A Hundred Miles to Water

by Mike Kearby

  Full-bottle turned and started to run for a stand of river cane.

  One-spur turned quickly. He raised his pistol and fired once.

  Full-bottle stopped mid-stride, arched his back, and then collapsed in a heap.

  “Hell-fire,” Pure muttered.

  One-spur turned back and assumed a crouched position just as July squeezed the trigger. The bullet, aimed at the man’s chest, struck the man slightly above the nose.

  Bandit Town erupted into bedlam. The remaining bandits scurried for cover.

  Pure fired and levered the rifle rapidly. His first shot hit one of the running bandits headed for one of the tents. The man crumbled and fell face-first in the sand.

  July snapped off three quick shots. Two of the shots struck a bandit in the middle of his chest.

  Return gunfire followed quickly.

  “Those fellas’ pistols are useless at this distance,” July shouted out.

  Pure sent another shot into the camp but the three remaining bandits had found cover in one of the tents.

  A cloud of gunpowder drifted up through the willows.

  “We best leave this spot. If those fellas have rifles in that tent, it ain’t going to be hard to see where we’re shooting from.”

  “Good idea,” July said. He scooted out of the willow stand and down the backside of the bank to his horse.

  Pure followed quickly.

  In twenty seconds, both men were mounted.

  “What now?” July asked.

  Pure tightened his lips together, thinking. He rolled the Snapping and Stretching gum to his front teeth and looked across the river.

  July shook his head and chambered a cartridge. “We’ll let’s do it then,” he said.

  Pure nodded and raked his spurs across the Kickapoo pony’s ribs.

  Five seconds later, both men topped the bank and raced across the Rio Grande, riding straight into Bandit Town.

  Thirty-Eight

  December 1878 - Inside Bandit Town, Mexico

  Pure reined his mount to stop fifty yards in front of the tent that hid the three bandits. Calm, but working with a sense of urgency, he flipped the reins left and rolled off his mount’s left side, simultaneously jerking the horse’s head so that the animal’s body moved parallel to the tent. Using the horse as cover, he held a firm grip on the reins, levered a round into the Winchester, and threw the rifle onto the saddle seat.

  A hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the tent, July performed the same maneuver.

  Confusion and disorder followed as a salvo of fire targeted the tent and its inhabitants. Near the front of the tent, a stringer of horses danced in place at the repeated explosions. Unfazed by the horses or the killing, Pure continued to sling murderous lead into the bandits’ shelter.

  Two minutes later, shredded in the fusillade of crossfire, the tent stood riddled with over twenty 44-40 cartridge rounds.

  “Whoa!” Pure yelled.

  July fired once more and then raised his Winchester off the saddle seat with a great exhale as a rush of smoke fled his rifle barrel and breezed toward the river.

  Pure lowered the Winchester and began feeding fresh cartridges into the gun. “If anyone in that tent is still breathing, holler out now, before we start again!” he shouted.

  A slight south wind pushed a deafening silence through the camp.

  “I’m dead serious!” Pure yelled out and then levered a cartridge.

  Cold silence.

  Pure dropped the reins and slipped around his horse’s flank. He studied the tent with strained attention, and after a deep breath, marched forward with the Winchester readied at eye level.

  July hurried to meet Pure, his rifle raised and fit to fire.

  Pure reached the tent opening first and flung back the flap with a wave of his Winchester’s barrel. He pointed the rifle about the tent, all the while chomping the Snapping and Stretching gum between his front teeth.

  “Done,” he said and turned away.

  July took a quick look inside the tent, inhaled once at the gore, and then settled the Winchester on his right shoulder. “Done,” he repeated and backed away, unnerved.

  Pure walked several yards away from the executions and faced July. “We need to find the map,” he said.

  July nodded but twisted his mouth in an uneasy manner.

  “What?” Pure asked.

  July paused three seconds before answering. “Something is beginning to feel muddled in all of this,” he muttered.

  “Muddled how?”

  “I don’t know…muddled strange, maybe.”

  Pure glanced back at the tent. He licked his lower lip and then chewed the Snapping and Stretching gum faster. “We best find that next map.”

  “How many men have we killed over here?”

  “More than you can count on two hands.”

  “And why?”

  “I don’t follow your thinking, July.”

  “Why didn’t E.B. and Nate just bushwhack us like they did everyone else in our crew?”

  Pure turned and started for the body of one-spur. “Let’s find the map, and then we’ll talk about E.B. and Nate’s doings.”

  July gave a reluctant nod and followed Pure toward the dead bandit.

  Pure approached the dead man and rolled the body over with his rifle barrel. The man’s tattered clothing didn’t hold one pocket. He frowned and looked around the man. A sombrero rested on its crown six feet away. Pure walked over to the hat and looked inside. An exposed corner of folded cowhide rested inside the band. Pure bent down and picked up the sombrero. He removed the square piece of hide and let the hat drop to the ground. The signature X, which marked all of E.B.’s maps, immediately caught his eye. He unfolded the cow hide to its full size and studied the charcoaled lines carefully.

  “Where’s it pointing us to?” asked July.

  Pure frowned and didn’t answer. He stood speechless and began to chew the Snapping and Stretching gum faster. Angrier. Then he tossed a sudden, hard look back east toward the stand of coyote willow.

  July noticed Pure’s expression and stepped in close to look at the map. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Hell-fire,” Pure muttered.

  “What?” July asked again and then glanced east.

  “Get down!” Pure screamed and reached for July’s shirt. He pulled hard on the buckskin material and forced July to the ground.

  A warning shot whizzed overhead.

  “What the—?” July hissed.

  “I ain’t going to kill you boys!” reverberated over the Rio Grande. The voice was familiar.

  July looked up with an open mouth. His face flushed in disbelief.

  “Hell-fire,” Pure uttered. He spit the Snapping and Stretching gum into the sand.

  Across the river, standing in front of the coyote willow stood E.B. and Nate Gunn, rifles in hand.

  “Stay down, now!” E.B. shouted. “I don’t wanna see either of you boy’s get scratched up!”

  Nate shouldered his rifle and began firing and levering the Winchester repeatedly.

  Pure, his chin resting in the sand, watched in disbelief as Nate began methodically and accurately to shoot every horse in Bandit Town.

  Journal Entry - When I look back on that time in Mexico, I sometimes get a bit wooly-minded as to that wild and exciting undertaking… what I mean by that is…I sometimes can’t recall exact words or the order that things occurred… ’cepting one…and that one is a memory that is as vivid today as the day it happened on, Friday December 27, 1878. I reckon it’s fixed in my mind so well because at the time it all began, I was laying face-down in Mexican river sand while that cold-blooded bravo, Nate Gunn held me in his Winchester’s bore. I still get goose pimples thinking of it.

  And I can see Pure’s face, dark and angry, as he rose from that Mexican ground and brushed the sand from his shirt sleeves. He stood tall as an oak and called out to E.B., “How’d you know?”

  And E.B.’s response?

  Well
, he dug his thumbs into the front of his trousers, and shouted across the Rio Grande, “You know.”

  Pure got even angrier then, if that was possible, and if he hadn’t spit out his gum earlier, I know he would have been chomping on it like a boar eating an ear of corn. Instead, he pointed his finger at E.B. and yelled back, “How’d you know?”

  I reckon E.B. felt mighty cocksure about that time because he let out a loud belly laugh that echoed up and down the river. And when he finally did stop laughing, he hollered back, “Because Pure Reston, you and me… we ain’t all that different now are we?”

  And right then…I promise this happened…Pure shrunk a foot in height. And his chest sunk in and he…well…he just turned old. I ’spect it was the knowing that throughout this whole thing, perhaps…we had grown more like the Gunns and contrariwise.

  Right after that, I gathered my feet and gave E.B. a hard stare and then locked eyes with Nate. I was mad, and I screamed out to the both of them that no matter what, I promised I was going to hunt them down and kill the two of them. I reckon that must have been a sight because E.B. started laughing again and pointed down the road behind us. “You might want hurry then, little black bull ’cause I hear tell that a local caudillo is not too contento with you boys killing so many of his hombres. I’ve even heard a rumor that this caudillo had two good citizens from McMullen County warn him of these murderous owl hoots. I’ll bet you that jefe is riding for Bandit Town even while we’re jawing. And because I want to be a good neighbor, I’m going patrol this side of the river and make sure you outlaws don’t try to escape back into the States.”

  And right then, both Pure and I turned and faced one another, stunned. Each of us knew that E.B. had us dead to rights. That we had become outlaw fugitives in old Mexico and it was clear to me that the two of us had done a pretty fair job of cooking our own gooses…and it sure felt like we were a hundred miles to water.

  Thirty-Nine

  December 1878 - Bandit Town, Mexico

  The caudillo was as brown and leathery as any Mexican that Pure had ever seen. The militia leader arrived in Bandit Town about an hour after the killings.

  Pure sat in the middle of the encampment on a willow stump that he had carried from one of the bandit tents He noted that the caudillo arrived in earnest … heavily armed and not alone. A force of twenty-five hard-barked Mexicans rode behind him.

  Pure sat with his right boot resting on top of his left thigh. He gripped the Peacemaker in his right hand but held it hidden behind his crossed-leg. By appearance, he was well fixed and comfortable.

  The Mexican leader stopped his horse ten feet in front of Pure but never offered a glance in his direction. Instead he twisted left and right in the saddle and surveyed the carnage scattered throughout the camp. After several minutes, he settled back and cleared his throat, then fixed a sinister glare on Pure.

  Pure didn’t buckle or turn away. He just sat there quiet. Waiting. Wondering.

  The caudillo exhaled roughly and then said in perfect English, “The other?”

  Pure wrinkled his brow. “Pardon?”

  “The other man. Where is he?”

  “Couldn’t really say right now.”

  “Killed perhaps?”

  “Wasn’t the last I saw of him.”

  The caudillo tried not to show his contempt. He tightened his lips into a straight line. After a few seconds, the Mexican leader inhaled and said, “I guess he’s hiding somewhere nearby with his gun trained on my heart.”

  “More likely between your eyes.”

  A grin crossed the caudillo’s face. “And is that suppose to somehow frighten me?”

  Pure shrugged. “I couldn’t really say.”

  “You have no opinion?”

  Pure tossed a quick glance to his right.

  The caudillo instinctively followed Pure’s head movement.

  “It would sure frighten me,” Pure said. “But I ’spect that’s a whole ‘nuther matter.”

  The caudillo studied the surrounding brush. “Your friend must be a good shot,” he said and then swung his gaze back on Pure.

  “Hard to find someone better.”

  “Hmmm,” the caudillo nodded. “I would like to meet this man.”

  “You’ll probably get the opportunity.”

  “Maybe he might go to work for me?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  The caudillo smiled. “And you?”

  “No thanks,” Pure smiled back. “I’m set pretty good right now.

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Because I must tell you that it doesn’t appear so from where I’m sitting.”

  “How do you figure?”

  The caudillo’s eyes scanned Bandit Town once more. “Again, this is just from my view, amigo,” he said and poked a finger into his own chest.

  Pure shrugged. “It’s your show.”

  “You have no horse.”

  “That’s true.”

  The caudillo pointed at Pure and traced his R owner’s boots to his hat. “And from your appearance, youfinger from the might not have any coin either.”

  “I can’t deny that.”

  “So how is it, you are…as you say…set pretty good right now?”

  Pure chuckled, “Because I’m healthy as a Mexican mule.”

  The caudillo and his men roared with laughter.

  Pure joined in.

  After more than a few seconds passed, the caudillo suddenly stopped laughing and cast an icy glare in Pure’s direction.

  Pure locked eyes with the man and never blinked.

  The caudillo flashed a quick grin and then coughed one last chuckle. “Maybe not for long, amigo.”

  Pure nodded politely. “No matter what happens between you and me…my friend will still be out there somewhere.”

  “With his gun pointed between my eyes.”

  Pure uncrossed his leg and exposed the Colt. He raised his left hand and rested the tip of his forefinger between his eyebrows. “Right here to be precise.”

  “And what will you do after he shoots me?”

  Pure rose from the stump and scratched the back of his head with the barrel of the Colt. “I ’spect that’s when things turn sure-enough serious.”

  The caudillo leaned forward and crossed his hands over his saddle horn. “You know we’re…my men and I…probably going to hang you,” he said.

  Pure lowered the Colt and slid it into his holster. “Maybe those fellas behind you will.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m just saying that you won’t be able to participate in my hanging.”

  “You think you frighten me with your words?”

  “No,” Pure said, reluctantly. “But I’m hoping that we can scare this mob of yours a bit.”

  The caudillo smirked and shook his head slowly in disbelief. “You have much to learn about Mexico and its people, amigo,” he whispered.

  Pure walked forward until he stood even with the caudillo’s horse. He admired the animal for a few seconds and then gently ran his hand down the beast’s neck. “Well, I’m not real sure how much time I’ve got here, so why don’t you give me a quick tutoring.”

  The caudillo glanced down at Pure. “You won’t frighten my men by shooting me; you will only make them angrier. You see they hate Anglos, every last one of you.”

  “Except for the two back across the river that set me and my friend up?” Pure asked.

  “No,” the caudillo said emphatically. “They hate those two also. But, they tolerate them…but only because those Anglos give them gold coin.”

  Pure looked up. “And if we give you gold coin?”

  The caudillo paused for a moment and then said, “I don’t know. You and your friend have killed a lot of men in my jurisdiction.”

  “And we might not be finished yet.”

  The caudillo smiled and then chuckled, “As I said, we’re probably going to hang you.”

  “Shame.”

  Th
e caudillo shook his head. “One’s life is sometimes filled with misfortune.”

  Pure nodded in agreement. “Shame on account of there being twelve dead.”

  The caudillo glanced back at his posse. “Bring up a rope,” he said to no one in particular.

  “You first and then eleven of your men,” Pure mocked.

  The caudillo swung his gaze back on Pure. “You are a very confident man, friend.”

  One man from the militia walked his horse forward. He swung the loop of a lariat in a wide, lazy arc.

  “Well I hate bragging, but so far, we seem to have had a fair portion of luck in surviving once the shooting starts.”

  The caudillo regarded Pure with a hard glare. “Maybe you and your friend have yet to encounter men who are not afraid of being shot at…men who know how to shoot back.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Still, you must consider it, amigo.”

  Pure held steady and nodded at the militia. “You mean those men?”

  The caudillo shrugged. “Ah, amigo, who can ever know?”

  “It’s a funny thing though.”

  The caudillo leaned back in his saddle. “What’s that, amigo?”

  “I was just thinking it’s funny that we’ve been outnumbered at least three to one in every fight and yet . . .”

  The caudillo leaned forward and rested both hands on his saddle horn. “Please, amigo, continue with your thought,” he said.

  “Yet, here we both are … me here, and him out there.”

  The caudillo’s face tensed. His brow creased, and he inhaled a deep breath. He looked at the horseman moving forward and motioned at the man with his fist.

  The horseman twirling the lariat stopped his horse.

  Pure stood and stretched his back, more confident now. “As you keep reminding me, I’m going to die anyway. Why not try to kill some of you before I’m shut of this place,” he said.

  The caudillo stared toward the Rio Grande. He rubbed his right thumb along the side of his mouth.

  Pure watched intently.

  A lifetime passed.

  Fifteen seconds later, the caudillo looked back at Pure. “Just how much gold coin are you talking about?” he asked.