MacKinnon

by Johnny D. Boggs

  MacKinnon shrugged. “I guess that could be a compliment, coming from a lawman such as yourself.”

  “You know me?”

  MacKinnon shook his head again. “Nope. But I heard you stumping in Tularosa one time.”

  Bookbinder brushed sand off his duds, and chuckled. “That’s the bad part of this job. Giving speeches. Almost as bad as getting your horses stolen from under your noses.” He glared at Davis and Mort.

  “Is that what happened?” the pretty blond asked. She straightened at Bookbinder’s gaze, and stammered as she introduced herself and her sister Florrie and brother Gary.

  Bookbinder tipped his hat. Sand poured off the brim. “Yeah. Some rogues robbed a saloon in Bonito City on Sunday morning.” He gave a condensed version of what had happened since. He kept his eyes on this saddle tramp named Sam MacKinnon.

  * * * * *

  The wind moaned, sometimes whistled, and never stopped as the wagon rocked and creaked. Dust drifted in. Sam MacKinnon read some dime novel to the boy. It was not one of those dreadfuls about Bookbinder and Nikita, though. It was even worse.

  Florrie sneezed. No one responded till Gary asked: “Ain’t somebody gonna say, ‘God bless you?’”

  “God bless you, little lady,” Sheriff Nelson Bookbinder said, but he kept his eyes trained on MacKinnon, who had stopped reading. He leaned against the opening at the front of the wagon, trying to block any of the dust that drifted in from that direction, although the wind blew from the north.

  On MacKinnon’s left huddled Florrie and Gary. Katie sat on the cowhand’s right. Crowded in the back were Mort and Davis over on the west-facing side, the latter rubbing his blistered feet, his boots off—the man had no socks. Mort busied himself trying to comb the sand out of his greasy hair with his fingers. Bookbinder sat directly across from MacKinnon. On his left, squatted Nikita.

  “You should’ve God-blessed Florrie, Mister MacKinnon,” Gary said.

  MacKinnon looked at the boy. “Yeah,” he said at length. “I reckon you’re right. God bless you, Florrie.”

  The boy smiled. He was about to say something else, but MacKinnon said: “Best keep quiet, Gary. Don’t want to fill your stomach with dirt.”

  “But what about the story?”

  “I’ve read that to you four times, seems like.”

  “It’s a good one, though.”

  “Later,” MacKinnon said.

  They passed the rest of the night in silence, and when the wind finally died, none spoke, a few snored. MacKinnon tossed fitfully, speaking in his sleep, and woke up just before dawn with those ribs tormenting him.

  * * * * *

  Katie retied the wrappings over MacKinnon’s ribs that morning, while the Apache made coffee—Gary could not take his eyes off the Mescalero. Nelson Bookbinder walked around the camp, or what passed for a camp, and rubbed the neck of the blind mule and then the sorrel mare.

  “Nice horse,” Bookbinder said as he walked back to the fire.

  “Not always,” MacKinnon said.

  The lawman chuckled. “Yeah, like most horses. People, too. You ever been to Bonito City, MacKinnon?”

  He was direct. Sam MacKinnon had to give him that.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “A time or two.”

  “Recently?”

  MacKinnon shook his head. “Can’t say I’d call it recent.”

  MacKinnon looked at the horse. “I was in Bonito City …” He paused to think. “I struck a notion to become a miner … didn’t last but about two weeks … when the strike was made.” He looked at the sky. “’Eighty-two I guess. But I didn’t own Honey back then.”

  All of that was true.

  “I was thinking more recent,” commented Bookbinder.

  “Well, I got that mare about eighteen months ago.”

  “I’m thinking a few days ago. Sunday morning to be specific.”

  “He’s been with us for two weeks!” Katie sang out. She had come back from the wagon with a battered old hat. “Oh …” She put her hand on his side, gently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t …”

  But Florrie was looking up and saying: “Two weeks … why, Katie—”

  “It’s been two weeks, Florrie!” she snapped, and stood, glaring at her sister. “Two weeks.” She turned to Bookbinder. “He rode upon us two weeks ago, Sheriff.” She swallowed. “Our mother had died. He helped bury her.” She started to point, but stopped. “He’s been with us since. He buried her …”

  “I helped,” Gary chimed in.

  “That’s right. We all helped,” Katie said. “But we never would have been able to … to do … to get … we’d likely be dead with Ma if he hadn’t come along. Two weeks ago.”

  Bookbinder stared. Katie turned around, and told MacKinnon to stay where he was, but the cowhand was rising.

  “What happened to your ribs?” the lawman asked.

  He shrugged. “Busted them. Or something. They hurt like he— Well, they hurt.”

  “Horse throw you?”

  MacKinnon nodded.

  “Been dusted a time or two myself,” Bookbinder said. “You helped bury their mother with busted ribs?”

  “They helped.”

  “We all helped,” Gary sang out, still looking at the Mescalero and the coffee pot.

  “Sorry for your loss, folks,” Bookbinder said, but he only glanced at Katie and Florrie before he stared through Sam MacKinnon. “You been helping them all this time? Two whole weeks?”

  MacKinnon pointed at his side. “They’ve helped me quite a bit, too, Sheriff.”

  “He didn’t have to help us,” Katie said. “He could’ve kept riding.”

  The lawman’s head bobbed. “Yeah. He could’ve kept riding yesterday, too. Didn’t have to stop to help us.” He wiped his jaw. “Ain’t that coffee cooked yet, Nikita?”

  * * * * *

  A wagon came by, driven by a pudgy middle-aged man, with a woman in a pink-and-white-checked dress, two younger men in bowlers and sack suits, and a woman rocking in a chair in the back with a spit can in her left hand as she dipped snuff. The driver stopped, chatted with Bookbinder for a few minutes, before continuing the journey to Roswell.

  Mort and Davis complained that they should have been allowed to ride with them to Roswell, especially seeing how Davis’ feet were blistered and raw, and that Mort has been practically blinded by that dust storm.

  “Where could you have fit on that wagon?” Florrie had asked.

  “On the two mules,” Mort replied.

  Later, a stagecoach stopped. Bookbinder’s badge acted like a closed gate. The Concord was packed with people, even some in the luggage boot on the back, and the top was crammed with two men and three boys, maybe twice the age of Gary. The stage left, too, moving fast to Roswell.

  Mort and Davis wanted to take the stage, but the driver said if they could find room, and four dollars, they could ride. The two men sulked away to find a spot in the shade.

  “You didn’t want to go?” Katie asked.

  Bookbinder shrugged, then nodded toward MacKinnon, who was tightening the bindings on the busted spokes. “If he can stay to help, after all he did for us … and you and your siblings … then I reckon we can stay, too.” He studied MacKinnon for another moment, and made his way toward Katie. “Miss …”

  She sang out in a nervous voice. “The desert’s beautiful today, isn’t it?” He had no time to answer. “Funny. Just how a storm like that can … I don’t know, clear the air. Make things fresh. New.” Her head nodded. “Yes. It’s beautiful.”

  “If you say so, I reckon,” Bookbinder said.

  “What do you know about him, Miss Callahan?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “Where’s your father?”

&n
bsp; Her face hardened. “My father’s dead.”

  “And your mother died of …?”

  “Consumption.”

  He nodded. “It sounds like I’m prying, miss, but …” He tapped his badge. “Part of the job. Records. Paperwork. And he … I mean, MacKinnon and you, and your brother and sister, you buried her.”

  “We had to,” she said. “The wagon was busted. My … well, we lost one mule. Nobody stopped. Nobody cared. Till he showed up.”

  “And he stayed out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “He stayed.” Her eyes made him apologize. He had not realized how his question might have been misinterpreted.

  “Two weeks, though. Even with that horse and that mule, you could have covered a lot of territory in two weeks.” Bookbinder pulled on an ear lobe. “If you came through Ruidoso or even Tularosa, you could have gotten that wagon repaired. They’ve got real good wheelwrights in those towns. And being orphans, you could have …”

  “My mother was strong-willed,” Katie Callahan said. “She didn’t believe in charity. I don’t either. And maybe we didn’t come through Ruidoso or Tularosa. Maybe we came from …” —she stopped to think—“Mesilla.”

  “Maybe. But you’d have had to come through Tularosa and Ruidoso if you were on the trail from Mesilla.”

  “Maybe we got lost.”

  He laughed, shook his head, and said: “So your mother, she died … whereabouts?”

  Katie looked to the west. She pointed. “About a two-week ride from here,” she said. “On a dilapidated wagon pulled by a blind mule and a saddle pony.”

  She walked away.

  Bookbinder watched her go. He sighed and whispered: “Yeah, I reckon you did inherit that ‘strong-willed’ spirit from your ma, young lady.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bookbinder decided to try MacKinnon again when the cowboy, who the lawman thought was a saloon robber, was feeding the horses. The two younger kids were scrubbing the dishes—not that there had been much to eat—while the oldest had walked to the edge of the camp, admiring the sunset.

  “Want a hand?” the lawman asked.

  “I can handle it, but thanks.”

  “Nice horse.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “Well, you know how things get when you reach a certain age. Anyway, I was in Bonito City on Sunday morning and …”

  “So I heard.”

  Bookbinder shook his head. “And I heard you’ve been with this family for two weeks.” He figured he could test the cowhand now, and he turned from the horse, mule, and cowboy and found Katie Callahan. “She is a pretty girl.”

  “Watch where you’re going, Sheriff. I’ve been in jail before. And you wouldn’t be the first lawman I’ve throttled.”

  Turning back to MacKinnon, Bookbinder pushed back his hat. “I wasn’t going anywhere, son. Just observing. Comes second nature after all these years I’ve lawed.”

  MacKinnon stepped toward him, and handed him the bucket of grain. “You want to observe something, Bookbinder, observe the horses.” He shoved the bucket into the lawman’s hand. “I’ll take your offer of a hand, Bookbinder. Finish feeding Bartholomew and Honey.”

  He strode to the girl.

  * * * * *

  Sam MacKinnon reached for his hat when Katie turned around, and that made her giggle. He wore no hat. The wind had probably blown what he called a hat halfway to the Mexican border.

  “Sam.” She smiled.

  “Umm.” He pushed back his hair. “Katie.”

  The silence came. She hoped it wouldn’t, but she knew it would. Now here it was. She saw the pain in his face, his eyes, and she knew it did not come from his ribs.

  “You ought to know …”

  “I know enough,” she said, stopping him. “I know I’m not as good of a liar as you are, so don’t tell me anything, Sam. Because I don’t think I can get anything past that hard rock over yonder.”

  The stillness returned.

  “Tonight,” she whispered. “If a couple of fools could steal four horses from underneath their noses, then you could …”

  “They weren’t fools, Katie.” His eyes held on hers. “Well, at least two of them know what they’re doing. Two of the four.”

  She had to look at the ground. “Sam …” Her head shook. “Sam …” When she looked at him again, she said: “You can still get away. Mexico. Texas.”

  “No.”

  He could be just as stubborn as she was. “Why not?”

  He answered by staring at her. Katie started toward him, but stopped. “They’re watching.”

  “We’ll be in Roswell tomorrow,” he told her. He drew in a deep breath, and let it out while shaking his head. “Could’ve made it in this evening if we’d pushed the animals, and us, some.”

  A heavy sigh followed another deep breath. “You figured out where you might be heading from Roswell?”

  Her head shook. “You?”

  He let out a mirthless chuckle. “I got a strong suspicion. There’s a new prison opening up for business in Santa Fe shortly.”

  She walked to him, stopped at his side, and took his hand into hers. He had long fingers. He probably could play the piano, if he had the inclination to learn. They were tough, hard, and she tried to squeeze his hand.

  “Katie, I got nothing to offer anybody,” he said. “At best, I’m a thirty-a-month cowhand.”

  Her head nodded at the wagon. “You’ve seen my dowry, Sam.”

  He did not pull his hand away, and after a moment, he tightened his fingers around her small hand.

  “But I’m older than …”

  “Good Sam MacKinnon.” She cut him off again. “Let’s just see how things play out. All right? I’ve got a kid sister and a kid brother. No money. No home. I’m no catch.”

  “Well, I’m … it just don’t make any sense for—”

  “I’m glad you stayed,” she told him.

  Their hands relaxed, fell away, and MacKinnon again brushed his hair aside. “I am, too,” he said.

  * * * * *

  “Why didn’t you take that stagecoach to Roswell?” Nikita asked that night.

  Bookbinder sipped his coffee. “I’m fishing.”

  “I don’t like fish.”

  “You never ate my pa’s catfish stew.”

  “I wouldn’t want to.”

  “The men who left us to die in the desert …,” the Apache started, but Nelson Bookbinder silenced him.

  “Are in Texas or Mexico by now.” He nodded at MacKinnon. “But he knows their names. He’s the one …”

  Nikita finished the sentence for him. “That those two lazy dogs said they shot and killed in the mountains. I know. He’s the one they left behind. With busted ribs.”

  “You figured that out yourself, did you?” Bookbinder said.

  “I remember the horse from Bonito City.”

  “Like MacKinnon told us, there’s a lot of sorrel horses in this part of the country.”

  “Not ridden by a man shooting at you.”

  Bookbinder rose, his knee joints popping. “The thing is, Nikita, he didn’t shoot at us.”

  The Apache shrugged. “Hard rock that you are, I figured you’d have already arrested him by now.”

  The old lawman snorted. “In front of those kids. I’d never get reelected.”

  “So we ride with them to Roswell?”

  Bookbinder nodded. “Be there tomorrow. Maybe in time for that baseball stump match if we get an early enough start and the wagon don’t fall apart and the horses don’t go lame. I’m giving MacKinnon time to think about all he has done. See if he’ll come to his senses and tell me the names of the men who rode into Bonito City with him. Judge’ll go easier on him that way. I’d put in a word for him myself.”

  “And if
he doesn’t?”

  “Then I lock him up in what passes for a jail in Roswell. Till he sings the tune I want to hear.”

  “Like the tune he was singing that brought us out of that sandstorm?” Nikita rose, too, stared hard at the lawman, and nodded at the badge. “That thing’s light as a feather on you, Bookbinder. Most folks, they’d think it felt like an anchor.” The Mescalero walked toward the wagon.

  Bookbinder spit in the fire. “Educating Apaches ought to be a crime in this territory,” he said to himself, and sat down to fill a cup with coffee.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Winds had blown down much of the red, white, and blue bunting, which no one had bothered to pick up, but the banner that stretched across the main street from the livery stable to the feed store greeted the wretched little wagon proudly, popping in the brisk wind.

  ENGLE VERSUS ROSWELL—

  ANNUAL STUMP MATCH, 2 p.m. SATURDAY, JULY 25

  25¢ children, 50¢ adults,

  5¢ draft beers, free lemonade

  simon hibler town field

  Flicking the lines, Nelson Bookbinder shook his head, spit tobacco juice over the wagon’s side, and muttered: “That’s two things that make not one lick of sense to me.”

  MacKinnon lifted his head, yawned, and read the sign, but said nothing. He was just waking up. He was stuck sitting between the lawman and the Mescalero.

  “Why,” Bookbinder said, “would you name a field or park after a fellow that’s still living? Fool could up and rob a bank, spit on the church floor, burn the whole town down. And why does anybody think hitting a puny ball with a fat stick is worth half a dollar to go watch.”

  Nikita said: “I saw the Engle boys play the bluecoats at the fort. Pretty good at it.”

  Bookbinder glowered at the Apache.

  “They do this every year,” MacKinnon said, as he started to drift back to sleep.

  “What?” Bookbinder asked. “Play a stump match?”

  MacKinnon lifted his head again. “Yeah.”

  “You play that fool game?” Bookbinder asked.

  MacKinnon shook his head. “Kid I punched cattle with for the Bar Cross did, though. Pretty good at it. Good ballist. That’s what they call them. Good cowboy, too, when he didn’t have his nose buried in some book.”