"No!" I cried. "Let me go!" I twisted my damaged leg and yanked. A large chunk of my flesh remained in those macabre, gnashing teeth and blood spurted out onto the sand. The army of ghouls grunted with glee. They moved forward as one to enclose me.
I could not stop the bleeding with my bare hands. I had nowhere to go, and one bullet left. I inched back down into my shelter and used my belt to bind the wound. I began to write in this journal. At once, an ominous lethargy began to overtake me; a numbness that began with the aggrieved calf muscle, and then traveled both down and up that leg. As I write this now, I can no longer feel my lower body.
The lantern is flickering out.
I am spent. Soon will put the gun to my head. Pull trigger.
Can write no more. Take no more.
God
help
me
Nelly Tall Bear is eating my foot…
LUCKY
Pete Cates slept sitting up for three nights running, long Henry rifle across his dirty knees. No fires. He ate dried beef and biscuit at dawn before urging the mare on through the rocks, always moving west. When he finally hit a sudden stretch of flat, grassy ground well before sunset it was a welcome change, but Cates didn't think of it as lucky. A man made his own luck. This was likely the edge of someone's spread, and other folks generally meant trouble.
Cates got to the edge of a thick clump of Cottonwoods. He stretched, turned in the saddle, and took one last look back at the jagged ridge line. The air smelled of burned metal. A thin spider-web of lightning tattooed darkening clouds. He saw no sign of the three angry cowboys who wanted him dead. Cates had gunned down their friend after a drunken card game. He'd been on the run for more than a week, but the only thing following him now was a steadily weakening storm.
A few seconds later thunder growled and the sky spat. A few thick drops of rain drummed along the brim of his hat. Cates rode on, and soon could hear the music of a nearby stream growing wider and deeper as the mountains overflowed. He licked his parched lips.
The mare whinnied softly, smelling that fresh water. Cates stopped, patted her head, sat listening to faint wind in the trees, something furry rustling in the tall grass. A po' will whistled from a clump of manzanita maybe a quarter mile below. Finally another horse answered the thirsty mare. Just one? Thirsty but cautious, Cates loosened the Henry, left the tree line and let the mare walk.
The storm hung itself up in the hills like a drunken Mescalero, and for a time just kind of spun in a circle as if unable to decide which way to go. Cates was happy to beat it down the hill. The creek was louder now, off to his right. He got to the edge of a thick orchard, dismounted and walked, the horse in between as a shield. He looked around, squinted. The afternoon shadows were lengthening steadily, stroking the damp earth. Sunset was maybe an hour off, tops.
When he entered the darkening trees, Cates felt his small hairs flutter, a gut instinct acquired after years of calculated risk. He knew there was no way the cowboys could have gotten around and so far in front of him. If this was a trap, it was someone else. Apache, maybe? Cates fondled the rifle.
He found the other pony, a gaunt palomino, tied to a dead trunk. She nickered again. Could be she was thirsty. If so, she'd been tied up for a while. He knelt in the dirt and read the ground. Signs of some kind of struggle, boot heels mixed in with bare feet, hooves, some moccasin tracks here and there. No blood.
Cates got up, went to the palomino. Eyes on the trees, he loosened the knot and let her go free. She trotted into the brush and he heard her crash down into the stream bed to drink. Cates let his own horse go next, and moved away and down. He went flat to have himself a look-see and edged into some mud, rifle ready. Peered over the edge of the bank, looked down.
To the northeast he saw a waterfall that pretty much sealed off that side of the mountain. Then the ridge line he'd come over some time before. Across the stream, woods. He looked south, scanning the banks as his vision shifted. More tracks, a lot of them going back and forth and in and out of the water on the opposite side, but hard to say how many horses from this far off. Cates rose a bit, moved his head. Some motion caught his eye and he hunkered down again.
Closer to the bank, a young white woman stood knee-deep in the freezing water. Cates couldn't quite take it in at first, but then realized she was busily washing herself between the legs. He crawled closer. Her clothing was torn, and someone had bloodied her a tad. Even from yards away it was plain she had bruises and scrapes. Cates watched her for a while. He wanted to be sure she was alone, that he hadn't just stepped in a pile of shit. The sight was easy on his eyes, anyway. He hadn't been with a woman in weeks, and this one had a nice, ripe body.
The horses drank their fill and clopped away to munch grass a bit further down the bank. The woman finally looked and saw her own mount moving, then looked again and jumped back at the sight of a second horse. Something seemed to fill her with terror. She stumbled through the water, sobbing, and moving faster than he would have dreamed possible, came right up the mud and ran into Cates, who was just getting up off his knees.
"Easy, lady." Cates hadn't said a thing for nearly a week, almost didn't recognize that croak as the sound of his own voice.
The woman started flailing in desperation, not even bothering to scream, or maybe she was already all screamed out. She kicked and scratched, but Cates wore trail gloves and long sleeves, so she couldn't hurt him. Not until she went for his weathered face. Scratched him. Then Cates wrapped her up and flung her down flat into the wet grass. He fell on top. That made her even crazier, and so Cates figured he was going to have to knock her out, but then it hit him to just treat her like a scared animal. He backed away and made a show of lowering his long rifle.
"Ain't fixing to hurt you."
The young woman glared, her fine nostrils flaring. One plump breast peeked through that torn blouse like it wanted to say howdy. Cates finally looked down and away. The girl shifted her clothes. He chewed his lip, drew the rifle close as a lover and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Gone?"
She shook her head briskly, shrugged. I don't know.
Cates looked around again, listening and then looked back at the woman. Whispered: "Apache?" Cates figured if it was Indians, they were likely still around, and then he had indeed stepped in it.
The woman just stared at him. She was panting for air. Cates wasn't much for being a gentleman, so he couldn't help but notice again that she was a real looker. Her red-rimmed eyes were china blue. Finally, she answered in a voice probably gone hoarse from screaming.
"He raped me."
"Who?"
"Chato. Our hired hand."
"Just the one raped you?"
"That's not enough?" She glared. "All you men can all go to hell."
Cates smiled, thinly. "Already been there, lady. And I only asked because of all the tracks."
"My husband Robert was here…before it happened. We got in an argument and rode around in a circle yelling. We were both hopping mad."
"He coming back, your husband? This Robert?"
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She nodded, briskly. "Any minute, and he'll kill that bastard Chato sure as rain." She was lying.
"Fair enough. You won't be needing me, then." He got up and went down to the water, drank greedily and filled his canteen. The woman moved around as if going toward her own pony. It was silent a full minute too long. Cates looked up the bank. The woman was standing there, all alone, holding herself.
"Sir, could I impose on you to stay with me a spell? Just until my nerves settle down?"
Cates washed his face and hands in the stream without answering and wondered at his fortune. He closed the canteen, went back up the bank, caught his horse and led it back. He took a bottle of whiskey from his saddle bags, wiped the top and offered her a drink. The woman refused at first, but then accepted. She drank, grimaced, shuddered but took a second pull. Cates liked that about her, the toughness. He took a sip himself. The al
cohol sparked in his gut.
"My name is Jackson," Cates said. The lie came easy.
"Muriel." She licked her lips. "I thank you for the drink, and for your kindness."
Cates moved a bit closer, gauged her reaction. She accepted a third shot of whiskey, and by now her features were softening. A man makes his own luck. Cates smiled, spoke gently.
"Muriel, how long has it been since he passed away?"
Her eyes filled. "I pray you will not hurt me for being honest with you, sir. My poor husband has been dead for nigh on half a year."
"As this Chato, he worked for you?"
"Two years and a bit."
"Well, then." Wind made the nearby trees moan, and a burst of thunder shook the ground. The horses neighed. "Why don't you tell me what really happened?"
Muriel looked away for a long moment. Thunder boomed in the foothills. "Chato tried a few times before. I always said no. He brought some Mexican boys here to help slaughter the lambs. They drank Mescal last night and well into the morning. I got scared and rode out thinking I'd go to town, stay with the preacher and his wife. They followed."
Cates watched her talk, the way her body moved. "Go on."
"He raped me, sir. And did so in front of the others. I think it was only him, but I passed out after a while, so I can't be sure. When I woke up they were gone. I was bound, but wiggled free just before you arrived." She looked up and deep into his eyes. "Chato, he'll be back soon for more, I can feel it. Please. Don't let him touch me. Not again. Can you stay here, or maybe follow me into town? I can pay."
Cates shrugged. "No offense, Muriel, but this you're trouble on the hoof, and this ain't my business."
She stepped back, trembling. Her eyes cut him into thin slices of jerky. "What kind of man are you?"
"A survivor."
"A pig."
Cates sighed and made as if to leave. The woman said: "No."
He looked at her. Muriel's eyes glistened. "I have a good sized ranch here, sir. And I can make it…worth your while."
Did she mean what she seemed to mean? Cates wasn't sure, but his belly tingled. She started to speak again. Cates waved his hand for silence. He listened intently. "Someone is coming, riding hard."
"Please, help." Muriel said again, even more urgently. "Stop him."
Hooves. A rider appeared on the ridge line, turned sideways. A big man, hunched over in the saddle. He saw the two of them down below, stared long enough to take it all in and then began to whip his horse. Lightening creased the blue-black sky at his back.
Cates weighed the distance to the trees, considered his chances. Meanwhile the rider raced down the slope, came closer and closer. Cates felt his pulse quicken. He fondled the Henry, looked at the woman, then back at the approaching man.
"Help me!"
Cates jumped back, startled. Muriel was now turning in circles, tearing at her clothes, shrieking in terror. "Help me, please! Kill him!" She glared at Cates, back at the rider, back and forth.
The approaching rider drew a gun from his waist and fired. Dust rose not two feet away from Cates's left boot. He aimed the Henry without thinking and pulled the trigger. The big gun slammed back into his shoulder BOOM. The horse kept on coming, but now there was nothing but empty leather on his back. Behind him on the ground only dust rising and a pair of worn boots pointing up.
Muriel stopped screaming and sat down in the dirt as if stunned. Cates shaded his eyes against the lowering sun to see if the rider was still moving. He wasn't. The empty horse slowed down, cruised to the east and headed for the stream. The woman pointed at the body.
"Is he…dead?"
"Stay here."
Cates walked close enough to see the gaping hole in the rider's chest. Gore covered his head and shoulders.
Cates returned to the clearing and stared at the exhausted, nearly naked woman. He nodded. Something odd came over her. She seemed more aroused than shocked. Cates read seduction in her eyes. He shook his head.
"What kind of a woman are you?"
"Grateful."
She stared, one hand toying with the shredded blouse, as if daring him to take her right then and there, with a dead man cooling not thirty foot off. Cates considered that idea, decided it had merit.
"Well, I'll be damned."
He set the Henry down against a flat rock. What the hell, right? He undid his belt buckle, feeling a bit foolish, but fully aroused regardless of the circumstances. He got down on one knee, reached for her breast.
The first bullet missed his heart and took him in the left shoulder. The impact knocked Cates backwards into the dirt. Then he heard the sound, loud and pretty close by. Cates landed on his back with his pants half off and immediately went into shock. The world got silent and slowed down some. He watched Muriel. The woman was back on her feet, screaming again, pointing his way this time. Faint, from very far away, Cates heard her saying shoot him Chato he killed my husband and raped me the murdering son of a bitch kill him Chato kill him please…
Cates saw the squat Mexican now, the one called Chato, and hell, it was just some old man with silver hair. He came from the other side of the orchard, deftly riding bareback on a Palomino, aiming his long rifle right at Cates's chest. Chato wore moccasins. His brown face was tight as a fist, murderous rage danced in those dark eyes. He was buying her whole story hook, line and sinker.
Cates coughed, swallowed blood. She'd seen him coming from over a mile away, had plenty of time to work things out. He tried to speak, to warn the old man about her, because just before Chato blew his head off, it finally hit Cates what kind of woman this Muriel was.
The kind who made her own luck.
THEM BONES
You really want to hear about this? You sure?
Okay, here goes. It was hot as a whore's underwear that summer. Might have been 1946 or maybe '47, I'm not sure any more. I was maybe sixteen years old. My mother had just died of fever. Me and my latest "Daddy," a bad drunk named Bobby Lee Gifford, drove a cherry red 1940 Ford up from Reno to the high desert town of Dry Wells, Nevada. We went to look over a house Bobby Lee's brother-in-law, killed in that war in Europe, had up and left him. Bobby Lee was a big man, rough as a cob and mean as a snake. He did his service in the Marines, up against the Japanese. Probably fucked him up.
He drank the whole damn way.
"You close to this fellow Tim?" I say. I'm just trying to make conversation.
"Hell no," Bobby Lee says. "Tim was a pervert. He knocked my sister up when she was underage, and I beat the crap out of him. I made him marry the bitch before he went off and got killed by the Krauts. Truth be told, we hated each other."
"But then why did he leave you the…"
"Beats me," Bobby Lee said. "Now shut up."
So I did. Bobby Lee was tall, and so weather-beaten he creaked like saddle leather. You had a brain you didn't fuck with him. Excuse my French.
Nevada? You ain't never been up in those parts, the road just goes on forever. You got bits of brush here and there, and then some mountains and then more nothing. To get to Dry Wells you go through this pass, and suddenly everything opens up again. It's high desert, beautiful and strange. Way hot days and freezing cold nights. It's like a really bad woman, and it gets under your skin the same kind of way.
This house was a piece of shit with shingles. It stood maybe two, three hundred yards away from the tore-up railroad tracks on the outskirts of a town that hadn't been much to begin with. We pulled up in that red Ford near dusk, and the big ass-end spun around and raised a cloud of gravel and dust. Bobby Lee had already put away the better part of a six pack. He jumped out, spat in the sand and shook his head.
He said: "She's a sorry bitch," or words to that effect.
I didn't talk much back then. You might find that hard to believe now, but I didn't. You see, I had a Mom who took to booze and selling herself. Mom, she hooked up with a series of so-called Step Daddy's that all beat hell out of me. I learned to walk slow, look at the ground, mu
mble "yes, sir" and "no, sir" and to curl up when somebody started in whomping my ass. Bobby Lee said he was gonna pay me two dollars to help him out. I thought two bucks was a fortune, and I meant to run off with it, maybe to Dallas.
The key broke off in the front door, so Bobby Lee put a shoulder to it. The damned thing flew of the hinges and half way across the living room in a cloud of dust.
"Damn."
I waited outside, not wanting to tick him off, and listened as he went from room to room swearing.
"Leroy!"
"Sir?"
"Get in here, goddamn it!"
The living room had some old furniture in it, dusty and tattered stuff, not worth very much. It smelled like a couple of Tom cats had snuck in through the window and marked the territory. I sneezed. Bobby Lee was standing in the bathroom, shaking his big head. "Toilet don't work either," he said. "We got to use the outhouse."
"What you want me to do?" I said softly. "Straighten up in the living room maybe?"
Bobby Lee shook his head. "Whole thing looks like a waste of time," he said. "Place ain't worth a tinker's damn. Wasn't worth the gasoline took coming up here."
I didn't want him driving back, condition he was in and with a mad on. "Must be something around her worth money," I said. "Want me to look?"
Bobby Lee opened the last beer and went out to sit on the porch to get hammered and watch the sunset.
"Be my guest," he said. "Jesus, what a dump."
I went into the first bedroom. It was painted a kind of pale blue. The box springs had sprung, meaning there were big holes and no sheets. I could smell a bad stink again, too. The bathroom was so foul I couldn't walk in. The other bedroom had some cardboard boxes and magazines in it. I sat on the floor and started going through them. I think I saw Saturday Evening Post and Readers Digest, harmless stuff like that, all issues out before the start of the war.
I pushed them away. It crossed my mind the man maybe had a safe or something, else why would he even bother leaving this place to somebody. Especially somebody he didn't like too much. I wanted to find something worthwhile, so that Bobby Lee would still pay me. So I could run.
Weird, Weird West Page 2
