by Lou Cameron
By the time he got back the fire was out and Concepción was undressed. They drank every bit of the black coffee she’d made first, and she still damn near screwed him unconscious.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
*
It was too blamed hot to more than kiss when they finally reached the shallow Salt River the next afternoon. Concepción seemed so pleased by that surplus sword bayonet, that he let her keep it, along with the dead man’s saddled pony and the old Army mount. He offered her half the money he’d found in the pockets of two dead rascals. She protested that she couldn’t take dinero from a man she’d made love to, lest he think her a mere puta. He told her to consider it a reward for saving his life. She settled for all the metal coinage, including one ten-dollar gold piece, saying nobody where she hailed from accepted paper money in any case, and that the two ponies alone would do her proud in her home village. But when he leaned out to kiss her again she looked away and murmured, “Go with God, Stuarto. I do not wish for you to remember me with tears in my eyes.” So he nodded, swung his buckskin around, and loped off, not looking back.
He forded the Salt a mile or so up and found a well-traveled wagon trace that had to lead to Globe, since there was nothing much else within miles. He rested and swapped mounts a time or two and got into town just before sundown.
Globe, Arizona Territory, was most famous for having been the first place a wild west show was called a rodeo, and having been at least close to the last recorded stagecoach holdup in these United States. Globe was also the seat of Gila County. After that it didn’t have much to say for itself.
The population hovered around five thousand, depending on whether the herd was in town or not. The town fed boiler water to a Southern Pacific spur line really more interested in some nearby copper mines, and in return got to ship out beef from surrounding spreads. There was talk about a big irrigation project any day now. But so far that day had yet to dawn, so Globe mostly dozed in the heat of day and raised a little hell at night.
Not too much hell. A lot of Globe was run by Mormons, who didn’t even hold with tea or coffee. The Mexican and Texican element naturally tended to drink more seriously. But between roundups the hard drinkers tended to be broke.
Stringer stabled his mounts with a livery hand who acted reasonably sober, and got directions to the local Western Union office. There he discovered a wire from old Sam Barca waiting for him, and reading it, he was made to feel sort of dumb.
For without leaving his glass-walled box in Frisco, old Sam had tracked down all sorts of gents by wiring other newspaper men back and forth. Sam wanted to know why on earth he’d ever headed for Globe, if that was where he was right now.
Sam said he’d located Commodore Perry Owens in Seligman, one hell of a ways off, where the Chino crossed the Santa Fe. He added the Sun wouldn’t pay Stringer’s expenses to Seligman, since the ex-sheriff had already granted an interview by wire that they couldn’t print.
Old Owens had cussed the brains of the voters more than he’d cussed the vote count. He was currently running a saloon in Seligman, and since he didn’t dispute the election results in anything more sensible than Anglo-Saxon verbs one couldn’t even repeat in mixed company, the editorial staff of the Sun was satisfied the election had been an honest fluke. However, in view of the language, Western Union reduced to “blank, blank, blank sons of blank blank blanks,” the charge he was given to strong drink these days could have been the reason they’d voted him out. Barca said he was sorry he’d sent Stringer on a snipe hunt, said the Sun would still pay for half of it, and ordered him to come on home.
Stringer started to wire back. But he knew he’d just get hell, and wind up paying for it out of his own pocket. So he crumpled Sam’s night letter and tossed it in the wastebasket.
Outside an old Mex with a pole wick was lighting a streetlamp as the Arizona sky above started to go from tangerine to lilac. But there was still enough gloaming to see by as Stringer heard a rumble and a roar and turned to see a big ore wagon, drawn by a six-mule team, proceeding in his direction down the center of the street at considerable speed.
A boy of no more than six or seven was alone on the driver’s plank, hauling back on the reins as hard as a little kid could, with one bitty foot braced against the brake pole to no avail.
There were several ways a man might try to stop a runaway ore wagon. The heroic way would be to dash out and try to grab the lead mule’s bridle, and likely get trampled to death before the wheels could finish him off. Stringer chose a smarter way. He started running the same way until the whole shebang passed him. Then he swung in, sprinted harder, and hauled himself over the tailgate.
The kid was bawling a blue streak as Stringer crawled over the jagged copper ore to join him. Some of the things the kid was calling the mules sounded even dirtier, coming from such a little shaver. Stringer took the reins from him, braced a bigger booted instep against the brake pole, and wound up teaching the kid some additional mule-skinner words before the infernal team got tired of dragging a loaded wagon with its wheels locked, and gave up, panting and cussing back in mule.
Stringer hadn’t been the only one in town chasing the runaway wagon. He’d just run better. A lady in a mother-hubbard and sunbonnet had the rest of the crowd beat by a fine lead. She rushed to identify the wayward child as “Willy, you’ll be the death of me!” before she hauled him off the rig by his belt, got a good grip on one ear, and smacked him good with her free hand. A gent wearing laced boots and a red face panted to a wobble-kneed halt beside him and gasped, “Hit him again, ma’am. That’s my load he just drove off with!”
But as others joined them, most agreeing the little rascal deserved to be horse-whipped if not lynched, the young mother was bawling as loud as her Willy as she hugged him and shook him and asked if he thought he’d live after all.
Stringer saw the mining man had commenced to treat his lead mule like a long lost child too. So he wrapped the reins around the brake pole and dropped to the dusty street. The gal blubbering all over her fool kid wasn’t the first in the crowd to call Stringer a hero. But she must have been listening, for she let go everything but Willy the Death’s right ear and dragged him over so she could hug Stringer too. She hugged sisterly, but he could still tell she wasn’t wearing any whalebone under that thin, loose summer print. She said he’d saved her only child, which didn’t surprise him much, and added she was in his debt and didn’t know how she’d ever pay him. She was pretty under her sunbonnet, but she didn’t look like that kind of a gal. So he said, “It was on the house, ma’am. I needed the exercise. Nobody was hurt. So all I want is a word with your Willy the Death here.”
She stood the red-faced and tear-streaked kid to attention by his ear and told him to listen to the gentleman, sharp.
Stringer told the kid, “I used to wonder what it would be like to drive a mule team, too, Willy. I was older than you when they let me, and the results were much the same. So I want your word, man to man, you won’t ever try that again until you’ve got at least a hundred fifty pounds of body weight and a twelve-foot whip on your side.”
The kid answered with a wretched sob. His mother hit him again and told him to speak up. Stringer said, “I reckon he answered me right, ma’am. I know I would, were I in his shoes.”
The original owner of the team and rig rejoined them to say, “Well, no real damage done. So I’ll settle for ten bucks, ma’am.”
Before she could answer, Stringer growled, “No you won’t. You was as much at fault as the boy here.”
The mule skinner scowled and said, “Not hardly, stranger. That ornery little cuss had no business crawling up on my wagon and driving off with it.”
Stringer said, “He didn’t drive off with it. He didn’t get the chance. Your mules bolted, as mules will, the moment they sensed a weak grip and no brakes.”
The shorter but stockier man growled, “But that as it may, I never gave anyone but me permission to go anywhere near my m
ules or my customer’s ore.”
Stringer said, “How could you if you wasn’t watching? Since said ore had to come from the mountains to the west, and since the railroad spur is farther down the street, not where you had all that ore parked, it’s safe to assume you parked it there to enter some saloon or worse, right?”
The outraged property owner looked away, but growled, “Where a man might refresh hisself after a long haul down from the Sierra Apache is his own durn business, ain’t it?”
Stringer shook his head and said, “Not if you want to take this lady and her boy to law. That’s the only way you’ll ever get one dollar off her, and of course the court records will have to show exactly where you might have been at the time this bitty boy proved boys will be boys.”
“What are you, a lawyer?”
“Nope. I can’t charge for legal advice. But ’m telling you free that you’re as much in the wrong as the boy here, and that if I was a lawyer I’d advise her to sue you for nearly killing her child with an attractive nuisance. That’s what the law calls it when a fool leaves anything dangerous that might attract kids unguarded, which is what you done, as any fool can plainly see.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the others all around. The mule skinner said, “Oh, let’s not get all het up about nothing. Like I said, no harm’s been done.”
Stringer took the young mother’s arm and murmured, “Let’s get you and Willy the Death back on the walk before he can change his mind again, ma’am.”
She didn’t argue. She just dragged her fool kid after them by the ear until they were well clear of the crowd. Once he had them on the walk, Stringer let go her arm, ticked his hat brim to her and said, “It was nice meeting up with you folk. But I’m stuck here in Globe at least overnight, and I got to scout up a place to bed down now.”
She brightened and said, “Then I can repay you after all. For I am Prue Reynolds, and I run one of the most respectable boarding houses in Globe!”
Then she glanced down at the shirt he was wearing under his denim jacket and added uncertainly, “Oh, dear, how awkward. You don’t seem to be a saint.”
He smiled uncertainly and replied, “No, ma’am. Just a hero. I doubt I’ll ever make saint.”
She laughed and explained, “I meant latter day saint, or Morman, as the vulgar put it. You have a tobacco tag hanging out of your shirt pocket.”
He nodded and said, “Bull Durham. Red Robin smells even worse. I plead guilty to coffee and even tea, Miss Prue, so let’s say no more about it. I wouldn’t want to upset your other boarders.”
She took his arm back and insisted, “Don’t be silly. I’ve taken in gentiles before. It’s you who might find my house rules a mite bothersome. But you won’t be able to beat my price, in Globe or anywhere else, for I’ll not take a cent from a man who is a hero, however he may mock himself, and we eat the same or better than anyone else, if you can survive apple pie without tea or coffee.”
He said he was willing to try if he could smoke later, out on the steps. She said that sounded fair. So he went with her. His luggage was in the tack room at the livery. But he didn’t think an overnight stay would be worth the fuss.
They led him up a narrower side street that was trying to be tree lined. All the cottonwoods some optimist had planted a spell back were dead. But when they got to her picket fence, he saw a dusty but living rambler rose crawling along it, and the dooryard had been planted with sunflowers, Mexican poppies, and other stuff that could stand up to the Arizona sun as long as it got plenty of water.
Inside they found the parlor filled with other boarders who were barely managing to keep from cussing about supper being so late that evening. The Mormon-hired girls had refused to dish it out until their boss lady got back with Willy the Death, wherever he’d run off to this time.
Prue Reynolds apologized, told her hired gals not to do that no more, and sent Willy the Death off to bed with no supper before she introduced Stringer to her other guests. He noticed that while she told them what a hero he was, and most seemed to agree, she neglected to mention he was gentile as they all went into the dining room to squat and grub.
He managed to get the Bull Durham tag out of sight as he hung his hat and gun up by the dining room door. It was easy enough to just bow his head and grit his teeth as their pretty hostess said grace at the head of the table. The Book of Mormon wasn’t exactly the Good Book Stringer had been brought up on. But as he took both with a grain of salt, he didn’t notice any great difference between her simple prayer and all the others he’d had to sit through, feeling more hungry than religious.
The others must have been hungry, too, judging from the way they dug in to her fine feed. One old gent, who dressed like a parson and looked even snootier, grabbed far and wide for bread and butter, as if he feared an impending famine. A mousy little gal sitting next to him in widow’s weeds kept giving him dirty looks. Stringer didn’t blame her. The hired gals kept bringing more bread from the kitchen as if they had a bakery going back there. Stringer concentrated more on the roast beef and mashed spuds, both swimming in mighty fine gravy. He even found the butter beans served with the more manly food enjoyable, after a long hard ride on short rations. Prue pressed second helpings on everyone. Only the old parsony cuss ate a third. Then they brought apple pie out, each heroic slice served with a wedge of orange cheese, and Stringer forgave their church its ban on coffee when he saw he got to wash the pie down with mighty fine lemonade. They hadn’t stinted on the lemons, and there were still chunks of ice floating in the pitchers the help placed at each end of the table. He was glad the pretty young landlady could afford such fine accommodations. He was glad he wasn’t paying for it too. From the way the others dressed, and from all but that one old slob’s table manners, they were prosperous ladies and gents. He noticed that saints didn’t seem to hold with the usual custom of chasing the ladies from the table after dessert so the gents could talk more dirty over brandy and cigars. That was likely because their church forbade either brandy or cigars. It must have forbade dirty stories as well, for the four or five gals around the table stayed put and joined in the conversation, which seemed to be mostly about water.
The old parsony gent, who seemed to get on with the others well enough when he wasn’t snatching food from their plates, did most of the talking as he held forth on the awful way the gentiles in Washington were running Arizona Territory. Stringer knew enough about the Mormon Corridor or Mormon Delta up Utah way to follow some of his drift. He said his and other Morman families had made the desert blossom as the rose up north by honest toil and common sense. He said, “None of this rain-poor land out here can prosper without irrigation. We’d have starved to death on the shores of the great salt lake if we’d tried to get by as these ninnies down this way do. Think of the truck crops this valley could ship, if only the gentiles would work together instead of fighting one another over marginal and wide-scattered grazing land.”
A slightly younger but wiser-looking Morman in a business suit shot a thoughtful look at Stringer’s riding outfit and said, “Raising stock is the easy way to start, T.S. It takes a lot of money as well as hard work to irrigate desert land, you know.”
Old T.S. struck a proud pose in his chair and said, “We had no money when we came over the south pass with Brother Brigham to the place of revelation. It was desert as dry as any down here. The mountain men warned us corn wouldn’t grow in the Great Basin, and they were right, until we changed it to a new Garden of Eden by damming and ditching the water that had up until then been wasted on the parched salt flats to the west. We’d have starved had we tried to get by as stock men that far from any market, on such marginal range land. But by the time the Great California Rush was on, we were in a position to sell fresh produce to the passing wagon trains at a profit!”
Stringer knew that was true. His grandfather, who’d been a ’49er, had often cussed about the price set on cabbages and turnips along that stretch of the trail. But he didn’t thin
k he ought to bring that up at this late date.
The more thoughtful Mormon businessman said, “That was then and this is now, T.S. Our elders moved west to Deseret simply because in those days it wasn’t under U.S. jurisdiction. They didn’t need money to tame the desert, and while they were at it, the Utes. They were free to experiment. They were free to change the courses of rivers with nobody upstream but a fool Indian to argue about it. This is the twentieth century, and Arizona was never Utah to begin with. A settler now can’t just go out and dam any old dry wash he wants to. He needs a lawyer as much or more than he needs a shovel. The homestead act only gives one free claim to a quarter section. You have to buy all the other land you’d need for even a modest irrigation project. And no doubt some Indian or Mex would run to the federal government, complaining you’d violated his water rights, before you could even get started.”
He sipped more lemonade and added, “Mark my words. It’s going to take the federal government itself to irrigate this part of the southwest right. Only big federal projects, agreed on by all the voters, could untangle all the conflicting interests in these parts. We’ll probably never see that in our time.”
Stringer shot the younger man a thoughtful look and said, “I just came down here through some disputed range and maybe water rights, sir. Since you seem to know more about such matters than me, I’d like your opinion on a notion that just struck me.”
The older man said to call him R.J. and shoot. So Stringer told them all some of his recent adventures, leaving out murder and other misbehavior the Book of Mormon might not approve, of course.
When he’d finished, the mousy little gal across from him was staring owl-eyed at him, as if she thought he might be getting set to rope the lemonade pitcher between them. Parsony old T.S. snorted in disgust and said, “I remember that range war. Like I said, gentiles don’t know how to manage semidesert land. They might have made that valley blossom as the rose. But instead they ruined it by running stock on range that doesn’t get twelve inches of rain a year. Then they fought like animals over the scraps left.”
