Dead Man's Saddle

by Mike Kearby

  "That's the one," he announced.

  Floyd Daniels pulled up on the paint and looked up at the towering tree. "That's a sturdy one for sure, Wes," he said and pulled at the string that secured the coil of rope to his rigging. "Which branch do you want him to swing from?"

  Cauble glanced over at Daniels with dark eyes. "I have something different in mind for this one, Floyd," he stated slow and deliberate. "This time we're going to send a message to every squatting Mex in the Republic. After we're through here today, they're all going to know that their place in this world is across the Rio Grande and all of their land claims are voided by our victory at San Jacinto."

  The deputy settled the rope coil over his saddle horn. "What's our play?"

  Cauble pointed high into the great tree.

  Daniels followed his boss's outstretched hand. Thirty feet above the ground were five branches set one above another, like rungs on a ladder.

  "There," Cauble whispered. "We'll soon see how proud de Anza's woman really is."

  "I don't think I can swing my lariat that far up into the tree, Wes."

  Cauble ignored his deputy. "We'll see if her mouth still carries as much starch as on our last visit," he smirked.

  "Most likely she'll get on her knees and beg like all the others," Daniels chuckled, then clasped his palms together in mock prayer, "Please don't kill my husband, Señor, I love him so much."

  A rumble of laughter emerged from behind.

  Cauble rubbed his chin, thinking, contemplating. "Not this one, Floyd," he murmured. "No, she'll be defiant to the end…just like all whores seem to be."

  Daniels shrugged. "Don't matter to me," he said flatly. "Her man's neck is going to stretch however she plays it."

  "Boss."

  Cauble glanced back at the other four deputies.

  "We've got company," June King said calmly and pointed west toward the river.

  Cauble turned slowly. His right hand instinctively fell to his holster. Standing fifty feet away, almost hidden in the stand of maples, was a young boy. Cauble slid his hand away from his gun. The deer-like boy held a stringer of three small catfish. Cauble's face softened. He tilted his hat back and grinned broadly. "Howdy, son," he said in a welcoming voice. "Looks like you've had a pretty good day."

  The boy didn't twitch.

  Cauble clicked his tongue and eased his horse forward, closer to the paralyzed youth. The boy's face glared with fear. Cauble knew the boy's brain was spinning, remembering the brigade from before and processing whether he could outrun the bunch the three hundred yards to the rancho. Cauble widened his smile. I'm the cat and you’re the mouse. "What’s your name, son?" he asked pleasantly.

  The boy remained unmoved.

  "Now, I know your folks have told you not to speak to strangers, but guess what?"

  The boy tensed his shoulders.

  The mountain lion and the deer.

  Cauble slipped a hand into his shirt pocket and produced a shiny, circular badge. "We're not strangers," he offered, "We're lawmen chasing rustlers."

  The boy narrowed his eyes and swallowed.

  "Come on," Cauble pleaded gently. "Take a look. No one here is going to hurt you."

  The boy squirmed and bit down on his lower lip.

  Cauble extended the badge out over the horse's shoulder. "Come on, take a look," he chuckled. "I'll bet you've never seen one of these before, have you?"

  The boy shook his head.

  The coyote and the rabbit.

  "Come on, you can hold it in your hand."

  The boy allowed a tight smile and started for the burnished metal.

  Cauble's grin melted across his mouth. Gotcha.

  The boy took the badge and weighed it in his hand. "It's heavy," he smiled back.

  "Hey, would you like to be a deputy?"

  The boy glanced up with wide eyes. He nodded his head enthusiastically.

  "Well pin that badge on your shirt, and I'll put you to deputying," Cauble said warmly.

  The boy glanced down and carefully secured the heavy badge on his shirt.

  "Now -" Cauble stopped abruptly, "Hey, I don't even know your name, deputy."

  The boy looked up and said proudly, "Miguel de Anza."

  "Awright, Deputy Miguel de Anza, are you ready to report for work?"

  Miguel replied fearlessly, "Yes sir!"

  Cauble glanced over at Daniels and motioned for the coil of rope. "What I need for you to do is take this rope," Cauble whispered. He pointed to the giant oak behind them. "And climb that tree with it."

  Miguel turned and studied the tree.

  "Can you do that, deputy?"

  Miguel looked back and pronounced, "Sure, I've climbed that tree lots of times before."

  "Good." Cauble exposed a predatory grin. "Get going and I'll tell you what to do with the rope once you're up there."

  7.

  Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,

  October 1848

  Carrigan stood in front of the decaying structure, a crumbling combination of wood and soil that he had once called home. He glanced at the drab landscape surrounding him. This once energetic and thriving country, his birthplace, now struggled in the clutches of a long and crippling drought. Free grazers fleeing back east had devoured the prairies to bare earth in their rush back home. A troubled, doleful sigh escaped his lips. The once fertile de Anza pastures were now nothing more than broom weed and cocklebur. Even the Lipan and the Comanche no longer stopped in the valley on their raids into Mexico.

  He had not been inside the cabin since that day twelve years earlier, and then, through boyish eyes, the dwelling had seemed larger. He inhaled deeply through his nose. A slight breeze, brisk and invigorating, flowed into his body and relaxed him. He remembered that even on the hottest summer night, the house was always several degrees cooler than the rest of the valley. A wisp of cold air brushed the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and took ease in the surroundings. Thoughts of his mother flashed in his head. She moved gracefully toward the horse pen, cat-like, her fire-red hair rising and falling with every step, the flintlock pistol secured firmly in her belt. He took another deep breath; his father's powerful yet soft voice filled his ears. "Miguel, never fear living, it is a most wonderful thing to be alive and feel the land around you."

  The words brought a tight smile to his face.

  Papa.

  He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck, hesitant, somewhat worried, suddenly wondering if his play in Gonzales was the most foolhardy thing he had ever done in his life. The words of his Mexican benefactor, Juan Negras, rolled around his head. "Muchacho, undue haste seems to mark your character. I have never seen a man with such little regard for deliberation."

  I'm just impetuous, he remembered his mocking response to the old brigand. Besides what's done is done.

  Carrigan slowly opened his eyes. The cabin was dark, but he knew there were occupants inside. He could feel the two of them. "Señora," he called out, non-threatening. "I know you're in there, please come outside."

  Silence.

  "Señora, please."

  She had mysteriously appeared a month ago. He had never seen her or the child. He didn't know if the child was boy or a girl. He had just seen the sign, small tracks, imprinted on dead soil leading to the trickle of water that once was a flowing river.

  "I am not here to harm you or the child, but you must listen to me."

  More silence.

  Carrigan glanced up. Darkness was crawling over the western bluff and chasing the warmth from the valley. "Señora, there are men coming. They are coming for me, but if you stay here, they will be coming for you as well."

  A hawk chittered to the north.

  Carrigan knew better than to enter a dark dwelling. He pinched the bridge of his nose and mulled over his choices. Stay outside and waste precious time to prepare for Wes Cauble and his bunch, or go inside where a young boy might feel the need to protect his mother. He set his jaw. He reckoned it didn't really matter what
he did, none of his choices of late had turned out good. He turned an ear toward the cabin. The whole valley was strangely quiet. Impatient and ignoring his internal warnings of potential harm, Carrigan shook his head and bulled ahead.

  "Go away."

  Carrigan halted mid-step. "Señora?"

  "Saddle-up and leave."

  The voice was tired and hollow. Carrigan pushed his hat from his head and searched the windows on either side of the door. A charcoal outline darkened the window on his right. He turned slightly. "Señora, please believe me, I mean you and your child no harm."

  "Then go away."

  "You must leave here. It's not safe for you," Carrigan pleaded.

  "This is our place."

  Carrigan swallowed. "Señora, this is my father's land, de Anza land, and you are welcome here, just not now."

  "I'm warning you."

  "Señora, my father and mother were killed on this land. I don't want the same for you. Please listen."

  Silence.

  Carrigan pulled his hat back onto his head and headed for the door when a branding iron struck his right shoulder. He winced and glanced right. An explosion sounded far off in the night. Blood bubbled through his shirt. Then searing pain radiated across his chest and lightning flashed behind his eyes.

  What in blazes?

  He grasped at his shoulder just as his legs buckled under him, thinking the whole way down…Undue haste seems to mark your character, muchacho.

  8.

  Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,

  October 1848

  Carrigan sat in the dirt, confused, angry, and afflicted. He compressed his left hand firmly against his right shoulder and exhaled in pained relief, "Señora, next time you want to kill a man you best load that scattergun with something more than birdshot."

  The front door skreaked opened. A tall, angular figure emerged in the grayness, followed by a smaller figure.

  "Señora?" Carrigan muttered through gritted teeth.

  The woman hurried from the shadow of the house. "Why did you have to keep coming? The gun just went off."

  Carrigan tried to rise. "Señora, don't ever come outside to help a man you've just shot." And then for some strange unaccounted reason considering his circumstance, he uttered, "That's impetuous."

  The woman ignored the admonishment and approached Carrigan with outstretched hands. She grasped his left arm and tried to pull him to his feet. "Come on," she murmured. "Let's get you inside where we can look at that shoulder."

  Carrigan struggled to his feet. He gazed at the woman. Even in the twilight, he could see the wilt in her eyes and the sag of her mouth. She was thirty going on fifty. He glanced away. His mother's face had undergone a similar transformation. This land, though never discriminate in its harsh cruelty, seemed to wear particularly hard on women.

  "Come on," the woman repeated.

  Carrigan blinked twice, realizing he was rudely staring at the woman's face. He cleared his throat and nodded but not before their eyes met once more.

  The woman lowered her chin and whispered, "I'm sorry. For a minute, I believed you to be someone else."

  Carrigan looked back at the woman. He recognized the droop of her head. He detected her discomfort. Someone's mistreated this woman badly. He struggled to get both feet underneath him. "Well, I'd sure hate to be that fella," he said. His shoulder pain forced a grimace on his normally expressionless face. "And Señora next time, let's do the inside part first," he huffed.

  The woman led Carrigan to a bench made of cut maple and held together with thin strips of leather.

  "Justus, move that fire shade," she ordered the boy.

  Justus scrambled to the fireplace and removed a tanned deer hide from two long oak branches jammed into cracks on either side of the hearth.

  Carrigan smiled weakly. His stomach rose into his chest, and a light sweat covered his forehead. "So that's how you kept it so dark in here."

  The woman stared at him with squinted eyes. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You're awfully pale."

  Carrigan let his chin rest against his chest. "My vitality seems to be waning," he muttered. "Maybe if I stretched out on the floor for a minute…"

  "Let me help you."

  Carrigan swallowed and moved to the edge of the bench. The homemade furniture cracked and then tilted forward depositing him on the dirt floor. "Well, that's one way to get here," he soughed and then added, "I'm a might better though."

  The woman studied his shoulder intently. "I'm going to have to cut that shirt off of you."

  Carrigan looked into the woman's eyes and nodded. He couldn't help but notice her pupils were still contracted. Like a female coyote defending her den, he thought. Like Mama.

  "I'm going to have to pick every one of those pellets from your skin," she shuddered. "And I won't lie to you; it's going to hurt a great deal."

  Carrigan smiled. "What's your name?"

  The woman leaned back, startled. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "A man ought to know the woman's name that filled him with bird shot." Carrigan smiled. Then he felt the blood settle back in his face.

  The woman cracked her mouth slightly and studied Carrigan with deliberate eyes.

  "Mine's Carrigan."

  The woman lifted the blood soaked wool shirt from Carrigan's shoulder. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Carrigan."

  Carrigan pushed his lips together. "There's a knife in my left boot," he winced.

  The woman reached into the boot and withdrew the six-inch blade. In one quick motion, she sliced the fiber all the way to Carrigan's stomach then pulled the shirt back from his shoulders and chest.

  "How's it look?"

  The woman ripped a small section of shirt away and dabbed at the flowing blood. "Not so bad, but those pellets need to come out before I can stem the blood flow," she said.

  Carrigan tightened his jaw. "Use my knife."

  "Justus," the woman called out. "Take Mr. Carrigan's knife and scald it in the fire."

  Carrigan looked back into her eyes. "And what do I call you?"

  The woman frowned. "You're a persistent one, aren't you Mr. Carrigan."

  "My father used to call it Irish bull-headedness, said it came from my mother's side."

  The woman grinned tightly. "Susannah," she murmured.

  "Well, Susannah," Carrigan said and then raised his brow. "I'm ready when you are."

  Justus arrived with the sterilized knife. The blade glowed orange-red.

  Susannah carefully took the handle and leaned over Carrigan's chest. "Forgive me upfront for any pain I am about to cause you."

  Carrigan looked away. "Have you got a bite for me?"

  Susannah lifted her chin at Justus. "Get Mr. Carrigan a sliver of oak from the wood pile."

  The boy nodded and began to rummage through the firewood. After several seconds, he rushed over to Carrigan with a rough piece of branch.

  "Much obliged, Justus," he said and then opened his mouth.

  The boy placed the wood between Carrigan's teeth and backed away.

  Carrigan looked back at Susannah and lifted his brow. "Go ahead," he mumbled, "Seeing how you're not going to tell me your whole name."

  Susannah studied Carrigan and bit down gently on her lower lip, seemingly deep in thought.

  Carrigan took a hard bite on the oak.

  Susannah leaned in close to Carrigan's shoulder and whispered into his ear.

  Carrigan's eyes widened. A look of shock, followed by disbelief, rushed across his face.

  Susannah placed the knife into one of the shots and popped the first pellet from his shoulder.

  Carrigan smelled burnt flesh. A knot twisted his spine cruelly. He tensed, rigid and fixed. His face reddened as the whispered name drifted over the pain.

  My whole name is Susannah Marie Filcher…

  Cauble's throat spasmed. He stared at the woman, stunned. Her words, a hot iron to his chest, were portentous and devastating. The hot blade of the knife dug into his flesh once more.
His gaze fled the woman. Above him, a shadow crept across the blackness of the ceiling. A scream formed inside as the woman dug the next pellet from his body, but he could only muster a dull moan. His eyes glazed and he wanted to throw up, not from the knife's point, but from the woman's pronouncement.

  My whole name is Susannah Marie Filcher…Cauble!

  9.

  Gonzales, Texas,

  October 1848

  The tension inside Delgado's was palpable.

  Wes Cauble’s rabid eyes glared at the dealer's table. His lips were taut and formed a colorless scowl. Cauble was not the sort who took kindly to being called out in public, but that's just what Carrigan had done by telling Ned where he would be and what he held in store for the brigade.

  "A dead man's saddle," Cauble repeated. "There was only the one." He was not a man who believed in ghosts, but fate, well, that was something different. Cauble believed in fortune's decree, his own life was a living gospel to the powerless condition given some men as to their lot in life. "Destiny," he muttered weakly. "And circumstance."

  "Who do you figure this Carrigan fellow is, Wes?" asked Bark Turner.

  Cauble wheeled in his chair, edgy now, and snarled at the four. "You all know sure enough who he is!"

  The remaining deputies leaned back, stunned at the unrestrained flare-up.

  "Blazes, Wes, you're sure running on a short fuse today," Turner lamented.

  Cauble's face blazed crimson. "Shut up," he uttered, tossing an angry glance at Turner and then to the rest of the brigade. "And that goes for all of you! I don't need any of your talk right now."

  The bar turned uncomfortably quiet.

  Cauble stared vacantly through the doorless opening of the saloon and out into the streets of Gonzales. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He expelled long breaths through each nostril. The exhalations, loud, tortured emanations, kept the other brigade members silent and still. Haunted, possessed, or both, Cauble balled his hands into clenched fists and twisted his mouth evilly in painful remembrances of things long past. Unforgettable memories that sunk deep roots into the crevices of a one's mind and left a man with the unique ability to recall those occurrences whether he wanted to or not. A haunting, forlorn, hopeless look shone through the Lone Star Brigade leader's rough exterior. Fortune and luck. Hah! His eyes contracted, and then just as quickly dilated.