“Let’s go, Honey.” MacKinnon clucked his tongue, and pressed his spurs against the mare’s sides. He kept her at a slow walk, pulled his left foot from the stirrup, and kept twisting in this way and that, and tapping it against the wooden stirrup until he felt the blood flowing again.
Every now and then, he would twist himself as gently as possible and look behind him, to the left and right, and when he saw no dust, no riders, he could breathe a little easier. The sun before him rose higher, forcing MacKinnon to tug down on the brim of his hat. He kept his head bent.
A sun like that could blind a man.
What are the chances that folks in Silver City, or wherever he’s hanging his hat, still call him Bad Finger Chaney? Having a bad finger—the pointer on his left hand, think it was his left, was missing the top joint and the rest of that digit was twisted like some juniper branch—ain’t nothing when you only got one leg. He ought to be One-legged Chaney. Unless he got himself a wooden leg. Then maybe, Peg-leg Chaney. Course, when you think about it, and knowing how Chaney loved to make another fellow laugh, Bad Finger Chaney would be a right fine handle for a man with one leg. Bad Finger? Man’s only got one leg, and he calls himself Bad Finger? By thunder, that’s a great name.
MacKinnon sighed and shook his head. You came up with all kinds of thoughts, a whole lot of conversations with yourself, when you were hurting all over and waiting for that mountain of trouble to fall atop you.
The sun rose higher. The morning turned hotter.
He wasn’t sleeping. At least, he didn’t think he was asleep, just daydreaming, maybe resting his eyes. He heard Honey whinny, and jerked his head up when another horse answered.
After blinking several times, MacKinnon saw the rider about a hundred yards ahead. His right hand dropped for the old Remington, and only then did MacKinnon remember that he no longer carried a short gun or holster. He wet his lips, and thought about drawing the Winchester from the scabbard, even though that would hurt like blazes. The rider ahead of him, now maybe fifty yards up the road, stopped.
MacKinnon pulled Honey to a stop.
As far as MacKinnon could tell, the man was alone. He wore a linen duster and a dark hat, probably black, maybe brown. It was hard to tell with the sun behind him. His mount appeared light skinned, a pretty big horse, too, probably better suited to pull plow or wagon rather than to have a saddle and rider on its back. Honey dropped some horse apples onto the road.
“Hallooo!” called out the rider, who lifted his right hand in a greeting.
MacKinnon sighed. He gathered both reins into his left hand and tried to bring his right hand as high as he could in a friendly greeting. Honey started walking. When MacKinnon knew his hand wasn’t going any higher, he lowered it. The rider kicked his big dun into a walk, and the man began singing. It was one of those songs you heard at tent revivals and camp meetings. MacKinnon couldn’t recall the name, but a long time had passed since he had attended any camp meeting.
He reined up and tried to think of all the lies he had practiced last night.
The stranger rode ramrod straight in the saddle. He had a long, narrow face, hair the color of gunmetal, with a thick but well-groomed mustache and beard that resembled iron. Underneath the linen duster, he wore black. Black coat, black vest, black ribbon tie, black pants, and black Wellingtons. What MacKinnon could see of the man’s shirt was white, or had been. Dusters could keep off only so much dust.
“Howdy,” the man said pleasantly, once he stopped singing, and reined up alongside MacKinnon.
MacKinnon tried to return the greeting.
He saw the Bible in the rider’s left hand. His right held the reins. He carried no revolver, and MacKinnon didn’t see a saddle scabbard. The man’s boots held no spurs. And the dun horse didn’t look like it could win any races, not even against Honey, as tired as she had to be.
“Who won the fight?” the man asked.
MacKinnon blinked, and shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Huh?” he managed.
“The fight,” the man said. “If you won it, I’d hate to see the other fellow.”
MacKinnon rubbed his tongue over his cracked lips. At last he understood, and he cracked a smile, as he brought his left hand up toward the cuts and bruises on his head and face. “Oh,” he said. He tilted his head toward Honey’s head.
“This mare won the fight.”
The man roared with laughter, and stretched out his hand toward MacKinnon. “The name’s Yordy, sir. The Reverend Christopher Franklin Yordy.”
MacKinnon grimaced, and gingerly brought his right hand around. “Glad to meet you, Reverend,” he said, and considered stopping at that. A man didn’t ask a stranger’s name. If he told you his name, great. If not, so be it. But … this gent was a man of the cloth, and MacKinnon didn’t need to appear unfriendly. “I’m MacKinnon,” he said. A number of names went through his head: Charles … Ben … Jim … John … Frank … Leach.
Leach? Where did that one come from?
“Sam,” he said finally, and was relieved when the reverend gave a gentle shake. “Sam MacKinnon.”
“Good Sam MacKinnon,” the preacher said, and his head bobbed in approval. “My favorite name. Sam.” Holding the Bible high over his head, he began quoting Scripture: “‘A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead.
“‘And by chance there came down a certain priest that way: and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.
“‘And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side.
“‘But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him.
“‘And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.
“‘And on the morrow when he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them to the host, and said unto him, Take care of him; and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again, I will repay thee.’”
The Bible came back to the preacher’s side. “The book of Luke. Chapter ten. Verses twenty-five to thirty-five.”
My word, MacKinnon thought. You can recite all that from memory whilst I can’t even recollect all those lies I thought up last night.
“I named my oldest son Sam,” the preacher kept on. “Not Samuel. Just Sam. Thought about naming him Samaritan, but, Rebecca, that’s my wife, she did not seem sold on that name, and you’re a smart man if you keep your wife happy, so it was Sam. Sam. Sam Ezra Yordy. My kid brother was named Leviticus. And he was a Levite to be sure.” His thick beard pointed down the road. “I’m bound for Ruidoso. Bringing the Lord’s word to that town. Any idea how far I have to travel, Good Sam MacKinnon?”
Dreading the pain, MacKinnon turned in the saddle, as though looking down the road would give him a better idea of how far it was to Ruidoso. “Ruidoso,” he said, and felt a little better when he saw no rising dust, no riders along the road. “I don’t think you can make it before sundown, but if you push that horse, it’s possible to get there in time to have a hot meal and find a bed for the night.”
“Good, good, good. I thank you, Good Sam MacKinnon. I’ll have to see what Maccabees thinks and feels.” He patted the big dun’s neck.” He pointed behind him. “I’m coming from Roswell.” His head shook. “That’s a Sodom if I’ve ever seen one. Everyone’s excited for some baseball game to be played. Baseball … a false idol, if you ask me. Gamblers in town. Men drinking in the saloons. I barely got four dollars for all my preaching the Word. I hope Ruidoso is more welcoming to the Word.”
MacKinnon tried to think of the right thing to say, couldn’t, and nodded firmly as though in complete agreement. He nodded to the east and said: “I’ll likely be passing th
rough Roswell myself. Any water in the Río Hondo between here and there?”
The man pondered and thought, thought and pondered, and at length shrugged. “Just here and there, Good Sam MacKinnon, I’m sorry to say. Maccabees drank from my canteen. I’m carrying three. Pays to bring water in this country.”
“Yeah.” MacKinnon’s voice barely carried.
“But I’ll give you this warning, Good Sam MacKinnon,” the preacher said, and pointed down the road toward the southeast. “Last night, I could not sleep hardly a wink, so I rose, determined to cut that distance to the place where I have been called as much as possible. And I saw the fire of a camp alongside the road. Banditti.”
Jace Martin, was all MacKinnon could think, and he felt the anger rising, but he steadied himself, tried to relax, and asked: “What makes you say that, Reverend?”
“Oh, I could see what kind of outfit it was. The moon had yet to set, you see. A miserable excuse of a wagon. Banditti. Banditti, indeed. And the wind carried with it, toward me and Maccabees, the stench of death. Of Hades. Yes, Good Sam MacKinnon, I gave that camp a wide, wide berth, and urged Maccabees into a trot for a good two miles to leave that filth behind me.”
Being, MacKinnon thought, the Good Samaritan that you are.
“Let’s pray, Good Sam, before our journeys carry us in opposite directions.”
MacKinnon pushed the hat off his head, felt the latigo tug against his neck, and bowed his head. For as long-winded as the Reverend Yordy could be, at least he kept his praying short and to the point.
Lifting his head, MacKinnon studied the preacher, and before the big man gathered his reins, he decided to take a chance.
“Reverend?”
The man was pulling his big hat low on his head. He turned in the saddle and smiled through his thick mustache and beard.
“I hate to impose on you, sir, but …” He massaged his right side. “When Honey … that’s my mare, here … when she won that fight, she must’ve cracked or busted a couple of ribs.”
“For the love of God, son, and you’re still riding?”
MacKinnon shrugged. “Well, I’ve been hurt worse, Reverend. And there’s a job waiting for me in Texas, about two days east of Roswell.”
Have I ever lied to a sky pilot? Well, yeah, probably.
“Anyway, sir, my horse could use some water and …”
“Of course, Good Sam MacKinnon, of course. She can have water from my own hat. You just sit tight and …”
MacKinnon held up his hand. “Well, sir, that would be mighty kind of you, but, you see … I’d like to step out of this saddle, you see. Check the cinch. And I can water Honey myself from my own hat. And … you … see …”
The Reverend Christopher Franklin Yordy grinned as he dismounted the big dun.
“From one Good Sam to another, Good Sam MacKinnon, I am here to help you. You answer to nature’s call, and I shall answer the call of the Good Samaritan and water your mean but pretty as a rose horse. And boost you back into the saddle, if such is your desire.”
Chapter Twelve
“Skunk!” Gary Callahan shouted.
Katie poured tea, if anyone could even call this tea, from the kettle into the cups. Her head jerked up and she looked across the emptiness but saw no skunk, no animals, just her baby brother holding his nose.
“Where?” She set the kettle down.
“I don’t see it,” Gary said, exaggerating the nasal tone of his voice as he pinched his nose harder. “But I sure smell it.”
“Stop holding your nose, Gary,” Florrie said as she watered Bartholomew. “And grow up.”
The stench reached Katie’s nostrils now, and she wondered how long the smell had been there, unnoticed. She did not keep her eyes shut for long, because she saw the images of maggots, of flies, and she knocked over the kettle, not caring how much water spilled onto the desert sand, and stepped away from the camp. She wanted to walk. Walk across the land until she came to those white sand dunes between Tularosa and Las Cruces. Maybe the dunes could swallow her up like she never existed.
She stopped, though, after only ten or twenty yards. Florrie and Gary both shouted out her name.
“It’s too much,” she said to herself. “It’s too much. Too much. Too much. Too much.”
There were no tears to wipe away. She doubted if she had any tears left, and hardly any water. She couldn’t spit. She didn’t sweat. All she could do was … smell.
“Mama,” she whispered, and heard footsteps as Gary and Florrie ran to her.
“Don’t leave us.” It was Florrie, to Katie’s surprise, who spoke. Gary merely grabbed her left hand and squeezed it as hard as he could.
“I’m not leaving you,” Katie said. She tried to return Gary’s squeeze.
Eventually, she turned around to look at the decrepit wagon … the blind mule … the overturned teakettle … and the makeshift shroud that covered the putrefying flesh of Margaret Anne Roberts Callahan Truluck, her mother.
She realized she was standing in the road, or what passed for a road in southern New Mexico. Looking east, her eyes traced the little track to the end of the horizon, and then on westward, where she could make out the shimmering of heat, or maybe dust blown by the wind. She knew it was not caused by some traveler, a wagon, a troop of cavalry, a stagecoach … anything or anyone who might be able to help.
Hindsight. Had her mother known what was to come, most likely she never would have married Tommy Truluck. Truluck. Wasn’t that name a joke! Then again, maybe she would have gone ahead and married the scoundrel. What was it she had read in one of those silly romance novels she had found in Chloride? You cannot always choose who you fall in love with.
Hindsight. Once Ma had died, they should have left her in the wagon, covered her body, and started walking back west. Florrie had been right. That church, La Iglesia de San Patricio, might have been Catholic, but there would have been people there, people who would understand, who could have helped them. Ma would have been buried by now, perhaps not in the Catholic cemetery, but buried. Not … not … ripening. That was a word Tommy Truluck would have used.
They could burn the wagon. She had read about a Viking funeral pyre in another romance she had read. That might not be a decent thing to do, but it would mean her mother wasn’t going to rot away, or become food for coyotes, wolves, buzzards, or anything like that. Someone might see the flames, come to investigate, find Katie and her siblings and take them back to some kind of shelter.
An orphanage?
She was too old to be in an orphanage. She was practically an old maid already. But could she leave Gary and Florrie at one of those homes? Even worse, could she let those two watch flames consume their mother’s body?
And what if Apaches saw the smoke from the fire? She had heard all sorts of horror stories about those savages. No, no, she told herself, the Apaches were mostly on the reservation. Mostly. Still, she had been in New Mexico when Nana had led his raid across the territory. She wouldn’t forget how frightened the miners, and even some soldiers, had been back then. And even if the Apaches posed no threat, what if outlaws saw the smoke from the fire?
Katie let out a weary sigh. A girl could think herself into paralysis.
“Gary,” she said, and did the best imitation of a smile that she could manage, “could you go pick up the tea kettle … refill it? We’ll try again.”
“Sure!” he said with gusto. “A full pot?”
“Just enough for three cups,” she told him, then tousled his hair and watched him sprint to the wagon.
“That’s not a skunk,” Florrie said when her brother was out of earshot.
“I know what it is,” Katie said.
“We have to get Ma buried. Quickly.”
Katie’s head bobbed. She wet her lips, or tried to, anyway.
“I’m stupid,” Katie said.
Florrie did not disagree.
“The ground has to be softer somewhere than around our camp,” Katie said, thinking out loud mainly, but Florrie did not argue. “There’s that arroyo over there,” the oldest sibling said, and pointed. “Or that might be the riverbed.”
“No water if it’s the riverbed,” Florrie said.
“Not this time of year,” Katie agreed.
“But then when the rains come, it might wash Ma …” Florrie’s head tried to shake away the image.
“If we find softer sand …”
“It won’t be soft for long,” Florrie countered. “We’d hit bedrock before we dig six feet. Maybe three feet. And we can’t burn her.”
Has Florrie been having the same thoughts?
“What do you suggest, Florrie?” Katie asked.
“That church we passed,” she said again. “We put Ma on Bartholomew’s back.”
Katie was already shaking her head. “Do you think that mule would let us do that, Florrie?”
“He’s blind.”
“But he hasn’t lost his sense of smell,” Katie said, shutting her eyes again and massaging her temples as she headed back to the wagon. “And we’d still need water.”
“We could make it,” Florrie insisted. “You can live a few days without water. We could wait till nightfall. Leave then. We have to do something, Katie. And quickly.”
Katie nodded. She crossed the road, and smiled at Gary as he set the kettle on the hot stone near the fire. “Don’t burn yourself,” she told him, and moved past the covered body of her mother, behind the wagon, and moved into the desert, between the scrub, the cactus, and the rocks until she came to the edge of the arroyo. The sand was softer here. The question was how deep could she dig until she hit the hard rock. She looked around for stones, too, stones that could cover the body where it was, but what she found, again, were pebbles that would take wheelbarrow loads—and they had no wheelbarrow—before the grave could be covered, or giant slabs of sandstone or boulders that a dozen burly miners or engineers would have trouble moving a few inches. She sighed.
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