she found Florrie pitching the hardtack off her plate and into the fire. That excited Gary, who did the same.

  “Burn,” he said. “Burn, worms, burn.”

  “Is this all we have?” Florrie asked.

  “Eat the pork,” Katie said. “Drink the tea.”

  “Shouldn’t we bring some supper to Ma?” Gary said.