“I recollect that,” Four-Eyes Sherman said. “We might get writ up just like that one done.”
“And get killed just like Jesse,” Harry Parker added.
The old man snorted. “Like ten years later, kid. I’m all for it. Get me a new pair of glasses with that kind of money.”
“Keep your voice down,” Martin said. “We wait here till that game, ride over, and relieve them of their take from the tickets and the bets.” Martin turned to Archuleta. “Am I still talking crazy?”
“Have you forgotten about who we left out there?” Archuleta reminded him.
“Not at all, Chico. But Nelson Bookbinder’s dried up and blown away by now. We might be bones, too, if we hadn’t come across that water hole the evening after we stole his horses. And if Bookbinder’s not dead, he will be soon. He’s got no water. He’s got no horses. And if he somehow finds that same water hole we lucked upon, good for him. We’ll be loping into Texas by the time he could get here.”
“Our horses are played out,” Archuleta pointed out.
Martin nodded. “I know. I also know the gent who runs the livery in this town. I’m fairly certain we can make a trade.”
“There’s a lawman in this town,” Parker said. “I saw the office.”
“Yeah. But we left a much tougher law dog out in that furnace,” Martin said. He nodded toward the dust blowing down the street. “We trade our horses. Sleep in the wagon yard. Rest up. Leave our guns in town and just take in all the wonders Roswell has to offer. There’s a gal …” He chuckled. “We get new clothes. A bath. A shave. See what else we can find that’ll pass the time in Roswell. Sleep in. Eat our fill of enchiladas and beef. On Saturday, when that ball game has started, we make our play. Then we ride to Texas. Then we split our haul and go our merry way.”
“And what if Charley the Trey shows up?” Parker asked.
Martin shrugged. “So what? He doesn’t know us. And if he thinks he does, we’ll just kill him.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Driving the wagon, MacKinnon debated if he should make camp now, or see if the team could take them one mile farther, maybe two. Honey and Bartholomew made a pretty good team, all things considered. He turned back, found the sun, and was amazed at how red and orange it looked. The wind blew harder, and dust devils popped up alongside the road they had passed. The wind and the sun did not mean a thing to MacKinnon right now. What concerned him was how far he could go today.
He figured the longer they traveled, the closer to Roswell he got. The closer to Roswell, the closer he was to Texas, or, maybe, Jace Martin, though he had pretty much given up on ever finding Martin. Getting away from the territorial law, and Charley the Trey, had become his priority.
At least, he kept trying to tell himself that.
“Here,” came a voice.
He straightened back around, and saw the canteen Katie held toward him.
“I’m all right,” he said, and the words hurt his throat.
The canteen held firm. So did Katie’s face.
In the bed of the driver’s box, Gary slept.
“You’re relentless,” MacKinnon said, and took the canteen with his right hand, keeping the leather lines in his left.
“Look who’s talking,” Katie said.
They smiled.
The water, tepid, not very good, did wonders on his tongue and throat, and he found himself taking one extra sip before returning the canteen to Katie.
“You should have some, too,” he told her.
With a nod, she drank. A gust of wind caused her to turn her head.
When she turned back, she found MacKinnon moving the lines toward her. “Take these,” he said, and when she did, he brought up the Winchester carbine.
His face had turned hard again, his mouth set, and his eyes did not blink, even with the wind and sand, as he looked to the southeast, well off the road.
It took her a moment before she found the men. Four of them. Two waving their arms over their heads, while they ran. One walking. One standing still. The sinking sun reflected off buckles and spurs—and weapons.
“Who could they be?” she asked.
His head shook. He wet his lips, considering his options.
She glanced at the strangers again. Judging distance had never ranked among her strengths. If they were yelling, their voices were not reaching them, but the wind had changed course, now blowing from the north. She could make out a few things, though.
“They have rifles,” she said.
MacKinnon nodded.
“Can we outrun them?” she asked.
“Maybe.” He kept staring at the men.
“Oh,” Katie said suddenly. “Oh, my.” She stared to the north, her mouth open for a moment, and then she added: “What is that?”
MacKinnon looked, frowned, and said: “Dust cloud.”
“It’s gigantic!” shouted Florrie, who had just popped her head through the opening. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
On the floor of the box, Gary turned over, mumbling something as he started to wake up.
Taking the lines from Katie, MacKinnon rose to his feet, whipped the leather furiously, and Honey and the blind mule responded. They bounced along for about fifty yards as MacKinnon watched the men in the desert.
“Hiya!” he shouted to the animals, considering using the quirt.
“Stay down there, Gary,” Katie told her brother, and she clutched the seat for a good hold. Florrie moved back inside the wagon.
The wind blew harder. The sand felt like birdshot.
Suddenly, MacKinnon fell back into the seat, pulling hard on the lines, bringing the wagon to a stop. He jerked his bandanna up to cover his mouth and nose, and helped Gary up onto the bench.
“Into the back, Gary,” he said, and did not wait for the sleepy boy to respond. He scooped the kid up and pushed him into the opening. “Florrie, take your brother.”
Empty-handed, he grabbed the reins, had Honey and Bartholomew turn the wagon so that its back faced the coming sandstorm. “Get back there,” he ordered Katie. “Pull down that canvas, tie it down as tight as you can.”
“What about Bartholomew?” she asked. “Or your mare?”
He had to shout over the rising wind. “They’ll be all right. Backs to the wind.” He jerked the brake, and leaped over the side, bringing the Winchester with him.
“Sam!” she cried.
He stopped, and met her eyes. “You don’t know them!” she yelled over the fury. Then so soft that he could barely understand her over the popping of the canvas covering and the snorts and stamps from the two animals. “Or do you?”
“I can’t leave them in this!” He turned, lowered his head, held the hat on his head with his free hand, and moved toward the four men. A hundred yards into the desert, he stopped.
Those four men, staggering in the wind, trying to reach him, were not Chico Archuleta, Four-Eyes Sherman, the kid Parker, and Jace Martin. That much he knew. Jace Martin might have sent two men running ahead, but he wouldn’t show himself until he knew he had the upper hand.
Still, MacKinnon hefted the rifle, felt the wind blasting his neck, and tried to make out whether he knew the identity of the men. He started waving the rifle as best as he could in the wind.
“Over here! Over here! Over here!”
He could barely see them now, so he started to turn, the sand stinging his cheeks. But at least he could see the wagon. For right now. Looking back, he eared back the hammer, butted the stock against his thigh, and fired a round into the air. Then he jacked the lever. He listened, keeping his head lowered, hoping his hat wouldn’t be swept off. He had always favored snug hats, so only the hat brim bent. When he heard nothing, he squeezed the trigger again.
I sure hope those boys don’t think I’m shooting at them, he thought. But it’d take a l
ucky shot to hit me if they do.
This time, he thought he heard something in response. A faint pop. Maybe. It could have been his imagination. He turned around to find the wagon, now just a misty outline, and he guessed the distance before the wind and sand made him turn back. He tried to spit out the sand collecting in his mouth—and then his hat was gone. Swearing, he lowered his head even more, worked the lever, and fired another round that the wind appeared to choke off instantly.
This time, he could hear the pop of a pistol in return. At least it sounded like a handgun, but with all this howling wind, it might have been a battleship’s deck gun.
“Over here!” he shouted, and squeezed off another shot.
The reply came quicker, maybe closer. He wondered how many shells he had left. Again, he levered a cartridge into the carbine, and shot off another round.
“Over here!” he yelled.
He heard an answering shot, and something that sounded like a man’s voice. They were close, he thought. He wanted to look back, but refused. The Winchester barked again. The pistol sent its echo a few seconds later.
“I’m over here!” MacKinnon yelled.
“Where?” came a faint cry.
Quickly, MacKinnon snapped off another shot, but he did not wait for an answer. He chambered a new round, and touched the trigger. Jacked the lever. Fired. And did this twice more.
“Here!” he screamed. “Here I am! I’m over here!”
The party of four did not answer with a bullet in the air. That made MacKinnon worry, and he cocked the .38-40, but held his fire. Nor did he lower the hammer. Maybe they’re out of bullets. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe that’s Jake, after all. He dropped to a knee, just to be safe, or at the least to feel a tad safer. “Here!” he called out. There was no answer. MacKinnon frowned.
But then he could make out something. It wasn’t gunfire.
“My dog did bark …” That was it. The rushing wind drowned out whatever else was said. But then a moment later, he heard: “ … up dat tree …” But that, too, died.
He furrowed his brow, stifled a cough, and considered touching off one more round.
Then he understood something, just a few words—“Oh, carve dat possum, carve …” They were lyrics from an old minstrel tune some of the boys had sung from time to time on a couple of the outfits he’d worked for.
If they wanted to kill me, he thought, they wouldn’t be singing. Besides, even though rifle shots might be louder, they’re sporadic. Singing a song don’t let up.
The song, as best as he could remember was called something like “Carve That Possum.” He shook his head. He didn’t know the lyrics, but he knew a different song, so he wet his lips, and sang out, in what no one would consider a tune.
Once me and Lem Briggs and old Bill Brown,
We took us a load of corn to town.
My old Jim dog, the ornery cuss,
He just naturally followed us.
No response except the blasting of sand. MacKinnon tried again:
As we drove past the general store,
A passel of yaps came out the door.
Old Jim stopped to smell of a box,
They shot at him a bunch of rocks.
This time, he heard what sounded like at least two men singing, who sounded as awful as he did.
Carve dat possum, carve dat possum, children,
Carve dat possum, carve him to the heart;
Oh, carve dat possum, carve dat possum, children,
Carve dat possum, carve him to the heart.
That was the chorus, so MacKinnon shouted more than sang the chorus to his song.
Every time I go to town,
The boys keep kicking my dog around.
It makes no difference if he is a hound,
They gotta quit kicking my dog around.
He did not stop, singing out: “They tied a can to his tail …”
And the answer came: “De way to cook de possum sound …”
Then a rough-looking, sunburned wreck of a man staggered in just to MacKinnon’s left, and another tripped and dropped to MacKinnon’s right.
The one on the ground looked up, blinked, and rolled over, hollering at his friend to MacKinnon’s left who just kept going. MacKinnon spun around, fell to his knees, feeling his ribs give slightly. He pushed back up and reached out to grab the collar of the coat of a man who had almost walked right past him.
The stranger seemed startled as he mumbled: “Who are …?” The wind and the sand forced him to turn around.
MacKinnon did not let go of the stranger’s arm. He lowered his head, but not before two other men stepped out of the cloud of sand and dust.
Dust covered the bearded and grimy faces of the two men. He couldn’t recognize them, or even describe them, but he knew neither was part of the group that had ridden into Bonito City what seemed like a million years ago. They had canteens strapped over their shoulders, and both wore revolvers around their middle, but he saw no long guns on these two. Now that all four were here, he saw that only two men carried rifles.
“Latch on!” MacKinnon said. “Grab hold of the last man!” he told them, nodding into the fury. “Latch on. Hold tight. Don’t let go!”
He started moving, but it felt as though he were trying to pull a heavy farm wagon with a full load up a mountain.
“I’ve got a wagon this way! Latch on! Hold tight!” He started for the covered wreck of a wagon.
At least, he hoped he had not lost his bearings, and he prayed that the wagon was indeed just ahead.
* * * * *
Ol’ Claude Ketchum went to the privy that night on the J-Bar-77 when I was riding the grub line. It was just snowing lightly when he left. Three, four minutes later, the wind started roaring across the Plains of San Agustine, driving snow that looked like a solid sheet of ice. The foreman should have strung up ropes from the privy and barn to the bunkhouse, but nobody expected that blizzard. A hundred feet. That’s all the distance that separated the two-seater from the bunkhouse. Ol’ Claude never made it back. Couldn’t send no one to go look for him, not in that blizzard. Some of the boys found him, I heard whilst drinking in that cantina in the Upper Frisco Plaza. Found him froze solid, forty feet from the privy. Figured he’d come out, got disoriented, started walking the wrong way. Opposite way. Turned back, and paralleled the bunkhouse before he just couldn’t go any farther.
“That,” MacKinnon said to himself, his head bent in the wind, “ain’t happening to me.”
He knew where he was going. He had seen the wagon and the livestock. All he had to do was barrel straight ahead. One hundred yards. He kept counting his steps, small steps. He would squeeze to make sure he still gripped one of the men’s wrists.
No one spoke. At least, he could not hear anyone behind him. He counted three hundred, and poked the carbine in front of him, swinging it from side to side. The wind almost jerked that out of his hand, too.
Nothing. He tried to raise his head higher, but sand blasted it back down.
Swearing, he kept walking. Ten yards. Twenty.
Don’t panic. Don’t sweat. That’s what killed Ol’ Claude.
He moved to his left, and kept pressing his fingers against the man’s wrist. He tried to tell himself that this was not a blizzard. They wouldn’t freeze to death. If they could find something of a wind block, all they had to do was brace themselves behind it. These storms blew out quickly.
Most times.
The arm he held jerked backward, almost bringing MacKinnon to the ground. Turning, he found himself staring into the hard, wide, frightened eyes of one of the four men from the desert. The man tried to speak, but the effort only got him a mouthful of sand.
MacKinnon said: “We’re all right!” He spun around, lowered his head, coughed. He took a step, and stopped. Leaning into the wind, he listened
.
“Nothing in my …”
Then the voice died. MacKinnon pressed forward. He thought he heard “Thy cross I …”
“Florrie?” he mouthed. He started to yell for her to keep singing, but saved his breath. The wind would have carried his shout away from the wagon. It had been a miracle that he had been able to hear whoever had been singing at him, but he did not even hear that until the man was close.
“Helpless, look to Thee for grace …”
That way. He had been about to make the mistake Ol’ Claude Cooper had made, walked the wrong way. MacKinnon turned, pushed himself. He moved with dogged determination. The wind moaned. He thought he heard Honey’s whicker. And suddenly, he felt the wind lessen. Maybe it was a formation of rocks, causing the break in the wind he desperately needed. Suddenly he could make out the wagon, and this was no mirage. He shoved the barrel of the Winchester and felt it slam into the water barrel.
Florrie’s angelic voice welcomed him home.
“Rock of ages, cleft for me …”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Name’s Nelson Bookbinder,” the lawman said after they had all settled inside the back of the wagon. Nelson Bookbinder was not certain the old Studebaker would support them all, but at least they were out of that infernal storm. He tapped his badge. “County sheriff. Deputy US marshal. Ne’er-do-well.” He smiled.
The little boy said: “What’s a ne’er … a ne’er—?”
“A no-account,” the cowhand who had rescued them said, and grinned at the boy. “Like me.”
“You ain’t no … ne’er- … ne’re—”
“He sure ain’t,” said Mort. “We’d be buried out yonder if not for him. We thank you, mister.”
“This is Mort,” Bookbinder told them, and introduced Nikita and Davis, too. Then he waited.
Their rescuer frowned. “I’m Sam MacKinnon,” he said.
“MacKinnon,” Nelson Bookbinder said, just testing the word.
MacKinnon said nothing, just looked across the darkening wagon at the lawman.
Bookbinder’s head shook. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
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