by Mike Kearby
Goldminds Publishing, LLC.
1050 Glenbrook Way, Suite 480
Hendersonville, TN 37075
Dead Man's Saddle
© Mike Kearby, November 2011.
Cover © Ron McGinnis, 2011.
www.ronmcginnis.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Printed in the United States of America. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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Dead Man's
Saddle
Mike Kearby
N A S H V I L L E, T E N N E S S E E
Vigilante
(n). A self-appointed doer of justice
1.
Gonzales, Texas,
October 1848
The stranger rode into Gonzales on a black stallion just in front of the morning. He came from the west, from Arroyo de la Soledad, his ancestral land. He arrived unannounced, well before the first hint of scorched tortillas on heated stone would prod tejano men from their bedding. He was solemn, his face a frozen river void of expression. Behind his dead eyes, a hint of violence lingered inside. His were penetrating eyes that caused women to pant with shallow breaths and men to lower their gazes. He was a man who cared little of life: his or others.
The dark unknown reined the midnight steed in front of a doorless cantina known as Delgado's, a well-known haunt of local toughs and gamblers throughout the territory. Suspicious, he knew the character of men who gathered at such places. After several minutes of deliberation, he stepped out of the saddle and tied the stallion to a long cedar rail. He dusted half a day's ride from his pants and then pulled a wide-brimmed sombrero from around his neck to his head. In the distance, the first glimpse of the morning sun stirred a rooster to crow. The stranger glanced toward the bellow, grim. An uneasy calmness hung in the air.
He entered Delgado’s silhouetted within a broad shaft of daylight and quickly surveyed the small room. Near the bar, a mangy cur sprawled against a clay spittoon; off to his left, a man dealt oversized cards onto an empty, dust-laden table, and ahead, the saloonkeeper ran a dirty towel through a smudged glass. Atop the bar, beckoned by the infused smell of stale beer and cigar ash, horse flies labored drunkenly, easy prey for the occasional whack of the barkeep's dishrag. No one glanced up or acknowledged his presence. The stranger understood. Curiosity in a place like Delgados often required a lethal ante when called. He reckoned by the look of this bunch that they would not stomach the play head-on. Cocksure of his intent, he strode to the bar in measured steps and whispered, "Coffee, por favor."
The saloonkeeper, a plump, round-faced tejano, nodded but continued to push the towel around the glass.
The stranger flashed a smile of displeasure but waited patiently. A small rectangular mirror hanging on the wall behind the bar caught his attention; he gazed stoically at his reflection.
In the cantina's grayness, the stranger appeared only as an unassuming slight-framed figure wearing a traditional sombrero. He dropped his drawn green eyes, deeply furrowed at the corners, and drummed two fingers on the sodden bar. In a barely audible voice, he repeated, "Coffee, por favor."
The saloonkeeper made a face, placed the grimy glass on the bar, and swung the bar towel over his right shoulder. He sidled toward the stranger swooping up a coffee pot and tin cup on his way. "One coffee," he announced, bored.
The stranger never glanced up.
The saloonkeeper lifted his brow with a smirk and poured the tin cup full. "Come far?" he asked.
The man lifted his chin at the breech of frontier etiquette. The pale green melted into the white of his eyes. A gritty frown tightened his mouth. His nostrils flared with a slow breath. "What did you say?" he whispered hoarsely.
The coffee pot twitched. The saloonkeeper steadied his hand and swallowed his smirk. "Nothing," he backed down with a trembling breath. "Sorry."
The man gave a slow nod. "Probably best," he whispered and looked back to his coffee.
Ruffled, the saloonkeeper moved to the far end of the bar and made eye contact with the cantina's Faro dealer. With a quick nod, he motioned down the bar toward the stranger.
The dealer, a short brutish man, stopped flipping cards and slowly lifted his chin to acknowledge the saloonkeeper's signal. He cast a long, hard gaze at the stranger, memorizing his profile and taking careful note of the two long-barreled Colts stashed in weathered holsters. After a moment of study, he cleared his throat and pushed back his chair.
The screech of wood against wood caused the cur to open one eye and the stranger to raise his chin ever so slight. From beneath the wide brim of his sombrero, he glanced into the mirror and watched the Faro dealer exit the cantina. Calm, his head motionless, the man stole a quick glance at the saloonkeeper. The proprietor's eyes darted below the bar.
Most likely, there's a shotgun under there.
The stranger tightened his jaw, gripped the coffee tin, and took in a shallow breath.
Well here I am.
Like stories of General Sam during the Runaway Scrape, he had reached Abraham's gate.
Which way?
Left or right?
Run or fight?
The man exhaled through his nose with remarkable composure. He glanced back at the mirror and turned his head to the left. A raised scar ran from his ear to his chin. The sight triggered an undetectable wince that shivered deep inside him.
If you push this thing forward, there won't be any backing up, and nothing will ever be the same for you.
He straightened and stared intently into the mirror. The visage staring back was hard and unfamiliar, a face fractured with craggy grooves from endless nights of insufferable insomnia. The man crinkled his brow. From deep within him, a voice asked, who are you?
I am Miguel Carrigan de Anza.
The voice continued, what are you?
His face relaxed. Avenger and demon…saint and loving son.
With great clarity, Carrigan narrowed his focus on the doorway behind him. He reckoned he would kill the next man who walked through it.
2.
Arroyo de la Soledad,
Texas, August 1836
The rain came soon enough after the battle. For most, it was a welcome close to a bitter day. The aftermath left a smothering dark fume hovering over the battleground that mixed with the precipitate to create a foul, putrid balm. The thick smoke, discharged from the Escopetas and Kentucky Fowlers, clogged the air and clung to both victor and vanquished without discretion.
The defeated lay strewn across the battlefield, their once thriving bodies quiet, silenced by crudely molded lead. Blistered Indian flesh, scorched by black powder expelled a ghastly stench that sought out the survivors and clung tenaciously to their insides. The malodorous fetor left a scent that indelibly marked the living with the reeking smell of death. The seasoned fighters paid the odor no heed and pilfered the dead of their meager possessions. But the weak-hearted retched and cast their faces skyward. Each tried desperately to wash away the smell, unaware and naive that the rain could never cleanse their sin; or the earth…now and forever soiled by the blood of so many bloated corpses. Souls sent to the afterlife forever struck in the grim pose of death.
Margaret de Anza approached the victors, not soldiers by dress, but more a militia, or
more likely, vigilantes. They were perverse watchmen, unconcerned with the distinctions of right and wrong; dark men who used violence and fear to profit from the labor of others. They wore the blood of the vanquished on their buckskins. Wide-brimmed sombreros shaded the cruelty of their eyes. Margaret, a fiery redhead of Irish descent, cradled the butt of a pistol fitted at her waist in a wide strap of leather. She kept a clean cotton cloth, saturated in camphor, pressed to her nose. A boy, no older than eight, stood behind her skirt. She glared at the man she figured to be the leader. "I hope you aim to bury these Tonks," she stated sternly.
The man glanced about the field at the Tonkawa corpses, both men and women, and drew in a reluctant breath, seemingly bothered by the redhead's audacity. "We've no one to bury. There are no riderless horses in our bunch. It would appear we are all accounted for."
Margaret stared at the dead littered across her pasture. "They were harmless enough with whites," she said in a voice tinged with pity. "But you knew that," she added accusingly.
The man offered an uncaring grin. "When a deer drinks at the creek, it doesn't take time to see if the wolf on the far bank is friendly or not…an Indian is an Indian."
Margaret made a hard face. "Well, both of your sides have gorged yourselves on my beeves and contaminated my land with blood. I expect recompense."
The man exhaled, bored. "As far as your cattle, it is your fair payment for our protection and the protection of the Republic."
Margaret tightened her lip, biting back the urge to swear.
"And if this truly is your land, well the savages that currently occupy it are yours as well," he sniped.
Margaret pivoted and grasped her son by the hand. Men such as the one behind her would never listen to reason, and knowing this, she thought it wiser to turn her back and leave.
But the man would not allow for such and called out to her, "If this truly is your land."
Margaret stopped abruptly and wheeled toward the vigilante. Her cheeks blazed a bright red that matched her hair perfectly. "This land, here on the Arroyo de la Soledad," she barked. "This is our land, mine and my husband's, rightly granted us by the Spanish long before you ever scurried across the Sabine, son."
The man smiled, smug. "That's a decision to be made by the land office now."
Margaret studied the man closely. Her hand tightened on the pistol butt. She reckoned she could hit him square in the chest before his fellow looters reacted.
The man lifted his brow in a questioning look. "Something else?" he asked.
Margaret stood still, staring. The man's eyes darkened, exposing a natural viciousness. She saw the building anger. He was a man who held no margin for a woman, especially one who spoke her mind. She swallowed hard and a cold chill rippled across her back as the brutal reality of Texian independence crystallized in her mind. She and her husband had lived through the Mexica revolution. They had witnessed first hand the effects that power bestowed on its revolutionaries. They understood that the new king was always in truth just the old king, and today she fully grasped that this new republic and its government would be no kinder to her family than the old government. Her lips tightened. Her gaze turned into a glare. Realizing there was nothing more to be said or done; she placed a hand on the boy's back and scooted him toward the cabin.
"We'll be back with a new surveyor…on a day when your husband is home," the man called to her. His words were harsh and uncaring.
Margaret looked over shoulder. A wide smile adorned the man's expression. He tapped the brim of his hat and then shrugged coolly.
I should shoot him, she thought to herself, but who would raise the boy? Besides, today, there were men and women to bury. She turned away, her step and her heart a little quicker now. The need to put distance between her son and the man overwhelmed her. She had only gone ten paces when three words from the man stopped her cold and raked her soul. Three words that forced her stomach into her throat. Three words that this vigilante, this stranger, this killer of innocents should not know.
"Mrs. de Anza."
How could this man know my name? Three words. A shiver of fear trickled down her spine. She slipped an arm around her son's shoulder and quickly regained her composure. She continued toward the cabin, faster, fighting the urge to look back, the need to see the man's face, but deep inside she feared and at the same time realized that these men would return one day…and soon.
3.
Gonzales, Texas,
October 1848
Floyd Daniels stomped toward Delgado’s puffed up and wearing an angry scowl. "This darn well better be as serious as you say it is, Jonesy," he grunted to the Faro dealer walking beside him.
"It is, Floyd," Jonesy squawked. "This one's a bad egg for sure. Ned and I both seen it in his eyes."
Daniels was a deputy in Gonzales County and a sergeant in the Lone Star Brigade, a vigilante group that had operated with impunity throughout the territory since '36. Friend and Brigade leader, Wes Cauble, had assembled the group after the Alamo's demise caused fear-stricken colonists to push east in a mass exodus for the United States. The deputy set his jaw squarely and lightly tapped the butt end of his double-barrel shotgun. It was a nervous habit he had picked up during the Republic's battle for independence. The dull thumps of drumming fingers on soft wood soothed him and prepared him to unleash the gun's deadly destruction.
"You sure he ain't just another vaquero riding through?"
"Hahh!" Jonesy spat. "With two Texas Arms holstered to the front? He's no cowboy, Floyd."
Daniels felt the stillness of the morning creep through his bones. To the south, out near the jacales, a dog howled and cut the quiet. Daniels shivered uncontrollably at the mongrel's despair.
Jonesy noticed the deputy's twitch. "I'll bet you a day's pay that fella ain't no cowboy."
Daniels ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. "So you said," he answered, dryly.
"You going in to roust him a bit?"
"We'll see," Daniels responded reflexively.
"This outta be good," Jonesy chuckled. "'Cause he ain't no cowboy, Floyd."
Daniels bit down on his lower lip, irritated. He softened his steps. Just before he reached the boardwalk leading into the cantina, he glanced right, a stallion blacker than a moonless night stood at Delgado's rail. The sight of the great beast halted him mid-stride, dead cold. Daniel's heart quickened and rushing blood pounded in his ears. The deputy dragged a dirty shirtsleeve across his upper lip and squinted hard at the steed. On the stallion's back sat a faded black saddle with a solid silver horn. Daniels knew the saddle well. It was a saddle that he didn't think he would ever see again, a saddle that had given him regular nightmares for over a decade – more than a lifetime in this country.
It's early, maybe I'm just confused.
He extended a trembling arm toward the silver-plated horn and exhaled. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts. He stepped close to the stallion and gazed over the horse's neck. A low raspy moan burst from his lips. Below the saddle knob, a gaping, ragged-edged hole exposed the saddle blanket. Daniels stumbled back.
Can't be!
He inhaled deeply through both nostrils while his fingers tightened around the steel barrels.
"What is it, Floyd?"
Daniels stared at his shotgun. A rush of anxiety washed over him.
It just can't be.
"Floyd? Ned's in there all by his lonesome."
Pulled from his thoughts, Daniels squinted through the open doorway of the darkened bar and muttered through clenched teeth, "You sure picked a lousy day to be away, Wes."
"You going in, Floyd?"
The dealer's voice, nettlesome and annoying, grazed down the deputy's spine and caused Daniels to wheel about angrily. He grabbed Jonesy by the shirt and twisted the dealer's collar around his fist. "Not another word, Jonesy!" he snapped with crazed eyes. "Not a word! Let a man think, will ya?"
The dealer pulled away and slinked backwards, fuddled. "I've never seen you like t
his before, Floyd," he muttered and then glanced at the stallion. "What's got you spooked so?"
"Shut-up!" Daniels snarled, red-faced. "Just shut-up." The deputy stroked a day's growth of whiskers and looked back at the saddle. The reality of the moment darkened around him. A block of ice settled in his belly. Suddenly he knew.
Damnation!
He cursed silently, panicked that his life had arrived at this point and furious that he was alone today. Daniels glanced over his shoulder. His expression was distant and retreating. A frightened voice inside him urged, Run! Death's riding for you at a hard gallop!
Daniels shivered uncontrollably. He tossed his gaze back to Delgado's front door, frozen, listening for any sound coming from inside the cantina. Only an eerie black silence stared back at him. He raised the shotgun belly high. He knew there could be no running today, for whoever was inside Delgado's had come to Gonzales for only one reason…an accounting that Daniels had feared would one day come…requital for previous wrong doings…rectification, long overdue and only set right by killing. Daniels rubbed a calloused palm over three days' growth of whiskers and exhaled a long breath. His mouth turned to dust. He wanted, no needed, a drink.
"Floyd?"
You cussed fool, he swore, and then scolded himself, It can't be him. Get a hold of yourself.
"Floyd?"
Daniels ignored the Faro dealer and turned his attention back to the dirt thoroughfare. He gazed west and exhaled, wondering if Wes and the boys were riding back in. He squinted to bring the distant horizon into focus.
There, he grinned. It's Wes and June and the rest of the boys.
"You better get in there, Floyd."
The dealer's voice shook him back to his task. He glanced back. Fear clouded his expression, He nodded to Jonesy, but his eyes darted furtively to the western horizon. Three tumbleweeds bounced in the distance. Daniel's grin faded. There would be no help this morning. He opened his mouth to say something to Jonesy, but the words strangled deep in his throat. There could be no more hesitating or waiting; he would have to approach this stranger alone or be thought a coward. A great tiredness settled in his back while his heart pounded in his temples. He willed his feet to move, cautious, fearful, and scared to death, certain that this rider, whoever he was, had come to kill not only him…but all of the Lone Star Brigade.
