MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Ain’t this yourn?” the boy said. He laughed and jumped back to his feet as the men dragged MacKinnon away. “It’s mine now!” the boy shouted.

  Someone pulled off his boots.

  A woman spit in his face.

  His mother said: “I told his pa that that chil’ of his was no good. Born to hang. Born to hang.”

  He couldn’t breathe. He bit his tongue. The chain cut into his throat. They didn’t know how to hang a man. This wasn’t the way. The crowd, the noise, the torches, the blood—it proved too much for the horse, which started loping, dragging Sam MacKinnon behind it, picking up speed.

  “Stop!” someone called to the horse.

  The chain had cut deep, severed his vocal cords. He was choking on his own blood, trying to pray, but managing only rasps. The horse galloped now. MacKinnon rolled onto his stomach. He saw the boulder because night had turned into daylight. He tried to scream, but only tasted blood. The horse leaped over the boulder. MacKinnon’s head slammed into the hard granite.

  * * * * *

  He jerked awake, and almost fell out of the saddle. Would have, had he not instinctively reached out and grabbed the horn with both hands.

  “You idiot,” he said. He sucked in a deep breath, bent over as his chest felt as though it was cut in half. When he could breathe again, he stared into the darkness.

  Honey had stopped. The moon was starting to rise, and it would be a full moon, or near full, anyway. He found the straps and brought up the canteen. After a few swallows, he wiped his face, and wondered how long he had been asleep.

  It wouldn’t be the first time he had slept in his saddle, but this nap could have killed him. He should have used his bandanna to tie his hands to the horn, to make sure he didn’t fall off the mare.

  “You keep making mistakes like that …” He was rubbing his throat, and couldn’t figure out why. He recalled the dream, or tried to, but only remembered a few bits and pieces. None of it made sense. There had been a trace chain around his throat. His mother’s voice. He looked at the moon, and almost dropped the canteen.

  The moon faced him, low. He saw no trees blocking his view, no boulders, and he could make out the sky.

  They were out of the hills, off the mountain.

  After lowering the canteen and double-wrapping the canvas, he found the reins on Honey’s neck. The horse woke up, and took a few steps without any encouragement from MacKinnon. The hoofs clopped on hard ground.

  MacKinnon twisted in the saddle, turning slowly so not to tear up his insides, torment the ribs. He saw the hills off to the south. No glimmers from any candle, lantern, or campfire. He wet his lips and looked to the west, then to the north. He kicked Honey’s side slightly, and they started walking.

  Clop.

  Clop.

  Clop.

  If he guessed right, San Patricio lay behind him. Bonito City up to the north and west.

  And Nelson Bookbinder?

  Jace Martin wouldn’t risk traveling on a road. He’d cut across the desert. Crooked Cañon. Squaw Cañon. Martin had planned to let the posse think the robbers would be heading to Mexico, but they would turn east. Light out for Roswell. Martin knew a woman in Roswell, and wanted to give her a present before loping off for Texas.

  What the hell were you thinking, hitching your life with that team? MacKinnon cursed his stupidity, flicked the reins, and kicked the mare’s side. His ribs hurt. They never stopped hurting.

  Nelson Bookbinder had Nikita with him, though. Unless Jace Martin abandoned his plan and struck for the Roswell Road, the lawman and the Mescalero would stay south. At least until they got close to Roswell. He remembered hearing someone in Lincoln brag about Nikita. “That ’Pache could follow a fart twenty miles in a blue norther.”

  Charley the Trey? Maybe Bookbinder led the only posse. Maybe Bookbinder had warned the gambler to leave those outlaws to the law, to Bookbinder himself. Maybe Charley the Trey decided to stay in Bonito City and win his money back.

  MacKinnon massaged his ribs.

  But if I meet somebody? Posse. Anybody. They don’t know me. I’m Sherm Cooper. Was working for an outfit over in the Plains of San Agustin. Decided to light out for the Davis Mountains for the summer. Pretty country down there. Yeah, got tossed from my horse a while back. Ribs damaged. Not the first time. Not the last. Comes with the job. Nah, I’ll be all right. Not much a doc can do for busted ribs nohow. Robbery? You don’t say. Where? Bo-ni-to City? Hmmm. Never laid eyes on that burg. No, I really haven’t seen nobody much. Nobody lighting shuck, nohow. Nah, I don’t have a short gun. Pat the rifle. Remember. Pat the rifle. Long gun’s more my style. Coyotes. Critters like that. And I remember Haas Engle. We called him Hoss. He had a .44 Remington. No. Not a Remington. Not a .44. Don’t even mention a Remington pistol. A Colt. By grab, just make it a Dragoon. Hoss had a big Dragoon, and he was pulling it out of his holster and damned if he didn’t blow off his right foot. Yep. They will do that, won’t they? Anyway, that cured me of ever wanting to own no short gun. Nice seeing you gents. Good luck catching those thieves.

  Honey covered another hundred yards.

  “So,” MacKinnon asked himself, “why are you traveling at night?”

  He studied on that. I’m no night rider, boys, but have you tried crossing that stretch of land in the summer? Moon’s full. And, well, you boys probably never met Betty Bradley in Fort Davis, I reckon. She’s worth riding all night for. And this here moon. Almost like daylight with a moon like that.

  MacKinnon softly laughed. He remembered Petey Milligan on that spread up by Tascosa, Petey saying: “Can you teach me to lie like you do, Sam?” And MacKinnon shaking his head, saying: “Can’t be taught, Petey. You got to be born a liar. And Ma always said I was a born …”

  He frowned. He thought of that nightmare. When was the last time he had been wakened by a bad dream?

  * * * * *

  The moon grew larger. It bathed the road and the desert with pale light. His eyelids kept getting heavier. He said: “You’ve gone through the possibilities if you ain’t recognized. What if you are?”

  The born liar in him made him smile.

  Well, howdy, boys. Been a while. Robbery? You don’t say? Where? You mean somebody had the gall to rob Charley the Trey’s place. My word. And Billy the Kid’s been dead now for how many years?

  No. Let’s see, last time I ventured into Bonito City was with Budd Bond. You boys remember Budd, don’t you? Ornery cuss with the white hair. So me and Budd, well, we … yeah, I guess you boys have heard that story more than I’ve told it. But that was the last time I hit Bonito City. It grown any?

  Well, no, I don’t recollect seeing anybody. I was working for Skin-Tight Overholser. Yeah, he ain’t any less stingy and he works a man like there’s thirty-seven-and-a-half hours in a day. Anyway, he had to turn some boys loose on account he said his bookkeeper said he would lose money, and I volunteered. Figured he’d let me finish the month, but, no, that ain’t Overholser’s style. Cost him seven more dollars, but I didn’t mind. Thought I’d see some more country.

  Now, that’s a darn fool question, don’t you think? I know it’s night, but I also know a full moon’s brighter than the sun this time of year … and it sure ain’t as hot as that sun. Course, I don’t get spooked riding at dark. Do you? Ha. Honey has better eyesight that I do, and it’s not like I’m putting her into a high lope to see how good she can spy prairie dog holes. I’ll keep her going at this pace till past daybreak, find some shade if I can. Rattlers will be cooling off in the scrub just like me. Laze around till the sun starts dipping, and just do ’er all over again.

  That’s why I enjoy being Sam MacKinnon, boys. I don’t have no plan. Thought I could see if they’re hiring at the Jinglebob up around Roswell. Maybe head back down to Seven Rivers. And it’s been a good long while since I’ve seen Texas. El Paso. Fort Davis. Or up Tascosa way. Just
depends on which way I point Honey.

  That’s right. You boys laugh, but this mare’s stronger than most geldings I’ve rode. She has an easy lope, a trot that’s kind on my arse, and she rarely gives me any fits. I say rarely. You boys see this cut on my eye. I was cutting off a chaw of tobacco and she decided to show me who’s queen of the hill. I was …

  Boys, you ain’t gonna let me finish a story, are you?

  Oh, yeah. The old gun and rig? Well, after I left Overholser, I thought I’d try my luck at cards. Over in Tularosa. Yeah, one of these days maybe I’ll learn that lesson that you don’t play poker in Tularosa. Should’ve tried to buck the tiger instead, but Milt Yont was running the faro layout and I know he cheats. Anyway, I had a king-high flush. Only one other person had something that looked like a hand. Flush, too, and only one card out there that could beat me. Well, he had it. Now he has my old pistol and my rig. Let that be a lesson to you, gents, and … What’s that? No. No, I didn’t catch the fellow’s name. Not even sure if he gave me one, and if he did, it might not have been one he’s using now.

  What? Oh, well, boys, I had spent some of that money Overholser gave me … well, Skin-Tight don’t give nobody nothing. I earned those dollars … but you know the kind of whiskey they serve in Tularosa. All right, boys, all right. What’s your hurry? Oh, yeah, that robbery. Well, he was about my height, but he was missing the tip of his left pinky. I noticed that. Couldn’t tell you much anything else about him, though. He didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. He let that ace-high flush do all the talking for him.

  All right, fellas. Good luck. Good hunting. I’ll see y’all next time I get the urge to ride back this way.

  * * * * *

  He did not try to plan a lie for the chance that some men actually accused him of helping rob the Three of Spades Saloon. MacKinnon would call that bad luck.

  He chuckled at his ability. He told Honey: “Can’t be taught … lying, that is. You got to be born a liar. That’s what Ma always said. I was a born liar.”

  The frown returned.

  MacKinnon whispered: “You were born to hang, son. Born to hang.”

  Chapter Nine

  She dreamed of sailing across the Pacific Ocean, bound for the Sandwich Islands, so calm, so peaceful, nothing to see but water. She felt at peace, alone on a ship that reminded her of the pictures she had seen in magazines of the USS Constitution, or Old Ironsides. The peace did not last. The dream turned into a nightmare as storm clouds blocked the sun, the waves began rocking, slamming against the boat, splashing over the decks, washing her brother, her sister, her mother, her father—her real father, who she barely remembered—over the sides and into the frothing, angry water. She wanted to dive in after them, try to save them from drowning, even though that would be fruitless. She did not, could not, release her grip from the mast. Salt water pelted her, blinded her. She screamed. She screamed. She screamed.

  She woke.

  Katie rolled against the side of the wagon, hitting it hard. I’m still dreaming, she thought, for all around her came the noise of bedlam. She tried to sit up, but felt herself jerked down onto the hard floor of the wagon.

  “What’s happening?” Florrie screamed.

  “Ma!” That was Gary’s voice, from the driver’s box. “Ma! Ma! Ma!”

  The wagon lurched. Monsters howled. Gary kept screaming for his dead mother to help him.

  “Katie!” Florrie yelled in the darkness.

  “Ma! Ma!”

  “Oh.” Katie whispered as she tried to push herself off the floor, only to be jerked down again.

  “My God.”

  This was no dream, no nightmare. She came to her knees, groping, hearing Bartholomew’s brays, and the snarling all around the wagon. She reached the opening in the canvas cover. The moon lighted up the desert landscape. The mule pulled hard at the rope that tethered him to the wagon, but, by the grace of God, the rope still held. Bartholomew pulled against the rope, jerking the wagon, then kicked his back hoofs at the dogs all around him.

  Not dogs.

  Wolves.

  Maybe coyotes.

  Katie wasn’t sure. And it did not matter. In the front of the wagon, Gary wailed. All around the aged Studebaker came growls, snaps, barks, and yips. The wolves, or whatever they were, were not just after the old mule, whose hoofs connected against the ribs of one of the wild animals and sent it sailing into the cactus and rocks, where it regained its feet and howled as it limped away. That did not dissuade the others from coming at Bartholomew.

  Katie leaped out of the back, fell to her knees, and saw the glowing eyes of a wolf—too big to be a coyote—as it lunged toward her, stopped, snapped, and leaped away. Bartholomew kicked and brayed. From the wagon, Gary screamed and Florrie shouted something unintelligible. Katie found a rock, hurled it at the wild pack. She yelled: “Gary! Stay where you are. Florrie, I need you out here. Now! Grab Bartholomew’s rope. Don’t let him break free!”

  There were more wolves behind Katie, and those were the ones that scared her the most.

  She came to her feet, tripped, righted herself and ran toward the glowing embers of the fire. Beyond that, she saw the wolves tugging, snarling, clawing at the quilts and blankets draped over her mother in that shallow grave.

  Imbecile. Idiot. Fool. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  Katie stumbled toward the savage animals. Screaming: “Get away! Get away from her!”—as if those wolves cared one whit about her, or could understand her words. Katie staggered and weaved. She dropped to her knees by the smoldering campfire.

  How careless, how stupid. She felt worthless. She should have built up the fire, let it burn most of the night, but fuel had become harder and harder to find. That was bad enough, but how could she have left her dead mother covered in blankets on the ground? What had she been thinking? She was nineteen years old—leader of the family now, even if not by choice. She had lived in the territory long enough to know about wolves, about coyotes, about turkey buzzards, ravens, and other carrion.

  A quick glance at the embers told her she had no time to try to get a stick burning, something that she could wave around and frighten off the animals. She bit her bottom lip, cried out something, and saw the plate.

  Instantly she grabbed it, and dug it into the ash and coals like a shovel. Some red and some orange showed, and she felt the heat as she brought the plate up and sent the embers and ash sailing toward the hungry animals and her mother’s corpse.

  “Leave her alone!” she yelled, and saw flashes of embers and sparks sail through the night and bounce off the desert earth.

  She dug into the campfire again. More ash and embers flew toward the wolves—she thought she counted five, maybe six—that leaped away, snarling, growling, as more sparks showered over her mother’s shroud. Some of the orange dots landed on the fabric. Katie didn’t care. She scooped up more ash, bits of wood, coals, dirt, and grime. This time, the tips of her finger burned from the heat. She did not care about the pain, either. She charged the wolves, waiting until just a few yards separated her from the animals. The coals flew higher, harder, this time, and she flung the plate at the nearest wolf. That animal leaped back, and the plate clattered against the ground and wobbled away a few feet before settling in the dust.

  The animals scattered, but did not run far. They slunk about, snarling. Drool seeped from their snouts. Their eyes seemed to glow.

  Glancing at the grave, Katie made sure the embers that had settled onto the wool coverings had gone out. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and fought to keep the bile down in her throat.

  “You’ll have to go through me to get to my mother,” she said.

  Kneeling, she found the handle of the pickax and rose, hefting the heavy tool.

  “Get!” she barked. The animals did not back away far. “Scat!”

  One growled.

  Bartholomew kept pitchi
ng, kicking, braying. The wolves near the mule snarled and yelped. She could hear their paws and claws on the hard ground. The wagon creaked and lurched, and Gary kept yelling. Katie did not hear Florrie. She wanted to look back, but could not take her eyes off the wild beasts in front of her.

  “Go away!” she yelled, and lunged at the nearest wolf with the pickax. It darted away, but another charged forward, barking, its yellow fangs resembling the teeth of a lumberyard’s saw. She staggered back, tripped, fell, and the handle of the tool slammed against her left shinbone. Fighting back the pain, she tried to find her feet, but could only get as far as her knees. She managed to raise the pickax.

  Dust and fear blurred her vision. The air choked her. The noise all around her deafened her. She brought the pickax over her shoulder, and swung it down, nowhere close to the lead wolf. The blade struck the rock, causing the handle to vibrate harshly, and she dropped the pickax, shook her hands, then again brought the tool up as high as she could lift it—which barely came to her waist now. Furiously, she threw the pickax toward the gang of animals. It was too heavy, she realized, and her strength kept fading. The blade landed flatly, and the tool slid a few feet in the dust. The wolves barely moved. Katie, however, lunged back toward the grave and found the shovel. It came up, easily, over her head, and some voice she could not recognize, more beastly than the growls of the wolves, rang across the desert as she charged, swinging the shovel one way and the other.

  This time, the wolves shifted back several yards. She stopped, telling herself not to get too far away. A new sound reached her ears.

  “Katie! Katie! Help … me …!”

  Whirling, she hurried back around the side of the wagon. Florrie was on her knees, holding the rope that held the mule. A half dozen or so wolves danced around Bartholomew and Florrie, snarling, yapping, barking. Katie realized that the old mule had pulled away from the wagon, that Florrie gripped the rope with desperate determination. The mule backed away, kicked out at the wolves, dragging Florrie on her knees.