by Jory Sherman
Cullers winced as if a sharp pain had cut him in another place and his torso swayed back and forth as if he was listening to some strange strand of hypnotic music. Then he pulled the pistol back toward him and turned it around in his hands. He removed his index finger from the trigger guard and put his thumb inside as the pistol was reversed. He stuck the barrel in his mouth at an angle, so that the muzzle pointed up through the back of his mouth and toward the skull.
Anson started toward Cullers, his left arm outstretched, as if to stop the man from taking his own life. Before he had taken two steps, Cullers depressed the trigger with his thumb. A percussion cap exploded and Cullers’s head jerked with the force of the explosion. His forehead bulged for a split second before the top of his head flew apart, spewing blood and brains into the air in a roseate cloud. He slumped over to his right, the pistol barrel still jammed into his mouth and blood gushing from the exit wound in the back of his head.
“Jesus,” Martin uttered.
Anson staggered backward, repulsed by the horror of what he had just witnessed. The sound of the shot reverberated in his brain and he heard its echo for a long time after Cullers was dead, like some ghostly reminder of the first shot ever fired in the eternity of time stretched across vast centuries.
The young man stood there, no longer shaking, but drained of all emotion and feeling, a scarecrow fallen victim to the wind and the weather, an empty shell with no thought, no judgment, no sorrow or compassion.
“He’s dead,” Anson said, his voice a flat monotone. He was aware of the pain in his shoulder and back, the slight burning in his hip where a lead ball had burned a small furrow. He thought he was no longer bleeding much. His back itched where Cullers’ knife had grazed it and he knew his shirt was ripped. The wound there was not deep; he was grateful for that.
“Keeerist, yes,” Peebo said. “God, I never saw nobody do that before. Your boy had a lot more nerve than I expected.”
“Shut up, Peebo,” Martin said, suddenly freed from his prison of paralysis. He stepped forward and put his hand on Anson’s shoulder. “A terrible thing,” he said flatly.
“I’m glad he’s dead,” Anson said softly.
Thoughts flooded his mind as he stood there staring at Cullers’s grotesque heap in front of him, all his humanness gone, his visage twisted into featureless putty.
Anson knew that this death was like no other. Hoxie had been almost an accident, but this death had been up close and intimate. Cullers had not really died by his own hand, but by Anson’s, for when Anson cut him with the knife, Cullers had begun to die. He had been doomed from the moment when his insides had come tumbling out like so much garbage. Cullers may have pulled the trigger and blown his head apart, but it was the act of a man already dead, the closing act of a savage.
I have gone into the cave, Anson thought, the deepest darkest cave, and I have come out alive. But what have I gained? I feel empty inside. Hollow. Empty as that man lying there dead as a stone. And there is nothing to bring back. It was not like Juanito had said. I have given nothing to mankind, only death, and now I feel dirty inside and out and I feel as if Cullers took something from me. Something that I can never ever get back.
And then the tears came and Anson’s body shook with grief, and it was not grief for Cullers or Hoxie, but for himself, for what had been taken from him. He didn’t know what it was, only that it was gone and he would never get it back because it was lost, lost in that world he had entered where he had met the beast and slain it and now stood over it a hollow man, a man empty of all decency and kindness and whatever manners his mother had taught him. He hated Cullers and his kind and wished he could kill him all over again and again and keep killing him until there was nothing left to lie there and stink in the sun and remind him of what death was and how slender the thread between life and nothingness was and how empty a man could be when he crossed the threshold and went into that dark place of the heart where it is always midnight and always lonesome and cold and grief-stricken.
There should have been something, Anson thought, something better than this, what I feel, what is hurting inside me. There should have been some satisfaction, some great knowing that what I’ve done was for the good and meant something. But there is nothing here but a dead man and my own emptiness, my own sorrow for something good in me that I lost.
“I hate you, Cullers,” Anson said to himself. And then he spoke aloud, without realizing it. “I feel so bad. I hate this.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see his father standing there beside him, a look of understanding on his face.
“You’re hurt,” Martin said. “You’ve got a cut down your shoulder and back.”
“My hip, too,” Anson said. “It doesn’t hurt much. Not like I hurt inside.”
“Don’t feel bad about this, son,” Martin said. “You did what you had to do. Cullers was a bad man. It might have gone the other way.”
“I’m sick about it,” Anson said. “Sick in my heart. Sick all over.”
“That’s just a normal reaction. It’s a terrible thing to see a man take his own life.”
“No, I killed Cullers.”
“In a way …”
“No, I wanted to kill him and I did, and it feels wrong. It just feels bad wrong.”
“Son, I know it does. Cullers should have been caught and hanged. He should have been judged by a jury and sentenced. But he picked the way he died. You didn’t.”
“You mean Cullers should have gotten what you and Mother call justice?”
“That would have been better, I guess.”
“This isn’t justice, then.”
“Son,” Martin said, a grave tone in his voice, “in a place where there are no laws, there is no justice. And then it becomes a good man’s duty to see that justice is done.”
“So this is justice?”
“It’s the only justice Cullers will ever get. You remember what I said, Anson. This is a hard old world and you don’t get many chances to do what you done. Cullers meant to kill you and he got what he deserved. That’s all there is to it.”
His father’s words sunk into Anson, but he was dazed by what he had done, what he had seen, and he could make no sense of any of it. He wiped the tears from his face and looked down at the knife in his hand. The blade was smeared with the blood of Cullers. At first he wanted to throw it away, throw it so far away he would never see it again, but he held it tightly and then wiped the blade on his trousers and stuck the knife back in its sheath.
“Let’s get out of here, Daddy,” Anson said. “I want to go home.”
“Sure, son. No need to stay here no longer.” Martin turned to Peebo. “You got all you need, Peebo?”
“I reckon.”
“We’ll be going on back to Matagorda now. Have to meet my friend Ken Richman, who’s probably waiting for us.”
“I’ll ride with you if you like.”
“You can come along.”
“I’d feel right comfortable in your company,” Peebo said. “You and Anson seem like pretty fine people.”
“We do our best,” Martin said.
The three men walked to where Anson’s horse stood. Anson mounted up and looked down at his father and Peebo.
“I want to ride on alone for a while if that’s all right,” he said.
“Sure, son. We’ll be right behind you,” Martin said.
Peebo lifted his huge hat off his head. “I tip my hat to you, Anson. You’re a brave boy.”
“I ain’t no boy,” Anson said, and turned his horse.
“I’ll buy you a man’s drink in Matagorda,” Peebo called after him. “Bein’ it’s all right with your pa.”
Anson rode out of sight, down into the ravine they had come up earlier in the day.
Martin turned to Peebo. “Hell, I’ll buy him one myself.”
And the two men laughed, the tension between them gone like the mist of morning from the low places when the sun rises clean and golden over
the earth from a place of darkness.
43
LUZ AGUILAR PEERED through the window at the man on horseback. He just sat there staring at the house, and he made her feel afraid. It was just after dawn, and the eastern sky glowed with a pale hue of saffron through a rent in the long, spear-shaped clouds, and none of the men had risen from sleep yet on the rancho. The man made no move to light down from his horse, nor did he hail the house. He just sat there on his scrawny horse, looking at the house, like a statue placed there by some unknown person during the night.
Quickly she ran back to the bedroom. Her husband was still asleep, naked, the thin blanket twisted at his feet. She leaned over the bed and grabbed his shoulder, shook him.
“Matteo, get up,” she said. “Matteo. Do you hear me? Get up.”
Matteo mumbled from somewhere in his dream and turned away from his wife. She shook him again, harder this time.
“You must get up, Matteo. Someone is here. A strange man. He looks like an indio. Ándale, pues, Matteo. Levántate.”
“Huh? What?”
“There is a man outside the house. He looks like an Indian. He is just sitting there watching us.”
Matteo opened his eyes, rubbed the grit of sleep from his lids.
“Who is this man?”
“I do not know. It is not even light yet, and when I looked out the window, there he was. He is on a horse, a skinny horse, very skinny. I have fear, Matteo.”
“Do not worry. I will see who this man is.”
Matteo slipped on a pair of trousers and a shirt, slid his feet into a pair of huaraches. He grabbed the rifle leaning against the wall next to the bed.
“I will come with you,” Luz said as Matteo left the bedroom.
“Walk behind me, then.”
Luz, a small woman with sad dark eyes and long lashes, followed her husband nervously as he went to the front room. She had a beautiful face, reflective of her Spanish and Indian bloodlines. A true Mexican woman, who carried herself proudly as if she were born of royalty, yet with the furtiveness of a wild creature, she stepped cautiously behind her husband as though ready to pounce on any who might attack him.
“Our son is asleep,” she whispered, “and I have seen none of the vaqueros.”
“Good,” said Matteo as he stepped to the window and peered out onto the small courtyard. Beyond the hitchrail he saw the horseman, still sitting his horse as if he was waiting for someone to call out to him.
“Do you know who that is?” Luz asked, her voice soft and liquid with the Spanish tongue.
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“He is called Mickey Bone. I have not seen him for months.”
“Is he dangerous?”
Matteo laughed. “I think that he is, my Luz. But I will talk to him.”
“I have fear of such a one.”
“He will not harm you. Go quick. Prepare the table, make the coffee.”
“You would have this … this indio come into our hacienda ?”
“Yes. He is a man I very much wish to see. Go quick, woman.”
Matteo set the rifle down by the door as Luz scurried off to the kitchen. He opened the door, stood in the doorway.
“Mickey.”
“Matteo.”
“Welcome, my friend. Come and break the fast with my wife and me.”
Mickey rode over to the hitchrail and dismounted. Matteo noted that he had no weapons showing. No rifle in a scabbard, no pistol on his belt. Not even a knife. That was very unusual, and very dangerous. He waited in the doorway for Mickey to walk the few steps to the house. There was no porch; it was a simple dwelling, but it had four big rooms and was cool in the summer, warm in winters, with its thick adobe walls, painted on the inside.
“What passes, Mickey?”
“I have come to see you, Matteo. To ask you a favor.”
“Come in, come in, and we will talk. Do you take coffee? Are you hungry?”
“I will take some coffee and I have not eaten in many days.”
“Ah, how lamentable. Come, and you shall meet my wife and my son if he has arisen from his bed.”
The two men walked into the kitchen. Luz had the firebox going in the woodstove and a pot of hot water on to boil. She was setting cups and plates on a table. A bowl of brown sugar and a small pitcher of fresh cream were already set at the center.
“This is my wife, Luz. Luz, this is Mickey Bone. He used to work for Benito and for Martin Baron.”
“It is a pleasure meeting you,” Luz said tightly, and she did not smile.
“My pleasure,” Mickey said, and from then on he remained wary of Luz and was reluctant to talk.
“So where have you been?” Matteo asked.
“To the mountains.”
“And did you find what you were seeking?” Matteo asked.
“Yes.”
“So you are back, then. To civilization?”
“I am back to ask you for a favor.”
“Ah, we will get to that. First, we drink the coffee, then we eat the tortillas and beans, some carne, eh? And there is rice. Luz will cook it. I am a happy man, Mickey. I have a wife and a son. Luz, awaken little Delberto and bring him to the kitchen, eh? I want to show Mickey what a fine son we have.”
Obediently Luz left the kitchen and returned some minutes later with a very handsome boy, slender with good strong clean features, plenty of black hair and bright brown eyes.
“This is my Delberto. He will someday inherit the wealth of the Aguilar family.”
“Yes, he looks to be a strong boy,” Mickey said, and he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Delberto was no more than two years old and his father had already planned his future.
“That he is,” Matteo said proudly.
“You have a fine ranch here, Matteo,” Mickey said as Luz set warm steaming tortillas on the table. They were in a clay bowl, and she served beans and rice and strips of flavorful came asada. “You have many cattle and horses.”
“I will take them to the Rocking A one day,” Matteo said, “all those that you see, and I will build a fine herd of cattle and breed the good horses.”
“You will not stay here on this ranch?” Matteo asked.
“No, this is only something I dug out of the earth with my bare hands and my fingernails. I will take back the ranch that was stolen from me by that puerco Benito and his stupid wife.”
“I do not know why you need to go back there,” Mickey said. It was plain to Matteo that the Indian was trying to eat politely, but it was also clear that he was very hungry.
“Because I want what rightfully belongs to me,” Matteo said. “Because it is a promise I made to myself.”
“There is much blood on the ground at the Rocking A.”
“There will be more.”
Luz picked up little Delberto. “I will take the boy back to bed. You and your friend need to talk alone.”
“Yes, that is good, Luz. I will see you in a little while.”
“Do not forget that we are to leave for Juárez today.”
“I do not forget,” Matteo said, with impatience.
Luz and her son left the two men to talk alone.
“Eat, eat,” Matteo said. “You have much hunger. What have you been eating?”
Mickey looked slightly sheepish. “Lizards, snakes, bugs, sometimes a rabbit. There is very little to eat in the mountains.”
“Where is your rifle, your pistol? You do not even have a knife.”
“I gave those things away when I went back to my people.”
“It is very dangerous to ride in this country without arms to defend yourself.”
“I walk with the Great Spirit,” Matteo said.
“And there are plenty of your relatives who have gone to that Great Spirit because they were shot and killed.”
“I am a very poor man now in your way of thinking, Matteo. But I have found a woman and I want to marry her.”
“That is good. What is this favo
r you want of me, then? I can give you a rifle and a pistol and we have knives to spare.”
“I want a horse. I will pay you back.”
“You have a horse.”
“I need one to buy my wife.”
“Ah, so you came to borrow a horse to pay for your woman.”
“Yes.”
“And, how will you pay me back, Mickey?”
“I do not know. I have tried to catch the wild horses, but I have grown very weak. I have had no food.”
“Eat much, then. I will give you a horse, Mickey, but you must pay for it.”
“How will I pay for it?”
Matteo pushed away from the table and got up. He left the room and came back a few minutes later with some cigarros. He placed one next to Mickey’s plate and put one in his mouth. He leaned back and opened the firebox. He withdrew a flaming faggot and lit his cigarro and blew the smoke out in a long blue trail, away from Mickey’s face.
“After you have taken your woman for wife, and after you have done what you must do with your people, I want you to come back here and work for me. One year, Mickey, and I will pay you good wages and give you horses so that you will be a rich man among your people.”
“I do not know about this, Matteo. You want me to come back to the white man’s world.”
“No, Mickey. You will be my shadow. You will work only for me. You may live as you wish as long as you are near me.”
“I will work here, on this ranch?”
“When you return,” Matteo said, “we will go to the Rocking A and I will take possession.”
“What about Benito and Pilar?”
Matteo smiled.
“We will see what will happen to them when the time comes.”
Bone watched the smoke from Matteo’s cigarro rise in the air and fan out, dissipate. He thought long and hard for several moments before he spoke again.
“One thing leads to another,” Bone said. “I need the horse to pay for my woman. I need my woman to make me a human being again, to bring a family into the world. An old wise man in the mountains told me that a man lives in his heart, not in the world. He said that we all live in two worlds, the one we see and the one we cannot see.”
