MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  That made MacKinnon laugh. It felt good, too.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I don’t think Honey likes pulling this wagon,” Gary said.

  The boy sat on the seat between MacKinnon and Katie as the wagon crept along the road, the sun sinking behind the mountains at their backs. In the back of the wagon, Florrie sang “The Flying Trapeze”—she had a soothing voice, MacKinnon thought, remembering how his mother, who knew she was tone deaf, usually just hummed the tune.

  “She don’t like much of anything.” MacKinnon flicked the lines. “But she’s a pretty good cow pony.”

  The front wheel on Katie’s side hit a hole, the wagon lurched and leaned, but the wheel held, and the relic kept moving eastward. Every hole they hit caused MacKinnon to cringe and bite his bottom lip. At this rate, he figured he would chew it off completely long before they ever saw Roswell.

  “I’m glad that stagecoach didn’t stop,” the boy said.

  “How come?”

  “You’d be gone. You wouldn’t have stayed with us. We’d be going back to some place, and you’d be heading to … wherever it is you’re going. I’d miss you.”

  MacKinnon kept his eyes focused on Honey and the mule, but eventually he looked at the boy, who smiled. MacKinnon tried to think of something to say, but then his eyes moved past the boy and found Katie, who stared ahead at the empty land. When he looked back at Gary he said: “Miss me? Ain’t nobody ever missed me, Gary.”

  “I would,” the boy said. “We all would.”

  “You’d miss my horse is what you mean.” He reached over and ran his right hand roughly over the boy’s head. “Ain’t that right?”

  “No,” the boy said, trying to duck underneath MacKinnon’s hand, but Sam MacKinnon could be persistent—at least until those blasted ribs of his did their thing again.

  “You all right?” Gary asked.

  MacKinnon nodded. “Yeah. But I still don’t think you’d miss me.”

  “You’re just saying that. I can tell. I’m five years old.”

  Katie kept looking at the road, but MacKinnon could tell she was smiling. Thinking quickly, he shoved the lines into the boy’s hands. The boy took them in a panic.

  “Ever drove a team before, Gary?” MacKinnon asked.

  “No, sir.” The boy tried to return the heavy lines to MacKinnon, who ignored them.

  “Well, give her a whirl.”

  * * * * *

  They camped in a clearing at a bend in the Río Hondo, which held a trickle of water before it dipped underground, not to emerge for miles.

  “I’d boil the water before you drink it,” he warned, and drew the Winchester from the scabbard.

  “Where you going?” Gary asked.

  “To see if I can’t find us something to eat.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s frown quickly turned into a smile. “Can I come?”

  “Didn’t driving Honey and Bartholomew wear you out?”

  “No, sir. It was fun. Doing fun chores don’t make you tired.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” He patted the kid’s back. “But you ought to stay here. Snakes might start coming out, and I don’t know this country too well. If I get lost, who’d come to find me if you was with me?”

  “Oh.” The boy shrugged. “Can I boil the water?”

  Katie handed him a pot. “You have to get some first.”

  He took it and ran down the embankment. “Bring us back a deer!” he called out. “A big one.”

  “That might be hard for me to pack out.” MacKinnon laughed and turned to Katie. “I’ll be lucky to find a jack rabbit.”

  “Be careful,” she told him.

  * * * * *

  He came back with sand in his boots, and ears, thirsty and tired, and his ribs hurting more than ever. He had found nothing to shoot at. On the other hand, he had found no horse tracks or any sign of Jace Martin, Nelson Bookbinder, or Charley the Trey. But he brought back prickly pears.

  Florrie, Katie, and Gary stared at him as he deposited the purple pears and the green pads. He let them look, as he pulled on his gloves and went to work.

  “They’ll stick my tongue,” Gary said.

  Laughing, MacKinnon sliced off the ends of the pears, and tossed those into the fire. Holding the fruit between thumb and forefinger, he cut a line vertically, then slid his finger into the cut and pulled away the skin. This he tossed into the fire, as well. When he looked up, he grinned and popped the pear in his mouth.

  “It don’t hurt?”

  “Kind of chewy. Like gum. But tasty.” He might have been stretching the truth.

  “Let me help.” Katie sat beside him, telling Florrie to bring another knife and a couple of plates.

  “Good,” MacKinnon said, still chewing the pear. “You do these. I’ll do the pads.”

  “You eat them, too?” Gary asked.

  “You’ll eat anything if you get hungry enough, Gary. You want small pads,” he explained to the boy. “At least, that’s what the Mexican cook we had at the Seven-T-X told me. Not as many spines. Sap not as thick or foul. Can I borrow that knife I give you, Gary?”

  He used the knife to pare what spines he could, then speared the bottom of the pad and held it over the fire, burning off the small, even invisible stickers. He asked Florrie for a bowl of water, and when she brought it, he soaked the pads, before slicing them longways. He was finished before Katie, so he moved closer and helped her.

  * * * * *

  As MacKinnon chewed on the cactus fruit by the fire, the boy ran back from the wagon where he had disappeared several minutes before. He slid to a stop at MacKinnon’s side.

  “It’s not exactly roast beef and raspberry jam,” MacKinnon was commenting to Florrie. He looked up at Gary and said: “What you got there?”

  “A book.” The boy shoved it toward MacKinnon. “Can you read it to us?”

  MacKinnon laughed.

  “Gary!” Florrie said.

  “That’s all right, Miss Florrie.” He took the dime novel. “I can read.”

  “I didn’t mean …,” the middle child said.

  He laughed and looked at the gaudy cover. “The Scalp-Hunters; Or, Adventures among the Trappers. Sounds kind of blood-and-thunder, don’t it?”

  “It’s better than what she reads.” He nodded at Katie.

  MacKinnon looked at her. “What does she read?”

  “Ma called it filth,” Florrie said, and giggled. “Or trash.”

  “I see. I rode with a teenaged boy west a ways, and he was always reading. Even in the saddle. Ever read Alice in Wonderland?”

  All three shook their heads.

  “Me, neither. Gene did, though. Read Shakespeare, too. But, me?” He waved Gary’s book, saying: “This is what real folks read. Blood and thunder. And maybe it’ll have enough trash and filth to entertain your big sister. Let’s see what happens.” He turned to the first page.

  * * * * *

  Squatting at the edge of the camp, rifle cradled in his arms, MacKinnon stared into the night. Katie walked from the wagon, past the campfire, and over to him.

  “It was the first time I ever ate cactus,” she said, and smiled. “The pads were pretty good. The pears, well …”

  “The cook I knew made them like a jelly. That’d be a bit out of my ability.”

  “That was some story,” she said, and sat down across from him.

  He laughed. “I’ve read a passel of books like that.”

  “It’s not Shakespeare.”

  “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

  She remained silent for a few seconds before saying: “Me, either.”

  They laughed.

  The wind blew, and she shivered.

  “You ought to go by the fire, Miss Callahan.”

  Her eyes closed, and she let ou
t a weary sigh. “I wish you wouldn’t call me miss … or ma’am. My name’s Katie.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  She rose, and he did, too, clutching his ribs. “That wasn’t a joke, miss … ma— … aw … Katie. It’s just …”

  “Are you all right?”

  “At least I didn’t sneeze.” With a grin, he sank back onto his haunches. “But you really should get back to the fire. I’ll be along directly.”

  She did not go.

  “I was wrong about you,” she said.

  Their eyes locked, and his jaw moved to the left, then the right, as he considered what he should say.

  “No,” he said, “Katie, you weren’t.”

  She tested the word: “Sam …”

  His shoulders sagged, and he shook his head sadly as he made himself look at her. “Katie, I was riding away. I would have left you, your brother, your sister, and your ma, had Honey not spooked. You best remember that.”

  “I think you would have ridden back.”

  He let out a mirthless chuckle and swore underneath his breath.

  “You swear a lot.”

  “Yes, ma— … Yep. I sure do.”

  “My mother made me wash my mouth out with soap.”

  He looked at her.

  “More than once,” she said.

  MacKinnon found himself grinning. Soon Katie held up three fingers.

  “You’re joshing me.”

  “No, Sam, I’m not.”

  “Three times?”

  “Ask Florrie. Gary’s too young to remember the first two times, but he might recall the last time.” She laughed. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Which time?”

  He shrugged. “The last time.”

  Her lips parted, then closed. “I can’t.”

  “Well, I understand.”

  Then, on her knees, she moved closer. He could smell her as she leaned forward, her dirty blond hair brushing against the beard on his cheeks, and he felt her breath on his ear. She giggled, but finally whispered the word, and shifted back, glancing over her shoulder at the camp and the fire and her brother and sister. Still grinning, she looked back at Sam MacKinnon.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “If I’d said that, after Ma fed me lye soap, I’d’ve got a razor strop across my hide from Pa.” MacKinnon dropped his head and swore softly. “I didn’t mean to bring up your pa, Katie,” he said.

  “He wasn’t my father,” she said. She made herself smile again, and rose. “It’s all right if I call you Sam?”

  He shrugged. “Well, it beats what you said to your mother.”

  She laughed then, musically, and her eyes brightened. “I’ll see you back at camp, Sam.”

  He watched her go, watched her longer than he should have, and, shifting his feet, tried to find a position that didn’t hurt too much. He smiled, shook his head, frowning and wondering: Would I have ridden back?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “What does that sign say?” Four-Eyes Sherman, no longer having his glasses, asked as they trotted their horses into Roswell. His voice rose a couple of octaves. “Hey, is it the Fourth of July?”

  “That was weeks ago, amigo,” Chico Archuleta said. “This is not even my country, and I know that.”

  “Because you got drunk,” Parker said.

  Archuleta laughed. “But I get drunk almost every day, not just holidays, Mexican or one of your norteamericano reasons to have fun.”

  They were past the sign that stretched across the streets to find the buildings decorated with red, white, and blue bunting.

  “But what did that sign say?” Sherman repeated, and waved behind him.

  Another banner flapped in the wind at the far end of town.

  “It’s a stupid baseball game,” Jace Martin said.

  “Oh.” Sherman’s shoulders slouched in disappointment.

  “But they’ll be selling beer for a nickel.” The kid grinned at the old man.

  “And you, Harry, can drink all the lemonade you want,” Archuleta said, and laughed when Parker pouted. “Free. Free. Free.”

  “Nickel beer?” Sherman asked.

  Jace Martin had already turned his horse toward the hitching rail. “I think we can find something stronger than five-cent draft beers,” he said, and swung off his horse in front of the Río Hondo Saloon. “And not have to wait till Saturday to cut the dust.”

  * * * * *

  “This place might as well be Texas,” Jace Martin complained as the bartender poured four whiskeys, although he eyed Harry Parker for all of two seconds before filling his glass.

  “How’s that?” The barkeep had short gray hair that stopped at the top of his ears. He wore an apron and the hangdog look of a man with no ambition, no future, and could care less.

  “It’s not the end of the world,” Martin said as he held up the glass to examine the quality of the rye. “But you can see it from here.” He took a sip.

  The barkeep waited.

  Martin fished out a gold piece and laid it on the rough counter.

  The barkeep was not impressed, but he asked: “You want me to leave the bottle?”

  Martin was about to nod, when Harry Parker asked: “What’s all the big fuss about this baseball game?” The hatless, sunburned kid then laughed, took a healthy swallow, and coughed until his eyes watered. That brought a smile to the bartender’s lips. They drank in silence until Parker again brought up the game.

  “It’s a big to-do,” the barkeep said. “Playing Engle.”

  Martin shook his head. “Oh, of course. Engle.”

  “It’s a big game, mister.” Martin’s sarcasm riled the old barkeep. “They take their baseball seriously in Engle. Railroaders mostly. And you might find it hard to believe, but baseball’s big here in Roswell.”

  Chico Archuleta chuckled and killed his whiskey. “I believe a siesta is big in this town.” He helped himself to the bottle.

  “Well, if you’re here on Saturday, you’ll see for yourselves.” The barkeep had a full-blown case of civic pride. “People will come up from Seven Rivers and Eagle Draw.”

  Jace Martin did not even try to hide it when he rolled his eyes.

  The barkeep picked up the bottle and returned it to the shelf that served as a backbar. He was talking, though, and that sheepish look had been replaced by a scowl. “Laugh all you want, boys, but come Saturday, this town’ll be booming more than any of your mining camps to the west or Mesilla or Las Vegas or Santa Fe.”

  He stared at each man individually as he went through his speech.

  “The railroad’s brass are sporting men, and they place a lot of bets. Some of you fellows look like you’ve punched cattle, so you know how much pride a cowhand has. Those railroad bets are matched. Stagecoach pulled in from Las Cruces, full of folks who come here just for this game.”

  He waved his finger. “You boys drifted in from the west and south. I saw that. That means you come over El Alto, ‘The Height’, and I’m betting that you saw what we call La Gara, ‘The Rag’, because that’s the poor side of town, where you’ll find all that laundry hanging in the wind to dry.” He nodded in another direction. “But over yonder. That’s what we call Barrio de Los Ricos.” He turned to Archuleta. “Tell your amigos what that means, buster.”

  Archuleta wet his lips and looked at Martin. “The Neighborhood of the Rich Folks.”

  “Indeed. Rich white folks is what they really mean.” He stepped back. “You boys still thirsty?”

  “I haven’t asked for change,” Jace Martin said. “Pour and talk.”

  The barkeep obliged. “We got a hundred folks in this town. They’ll all be at that game in a few days. The boys from Engle are already here. They had some ball games in El Paso over the weekend. And some gambl
ers from El Paso came up with them.”

  He had everyone’s attention now.

  “Simon Hibler Town Field was erected last year from the winnings of this annual baseball stump match. So, yeah, this town ain’t much to look at right now, but fifty cents a head for adults … say two hundred … and two bits for a kid … put that around twenty-five … and it don’t take a schoolmarm who got through all his McGuffey’s Readers to figure out that this one day’ll take in a lot of money.”

  He stepped back to study the faces of the strangers, and was satisfied with the impression he had made.

  “And that ain’t even taking into account the money I’ll make on nickel beers, not to mention all the whiskey I’ll sell after and before the game.” He came back to the bar with the bottle. “And the money they’ll be holding at the front gate for all the bets. Well, this ain’t New Orleans or Denver City on most days, but come Saturday, it’ll be right near close.”

  “This one’s on the house, boys.” He refilled the glasses, and Jace Martin held his glass up in a salute to the bartender before moving to an empty table against the west wall.

  * * * * *

  “Let’s split the money and light a shuck for Texas,” Four-Eyes Sherman said.

  “Not yet.” Jace Martin put his fingertips together.

  “We can’t stay here,” Parker whispered. “The law …”

  “I’m thinking we can make us some extra money, boys,” Martin said, and he grinned. “Give that old fool at the bar something to tell the next dusty travelers. Get us mentioned in the Santa Fe newspaper. Maybe as far as Tucson or Fort Worth. Why are you looking at me that way, Chico?”

  “¡Es porque actúas como un loco y hablas como un loco!” Chico Archuleta blurted out, and switched to English. “It is no good.”

  Martin leaned forward. “There will be more than one hundred dollars in that cash box, boys, once that baseball game gets started. And that’s just for the tickets to the game. They’ll also be holding money from all the bets. You heard that old codger.”

  Four-Eyes Sherman whistled, but Harry Parker shook his baked head.

  “It don’t seem worth the effort,” the kid said. “Robbing a baseball game?”

  “Jesse James robbed the Kansas City Fair,” Martin reminded him.