Miami Gundown

by Michael Zimmer

  Normally Roy would have argued the point, but that night he just tossed his stick aside and leaned back against his saddle to stare into the lowering flames. We sat in silence for a good, long time that evening, lost in our own melancholy as the fire shrank into a pulsating, red blob. I don’t know how far down we might have sunk if Jim hadn’t perked up when he did.

  “Listen, marse. You hear that?”

  Jackknifing into a sitting position, I quickly pulled the Sharps across my lap. “No, what was it?”

  “’Tackies, sounds like.”

  “I hear it,” Punch said excitedly.

  Casey stood, scowling into the night. We could all hear it by then, the steady clopping of hoofs from the north. “You reckon it’s them?” he asked.

  I knew who he meant, and probably so do you. Pushing to my feet, I told the others to step back into the trees. Then I strode toward the trail, maybe twenty yards away. As dark as it was, it didn’t take long before I stepped on a twig and announced my presence to the world. Dropping to a crouch, I waited tensely, but the horses had drawn up at the loud crack of a pine limb under my heel, and silence drifted through the forest like fog. Then I heard a voice, little more than a hiss coming through the forest, and my shoulders slumped in relief.

  “Boone,” the voice repeated, a little louder this time.

  I stood and said: “Come on in, boys.”

  Well, it was Ardell, all right, and Pablo right behind him. They rode into the vale where the light was better and quietly dismounted.

  “Glad to see you, Boone,” Ardell said. “I was beginning to think we’d passed you in the dark.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Punch asked.

  The question brought a sharp look from Ardell. Glancing briefly at Pablo, he said: “We can talk about it later. You boys got any grub left?”

  “Some.” I nodded to Punch, then Jim. “Take care of their horses. Casey, kick that flame up a mite. Just enough to warm up some ham and rice and a couple of coontie biscuits.”

  We returned to the fire and settled down on our blankets. Although curious about where the two men had been, I maintained a strained silence until Punch and Jim returned from seeing to the horses. I wanted to cover this just once and not have to bring it up again.

  Jim and Punch got back about the same time Casey set a billy of ham-fried rice on the ground between Ardell and Pablo. Ardell filled his plate first, taking about half. Pablo eyed the tin utensil suspiciously, then pulled it onto his lap and began wolfing grub straight from the billy, as if taking his pent-up rage out on the food instead of whatever it was that was eating at him. At Pablo’s side, Ardell began speaking between mouthfuls.

  “We ended up all the way back at Fort Pierce,” he said, then nodded toward Pablo. “Chasing this one.”

  Without looking up, Pablo growled: “It was foolish to let the Yankee niños escape.”

  “He was dead set on killing every last one of them, and seemed put out that I wouldn’t let him.”

  I looked at Pablo, seeing him in a way I never had before. It made me wonder what had changed in the man over the preceding week. Or had he been that way all along, his animus unnoticed in the day-to-day operations of running a ranch the size of the Flatiron?

  “Those soldados, they will return to the fort. Then others will come after us,” Pablo stated darkly.

  “Not as bad wounded as that boy was,” Ardell said in a disgruntled tone.

  Pablo glowered, but held his tongue. Casey and I exchanged puzzled glances. Jim looked wary, but Roy and Punch, I noticed, were staring in fascination as the story unfolded.

  “Any of them soldiers, did they get away?” Jim asked softly.

  “All but one,” Ardell confirmed bitterly. “I didn’t know what Torres had in mind until we came to a wounded Yankee laid up along the road with his arm shredded by buckshot. I figured as long as he didn’t fight, we’d see to his wounds as best we could, then send him on his way, but Pablo had a different notion. When we got up to him, Pablo drew one of his revolvers and shot that Yankee dead before I could stop him.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Roy said softly.

  “You hanged those Yankee soldados on the road from Punta Rassa,” Pablo replied in an accusatory voice. “Is this road different?”

  Well, he had a point there, but if the road wasn’t all that much different, our situation surely was. We’d been dealing with a larger bunch back at Punta Rassa, for one thing. And for another, those Rassa Yankees had just killed Calvin Oswald. That might not be much of an excuse in your eyes, but it’s the way it was. I said the other day that I didn’t regret our hanging those boys, and I don’t. But I’ll also tell you now that I’m not sad those bluebellies who jumped us below Fort Pierce got away, either. Or at least the three who did.

  I didn’t have a reply for Pablo’s accusation, so I didn’t try to make one. Surprisingly none of the others did, either, and a tense hush fell over the camp. [Ed. Note: No mention of the three surviving soldiers, or of the corporal who reportedly fled into the swamps, could be found, although oral tradition suggests a party of Fort Pierce residents went out during this period to bury a detachment of Union troopers, killed in battle along the road south of the settlement; whether this is the same detachment of Federals that McCallister mentions could not be determined.]

  With the bone-dry wood we were using, it didn’t take long for the fire to die and darkness to close in. When the two cow hunters finished eating, Ardell took all the utensils, including Pablo’s tin billy, into the trees and scrubbed them out with sand and leaves. Although not as thorough as a pan of hot, soapy water, sand makes a handy substitute when nothing else is available. You might be wondering about liquid in that southeastern location, and I’ll admit there were streams and ponds nearby, but we didn’t like to wander too far off after nightfall, on account of water moccasins, copperheads, rattlesnakes, and alligators.

  When Ardell came back, he told Punch to fetch the burlap bag from his saddle. With everything that had taken place that day, I’d plumb forgotten about the coarsely woven sack Ardell had brought with him from the Fort Pierce trading post that morning, but I could tell from the eager way Punch scampered to do the older man’s bidding that he hadn’t.

  “What have you got in there, Ardell?” Casey asked, roused from his melancholy.

  “Probably a dead cat he forgot to fry up for supper,” Roy predicted gloomily.

  We’d been eating poorly since leaving the Flatiron, and I don’t think any of us felt especially satisfied when it came to our bellies. Even a little chicory would have helped, but we were traveling fast and light, and had left our coffee pot at home.

  “It’s not a dead cat, but I can buy you one when we get to Fort Jupiter,” Ardell replied, accepting the bag Punch swung across the blinking embers. “The rest of you might prefer something a little tastier.”

  With a flourish, he dumped the contents of the bag onto a saddle blanket he’d spread out in front of him like a tablecloth, although decorated with horse hair and horse sweat rather than a bright-gingham print—not that any of us cared a hoot. We leaned forward to see what kind of prize Ardell was springing on us, and several of the boys shouted in delight as a loaf of bread and a squat container of jam rolled into the dim light from the stars.

  “Holy hell,” Roy breathed, grabbing the little crock. “What have you got in here, Ardell?”

  “Pineapple jam and bread made from honest-to-God wheat flour, instead of that coontie crap we’ve been eating since the blockade.”

  I’ll tell you what, my mouth started watering fit to float a small boat as Ardell held the first loaf of real bread any of us had seen in years over the coals where the light was brightest, displaying it like a nugget of fresh-dug gold.

  “What about it, Roy?” Ardell grinned. “You still got your mouth set on dead cat?”

  Laughing, Roy said: “I reckon bread and jam’ll do.” He whipped out a short-bladed skinning knife and handed it across the fire. “Start c
arvin’ on that thing, boy. I’m half froze for something sweet.”

  “I’d just about trade my horse for that loaf of bread,” Punch said, almost reverently, and I had to laugh at the hungry way he was hanging over Ardell’s shoulder, watching him slice the wheel-shaped loaf into six even wedges.

  That bread and jam was a real treat, but as you might expect among five half-starved lads of such tender teenage years, it didn’t last nearly long enough. We cleaned it up to the last crumb and the last smidgen of jam, wiped from the bottom of the crock with dirty fingers, then leaned back against our saddles afterward to savor the lingering taste of pineapple and baked dough. With our moods lightened, it didn’t take long before our conversation picked up. Even Punch seemed to be having a fine-old time that evening, his first since Calvin’s death.

  Only Pablo held himself aloof from the general camaraderie. As soon as Ardell’s treat was gone, he heaved to his feet and lumbered off into the trees. I didn’t think much of it at first—shoot, snakes or not, we all have to slip off into the darkness from time to time—but when he didn’t come back after a reasonable amount of time, I stood and told the boys I needed to see a man about a horse. Then I stepped off into the trees in the same general direction as Pablo.

  I found him leaning against a slender pine about thirty yards away. Even in the ink-like darkness under the trees, it wasn’t difficult to find him, guided as I was by the heady aroma of liquor.

  “Hey, amigo,” I greeted while still several yards away, not wanting to startle a man when he’d been drinking. From the smell floating out from under that tree, I figured Pablo must have been hitting that bottle pretty hard.

  Pablo jumped, then quickly turned his head this way and that until he spotted me against the lighter background of the clearing. I could see his scowl even in the dimness under his sombrero. “Why do you follow me?” he demanded.

  “Who said I was following you? I was just taking a walk.”

  “Walk somewhere else. I got this place.”

  I eased forward, ignoring the veiled threat in his words. “Where’d you get the whiskey?”

  “None of your business,” he replied curtly, then tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long pull.

  “You didn’t get it in Fort Pierce, or the Havana House,” I said. “All they had was popskull in a jug.”

  Pablo growled something unintelligible, then confessed that he’d bought it from Müller. “Why?” he asked then. “Do the McCallisters got a rule against drinking whiskey.”

  As a matter of fact, we did, at least during roundups and on cattle drives, and I figured this was a damned sight more important than a cattle drive. I wasn’t sure how Pablo would react if I told him to put it away, though. Especially in his current mood. Deciding on a roundabout tack, I said: “You got much left?”

  “It is mine,” he retorted defensively. “If them gilipollas want to give away what is theirs, then I will eat it or drink it, but I don’t give up none of what is my own.”

  “I’m not asking for a drink, I just asked how much you had left.” I could feel my voice hardening, the warmth of blood rushing to my face. “You need to put that bottle away, Pablo,” I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “You know the rules.”

  “Me cago en reglas,” he snapped, and if I’d known then what he was saying, I’d have probably reacted differently—the asshole. “I will make my own rules from now on,” he finished sulkily.

  “Not while you’re drawing McCallister pay.”

  Pablo’s head jerked toward me, and I eased a hand up to cover the Navy’s grips. Animosity shimmered between us like heat off a branding iron. I half expected him to take a swing at me, if not reach for his own gun, so I was caught off guard when he shoved the cork back in the bottle and whacked it tight with the palm of his hand.

  “You are happy now, McCallister?”

  “Not too damn much,” I replied. “You keep that bottle corked, or go find another outfit to ride for.”

  “One where I do not have to take orders from a muchacho?”

  “That’s your choice, Torres,” I replied flatly, then spun and stalked back to the clearing.

  I could tell the others knew something was up as soon as I got back. They watched curiously as I flopped down in front of the ash-covered embers of the fire. It was Casey who broke the uneasy silence.

  “You find him?”

  I stared into the graying coals a moment, debating my reply. Then I rose and lifted my saddle by its horn. “From here on, we’ll post a guard at night. Casey, you take the first watch. Roll Roy out of his blankets at midnight.” I glanced at Turner. “You wake me at three, and I’ll take the last watch.”

  Roy nodded. “Will do, boss.”

  Lugging my saddle in my left hand and the Sharps in my right, I went to the far side of the clearing and spread my bedroll. I was aware of the others watching my every move and realized, as I pried my boots off, that I’d taken a lot of my anger at Pablo out on them, instead of where it belonged. Still too ticked off to care, I laid back with my saddle for a pillow and arranged my guns around me, where they’d be handy to reach in case of trouble.

  I guess I was more exhausted than mad, because it didn’t take long to drop off. I came up groggily when Roy shook me awake, pinching the sleep from my eyes with a thumb and forefinger as I glanced around the tiny meadow. It took a second or two to realize how late it was, the sky already turning pale with the coming dawn, birds stirring the woods with their songs.

  “Dammit, Roy,” I started to flare, then stopped when I saw the condition of his face. “What happened to you?”

  “That son-of-a-bitchin’ fat Cuban is what happened,” Roy replied, although not as heatedly as I might have expected. There was a purpling bruise visible through the mop of hair over his forehead, a thread of dried blood across one cheek. I stood with my rifle in hand, but there was nothing to see. Over by the fire, Ardell and Jim were just pulling on their boots, as yet unaware that anything was amiss.

  “When?” I asked tersely.

  “I don’t know.” He eased down at the foot of my bed, looking oddly frail in the gray light.

  “Are you going to puke, Roy?”

  “I don’t know that, either,” he admitted, then gave me a black look. “Don’t worry, I won’t get anything on your blankets if I do.” Then he dropped his head to the palm of his right hand, the elbow propped on his knee. “Besides, I’ve just about puked my guts out already.”

  “When?” I persisted.

  “After I woke up. It felt like my stomach was tied in knots for a while.”

  “I mean when did Pablo jump you?”

  There was that glower again, kind of reassuring, to tell you the truth. Without it I might have been more worried about his health. “I already told you I don’t know. I was standin’ out in the trees between us and the trail when I heard him come up. I asked what he was doin’, but the son of a bitch didn’t even answer. I guess he already had his pistol out, because as soon as he got close, he belted me over the head with it.”

  I was pulling on my boots as Roy spoke, my eyes going to where the horses were picketed in the tall grass at the far end of the little vale. I swore softly when my count came up two short.

  “He took that extra horse you brought along for Lena,” Roy confirmed. “I saw that when I came back. It looked like he took some supplies, too.”

  Jim was standing now, his gaze sweeping the clearing. Worry furrowed his brows when he realized what was going on. “Pablo?” he called to me.

  I nodded as Ardell began looking around, and Casey and Punch sat up in their quilts and oilcloths. “What’s going on?” Casey asked.

  “That son-of-a-bitch Torres hit me over the head and stole our horses is what’s going on,” Roy snapped, as if the prospect of having to repeat everything he’d already told me was too overwhelming to contemplate.

  “How long’s he been gone?” Ardell asked.

  “Long enough,” I cut in, b
efore Roy could work up any more ire. “Jim, take a look along the trail, see if you can find his tracks.”

  Rearing up from where he’d been sitting hunched at the foot of my bed, Roy said: “You ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ after him, are you? I say let the bastard run. I never did trust him.”

  “He’s got our food, and he’s got Lena’s horse,” I reminded him.

  “He doesn’t have all our food!” Ardell called. He was squatted beside the saddlebags, tied behind the English rig we’d brought along for Lena. “Looks like he might have taken some pork and grits, but nothing we can’t live without.” He looked across the fire to where I was standing. “I’ve got to side with Roy on this one, Boone. Wherever Torres went, we don’t need him. Not as much as we need to get down to Fort Dallas and find that girl. The longer she’s there, the more likely it is something bad will happen to her.”

  I was nodding grudging acceptance even as Jim returned to camp.

  “I followed his tracks as far as the main trail, marse, but couldn’t tell which way he went from there. Ground’s all churned up, and it ain’t quite light enough yet to ’cipher.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’re going on to Fort Dallas and get Lena.”

  Looking relieved, Jim said: “I’ll go fetch our horses, if that be all right with you?”

  I waved him away, my thoughts awhirl at this unexpected calamity. Yet I knew Ardell was right. We had enough grub in our saddlebags to make it to Fort Dallas, and we could put Lena on one of the horses Klee’s boys had lifted out of our pasture.

  Roy came over to the fire, and I had him brush the hair off his forehead so I could have a look. There was a shallow cut just inside the hairline that hadn’t bled overly much and a walnut-sized knot under that. The flesh around the wound was mottled in angry blues and deep yellows.

  “That ol’ boy gave you a wallop, didn’t he?” I probed gently at the swollen flesh, and Roy jerked away with an outburst of obscenities.

  “If I ever run across that fat Cuban again, I’ll give him a dose of what-for, and see how he likes it,” he vowed.