MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  He found his canteen, and drank again. He knew he should dismount and let his horse have a swallow, too, but Martin didn’t want to waste time. Juarez Spring would be coming into view pretty soon. The buckskin could drink then.

  * * * * *

  The spring lay at the end of a box cañon—which really wasn’t much of a box or a cañon—in the rough, broken land southwest of Roswell, and on a northwest line from Artesia. The water might have been brackish, but it was wet, and enough for the snakes that lived here. Enough to get a man and his horse real water.

  Or had been.

  Chico Archuleta reached the spring first, quickly climbed off his horse, and stumbled to the opening in the rocks. Jace Martin felt the urge to spur the buckskin into a lope to cover the remaining twenty yards when he saw the Mexican push himself from the prone position to his knees, lift his head to the cloudless sky, and make the sign of the cross.

  “No …,” Martin said.

  Archuleta’s horse showed no interest in the spring. Martin’s own mount made little attempt to hurry to the water, and horses can smell water. Martin choked back a curse, but let his buckskin cover the distance so he could see for himself.

  Decades earlier, Juarez, whoever he was, had dug out the spring and made something of a cistern with rocks from the cañon. Martin made out the scattered skeleton of a jack rabbit or something, saw the withering shrubs. Even the cactus looked parched. At least, they had some shade in the cañon.

  They just didn’t have any water.

  “Dry,” he said, and shook his head.

  “Sí.” Chico Archuleta rose, and staggered toward his horse.

  “Well …” Martin nodded. “There’s water in Roswell.” He looked south. “Artesia?”

  “Roswell is … closer,” Archuleta said. “Un poco.”

  Martin agreed. “And maybe there’s water in the Hondo.”

  The Mexican stared blankly. “We are too late for the spring runoff. And the summer monsoons?” He looked at the sky and shrugged.

  Archuleta knew this country better than Martin did, but both of them knew one thing. Roswell might be closer than Artesia, and the Río Hondo might have some water running up north and east, but the horses they were riding would never live to see Roswell or the river. And whether Martin and the others made it would be even money.

  Twisting in the saddle, Martin looked toward the entrance of the cañon. The kid, Parker, had wised up, and he now led his gelding, and Four-Eyes Sherman was holding the bay’s tail, letting the horse pull him along. They were about a hundred and fifty feet from the spring.

  “I will tell them not to waste …”

  “Let them come,” Martin said, and he grinned at the plan that he had already started to formulate.

  “¿Porqué?” Archuleta looked up, his eyes wide.

  “Just let them come. Let their tracks lead all the way to the water. Then we’ll just mount up, revived by the fresh water at Juarez Spring, and ride out of the cañon and keep on toward Roswell, fresh as a daisy.”

  * * * * *

  “Get on behind the kid,” Martin told Four-Eyes Sherman.

  “Jamie’s played out,” Harry Parker protested. “He’ll never make it to Roswell carrying the both of us.”

  Hatless, the kid’s face was already red and ugly, while Four-Eyes Sherman looked different without his spectacles.

  Martin laughed. “He won’t make it carrying you, Parker. But he’ll carry both of you out of this cañon.”

  “I … need … I need … water,” Four-Eyes Sherman said.

  At least the old man still carried his canteen. Empty of rotgut liquor, but still capable of holding water.

  “We all do,” Martin told him. “And I’m feeling generous.”

  He swung to the desert, removed his canteen from the horn, and held the canteen toward the old-timer.

  The sun had burned his face, too, and he took a step back, suspicious.

  Martin laughed and shook the canteen, letting the water slosh. “Drink. It ain’t poison. I know what I’m doing.”

  Sherman came closer, started to lift his hand, hesitated until Martin shook the container again. That was all it took. Sherman snatched the canteen, almost dropping it, and stumbled backward, managing somehow to stay upright despite his weakness.

  “Two swallows,” Martin said when Sherman began to pull out the stopper. “Just two. And not big swallows. My horse gets a drink after you.”

  To Martin’s surprise, Four-Eyes didn’t turn greedy. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he smiled, lowered the canteen, pushed the stopper back in, and even thanked Jace Martin.

  * * * * *

  They rode out in the middle of the cañon. Martin even kicked the buckskin into a lope until he reached the entrance, where he reined up, stood in the stirrups, and looked west.

  Once his companions caught up with him, Martin sank back into the saddle, and kicked the horse into a walk. They turned north, worked their way around the cañon, until Martin stopped again. This time, he dismounted, started to unsaddle the horse, saying to the others: “We’ll rest here.”

  No one argued. It was too hot to protest.

  Martin waited and listened.

  When the sun disappeared, and the desert turned cool, Martin told Sherman, Archuleta, and Parker what he planned to do. The buzzards wouldn’t be flying now, and, with Juarez Spring dry, maybe the coyotes and carrion wouldn’t be nearby, either.

  He pulled a knife from its sheath, and walked to the horses.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mort said: “My head is overcooked.”

  Davis said: “So’s mine, and I’m wearin’ a black hat.”

  “That’s your own fault,” Mort said.

  “Well, it ain’t my fault that we ain’t caught up to ’em robbers yet,” Davis said. “And I shot my man. Killed him dead.”

  “Did not,” Mort said.

  “Did, too,” Davis said.

  Mort said: “Well, maybe you did.”

  Davis said: “Ain’t no maybe to it, Mort.”

  Said Mort: “It’s too hot to bicker.”

  Said Davis: “At least your hat ain’t black.”

  Nelson Bookbinder turned in the saddle. He didn’t have to say a word. Mort and Davis fell silent and began studying the ground in front of their horses.

  They climbed a hill, crested it, and Bookbinder reined in. He took in the scene below in an instant, and stood in the saddle to study the land beyond.

  “Criminy,” Davis said.

  “Is that a dead horse?” Mort asked.

  Davis said: “Maybe one of the robbers is under the horse.”

  Bookbinder did not look at the two posse members at his left. He kicked his horse into a walk, moved down the easy incline, and pushed him into a lope to cover the three furlongs to where Nikita stood over a dead horse.

  “How long?” Bookbinder asked.

  The Mescalero pointed at the sky. “No buzzards yet. Two hours.”

  “By jingo,” Mort said, “we’re gainin’ on ’em, and now they’s ridin’ double. Let’s get a-movin’.”

  “Go on,” Bookbinder said. “You want to be afoot in this country, get a-moving.”

  The man frowned. Davis grinned, but only until Bookbinder turned to him.

  “Juarez Spring?” the lawman asked.

  The Apache shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  Staring off to the east, Nelson Bookbinder saw the afternoon haze, the distant mountains, the heat shimmering. He kicked his horse into a walk. The Apache swung onto his horse, and they rode on. They rode as if they were in no hurry.

  * * * * *

  The sun had started to sink when they came to the entrance to Juarez Spring. Pointing at the tracks, Nikita said: “Rode in. Rode out.”

  Bookbinder’s head bobbed. “Catch them
tomorrow.”

  “If they’re still alive.”

  “Let’s let our horses get their fill. This is probably the last water we’ll find till we get closer to Roswell.”

  When they reached the spring, Bookbinder spit into the wind.

  Davis swore.

  Mort groaned. Said: “I don’t want to die like this.”

  Davis said: “You reckon ’em swine dynamited the well so we’d die of thirst.”

  Bookbinder cursed the two posse members for fools, then dismounted. Keeping his left hand on the reins, he stepped closer to the Apache who knelt in front of this ancient cistern old man Juarez had built years and years earlier. Nikita pressed his hand into the sand.

  “What do you think?” Bookbinder asked.

  The scout nodded. “Fool white men,” he said, unsheathed his knife, and sank the blade into the sand. Bookbinder found his own Bowie knife and knelt across from the Mescalero and dug into the ground. After a minute, he looked up at Davis and Mort and said: “If you want water, start digging.”

  * * * * *

  When the night sky began turning gray, Nelson Bookbinder tossed off his blanket, and stretched his stiff muscles. He swore, found his revolver, pulled the hammer to full cock, and rose. After kicking Mort awake, he whispered: “Get your pard up.” He moved to the edge of camp.

  A moment later, he knelt by Nikita’s crumpled body.

  * * * * *

  He let the Apache drink the warm, muddy water from his canteen.

  “Getting old,” Nikita said.

  “Uh-huh,” Bookbinder said. “So am I.”

  “Where’s our horses?” Mort called out.

  Davis cursed. “You let ’em steal our horses!”

  Bookbinder corked the canteen. “Shut up.”

  The Apache rubbed his head. “I heard them.” He flinched when his fingers found the knot on his head.

  “You should’ve woke us all up,” Davis said.

  The Apache said: “I thought you were up. You had the second shift of guard duty.”

  “Well … I … well …” Davis looked to Mort for help, but Mort cursed his pard for being a lazy, worthless tramp.

  “I don’t want to hear one word from either of you,” Bookbinder told the two.

  Nikita sighed. He had been asleep. One of the horses snorted, so he had drawn his knife and started for the picket line. He had thought it would be easy. But as he moved toward the one trying to put a rope over Bookbinder’s horse’s head, he only knew blinding pain and then a fitful sleep until Bookbinder began gently slapping his face minutes ago.

  “We underestimated them,” Bookbinder said. “I underestimated them.”

  “What are we going to do?” Mort cried out.

  Bookbinder spit. “I’m going to fill my canteen. It ain’t the best water, but it’s wet.” He looked down at the scout. “Can you walk?”

  Nikita nodded.

  “We’re gonna die,” Davis whined.

  “Die if you want,” Bookbinder said, “but Nikita and I are walking out of here.”

  They soaked their bandannas in the spring and retied the cloth around their necks. After they had swallowed a few mouthfuls of water and refilled their canteens, they started to walk out of the box cañon.

  Bookbinder stopped and looked at Mort and Davis in the graying light. “You plan on carrying your saddle and tack?” he asked. “All the way to Roswell?”

  Davis stared at Mort.

  “Store it in the rocks,” Bookbinder said, and pointed. “You can come back for your gear later. It might even still be here. I’d lose your spurs, too.”

  The two men did as they were told, and began walking toward Bookbinder and the Mescalero. The lawman shook his head.

  “Maybe you’re forgetting something?” he said.

  Mort and Davis looked at each other and then back at Bookbinder.

  “Your long guns?” Bookbinder said. “There’s a chance you might have need of them. I doubt it. But there’s a chance.”

  * * * * *

  They had water, which the robbers and now horse thieves had not counted on. When Bookbinder saw buzzards circling he forgot all about Mort and Davis.

  “Interesting,” Bookbinder said.

  The Apache nodded. “Like you said, we underestimated them.”

  “At least one of them,” Bookbinder said.

  * * * * *

  Mort fired his pistol in the air, and the turkey buzzards flapped their large, ugly wings and flew away.

  Nikita delicately moved around the bloated carcasses of the horses, looked at Bookbinder, and drew his pointer finger across his throat.

  “Smart,” Bookbinder said.

  The Apache nodded.

  “What …?” Davis looked to Mort for help. “You mean … they cut the throats of their own horses?”

  “Smart,” Bookbinder said again.

  “Smart?” Mort said. “That’s downright criminal.”

  “Maybe,” Bookbinder said. “But they knew we’d be coming.” He glanced at the Apache. “What do you think? Dusk?”

  “Around then,” the Mescalero answered.

  “He slit the throats,” Bookbinder said. “Didn’t want them to whinny and let us know they were still in the area. Waited till dark, snuck into our camp, made off with our horses, put their own saddles on, rode away. Smart.”

  “Not too smart,” Nikita said. “They didn’t realize that Juarez Spring wasn’t completely dry.”

  Davis thought about this. “So they … they still don’t have no water?”

  “Some,” Bookbinder said. “But not much.”

  “Well …,” Mort said. “What do we do now?”

  Nikita drew his knife and moved to the buckskin.

  “We’ll stay here,” Bookbinder said. “No sense in moving afoot now. Sun’s already hotter than the hinges of Hades. We’ll eat some horsemeat, stay in the shade, start walking when it cools off.”

  “We’ll never catch ’em,” Mort said, and pointed at Davis. “And it’s all your fault.”

  “Somebody’ll catch them,” Bookbinder said.

  “I don’t want to eat no horse meat,” Mort said.

  “You don’t have to,” Bookbinder said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He woke with the dawn, and, keeping his elbow on the ground, lifted his right hand toward the closest spoke in the front wheel. His lips tightened, as he found that he could push his arm up and grip the next spoke. And the next. He knew one more spoke was as much as his ribs would allow. His lips flattened, his eyes closed, and he pulled.

  A couple of blasphemies and one horrible yell later, he was sitting up. The world spun, but he didn’t fall onto his back. He didn’t throw up his supper, either.

  Did I have supper? he thought. He couldn’t remember.

  Footsteps made his head turn, and the little boy slid to a stop a few feet from him. The kid’s mouth hung open, and his eyes looked like saucers for teacups.

  “Morning.” MacKinnon smiled. He did not dare laugh. “I wake you?”

  The boy’s head shook. “But you scared me.”

  “Scared myself,” he said, and held out his right hand. His left he hugged tightly against the bandaged ribs. “You reckon you could help me to my feet?”

  The boy looked behind him.

  “Go ahead,” came a voice. “He ought to be going before the sun gets too high.” That would be the blond. He didn’t see the redhead.

  “Your name’s Gary, ain’t that right?” MacKinnon asked, as the five-year-old took a few tentative steps toward him.

  “Uh-huh. Gary. Gary Truluck. My sisters are Callahans. On account we got different pas.”

  The small hand took hold of MacKinnon’s and squeezed as hard as a boy that age could manage.

  “All rig
ht, Gary,” MacKinnon said. “My name’s Sam. But you can just call me MacKinnon. Back up, if you would, Gary, and start a-pulling.”

  He cut loose with three more oaths, but when Gary let go, Sam MacKinnon was on both knees, and he kept up with the profanity until he found himself standing. He swayed, but spread his feet apart, wondering if all miracles hurt this much.

  “My ma would make you wash your mouth out with soap,” Gary told him, and MacKinnon nodded.

  “So would mine.”

  He looked at the boy, but Gary’s head was bowed, and MacKinnon knew the kid was trying to stop the sobbing. His left hand reached over and he touched the kid’s shoulder, squeezed it softly, and then tousled the boy’s hair.

  “You got a hat, Gary?”

  The head bobbed but did not look up. Gary’s tiny hand reached up to his eyes and rubbed them.

  “Best find it, put it on. Sun’ll be pounding you directly.”

  The boy still did not look up, but he moved toward the back of the wagon.

  MacKinnon watched as the boy climbed in, and that was when he saw Honey, awake and alert, but not saddled.

  Can I saddle her? he asked himself.

  “We got tea, mister,” a voice called out.

  The next voice sounded harsher. “Florrie.”

  MacKinnon ignored the redhead and the blond. He made himself take a step toward Honey, glancing at the saddle, tilted so it would dry, and the blanket on top of it, underside up so it could dry quicker, too.

  The boy jumped down from the wagon, and MacKinnon gave the kid’s hat a nod of approval. He looked around for his own hat, and saw it on the blanket, squashed, since he had used it as a pillow. Bending over to pick it up was out of the question. He pointed, and said: “Think you could hand me mine, Gary?”

  “Sure.”

  Once MacKinnon managed to punch the hat into something of a shape, he pulled it on his head, and toyed with the stampede string until he had it to his liking. Or maybe, he realized, he was just stalling.

  The two older girls were talking, making no attempt to keep what they were saying from MacKinnon.