Buckskin

by Robert Knott

  “Um . . . well. No,” the kid said. “I will have to agree with you there. There ain’t nothing quite like her.”

  “So you ought enjoy it while it lasts.”

  “I do, I mean I am. It’s just that she’s, well, goddamn it, she is your wife.”

  The teamster stopped rigging the mule and turned to the kid.

  “She has other plans for you,” he said. “Don’t you see that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Appaloosa,” he said. “She said she will help you find your mother, and that is what she will do. She’s traveling with you.”

  “What?” the kid said. “When?”

  “Right soon,” the teamster said, then continued harnessing the mules.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why ain’t you coming?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not my business,” he said. “You will go with her on your own.”

  “Well, fuck,” the kid said.

  “You don’t want to?” the teamster said.

  “No,” the kid said, “it’s not that, it’s just . . .”

  “You’ll be in good hands,” the teamster said.

  “I reckon.”

  “You reckon?” the teamster said. “You are okay with that notion, ain’t you?”

  “Well, sure,” the kid said. “That was my plan all along.”

  “Good, then,” he said.

  “I just never planned on traveling with no woman,” the kid said. “Not sure how this happened.”

  “Stars lined up for you, kid.”

  “Be good if you was there,” the kid said.

  The teamster shook his head.

  “I have my own way,” he said.

  “We can wait till you return.”

  “No. It will be a while,” he said. “I won’t be back for a while.”

  “Just don’t seem right,” the kid said.

  “You’re headed there to find your long-lost mother. And my wife will help you.”

  “But the thing is, I ain’t got no goddamn interest in gunning down no lawman.”

  The teamster nodded.

  “I understand that,” he said. “A man has to do what a man has to do.”

  “That’s right,” the kid said as he pressed his shoulders back, making him feel slightly taller than he was. “That is right. A man has to do what a man has to do.”

  “But you need to keep her satisfied,” the teamster said as he snugged the girth band under one of the mules. “You don’t want to disappoint her.”

  The kid didn’t say anything and the teamster turned to face him.

  “You know what I mean?” he said.

  “I do,” the kid said.

  “Good,” the teamster said, then turned to the mules again. “She has traveling money. Good money. You will be taken good care of and you will take good care of her.”

  51

  Much-needed rain rolled in from the north and settled in for a few days. It continued on and off, offering slow showers and a light drizzle, but so far we’d had no real downpours. And by the look of things, it appeared the brief bit of rain was clearing out. It was dark out in the late afternoon, but pieces of sun were breaking through the waning clouds in the west.

  “Wasn’t much,” I said.

  “Not enough,” Virgil said.

  At the moment it was nothing but a light mist where Virgil and I sat our horses under a big oak tree. We were overlooking the Catholic cemetery. Below us, the funeral of James McCormick was under way. A good-size crowd gathered around the gravesite. Most of them were huddled under umbrellas. Bernice was standing with Daniel and Irene. Behind them stood the others gathered to pay their respects, including Allie and a half-dozen other women from her ladies’ social. Standing off to the side and behind the crowd without umbrellas were Hodge and the two hands I had locked up for following Baptiste. After the priest said his final blessing, everyone bowed for a prayer.

  “That’s that,” I said.

  “Is,” Virgil said.

  When the prayer was over, the priest nodded to a small man with bagpipes who was standing off a ways. He lifted the pipes and played some tune that sounded familiar. As the pipes continued, the undertaker turned a crank that started lowering the casket into the grave.

  “Whiskey?” I said.

  Virgil nodded.

  “Why not.”

  We watched for a while longer. Then, as the crowd began to disperse, we moved on.

  The days leading up to the funeral had been uneventful. We had Book, Lloyd, and the deputies keeping an eye out for Victor as they patrolled about town, but there was no sign of him or any of the hands of his we released. Hodge and his men had done nothing more to stir up any kind of trouble. All seemed quiet.

  Virgil and I put our horses away and walked to the Boston House saloon. It was early and the place was not yet full of drinkers and gamblers. There were a few older fellas sitting at a corner table, but nobody else at the bar. And none of the workingwomen appeared to ply their trade.

  When we ordered a second whiskey from Wallis, Victor Bartholomew walked in the side door. At first I did not recognize him. He’d cut his long hair and shaved his beard. He was wearing a nicer hat and clothes than normal with a starched white shirt.

  “I’ll be goddamn,” I said under my breath.

  Virgil followed my look to Victor.

  He stood still, staring at Virgil. Then he walked over and took a seat at the far end of the bar.

  “Whiskey, the Kan-tuck good stuff,” he said. “And your best beer.”

  He turned to us without expression.

  “Been looking for you,” Victor said. “But then I found you.”

  Virgil leaned back, looking past me to get a clear view of Victor, but said nothing.

  “And I think you been looking for me,” Victor said. “How ’bout that shit?”

  Victor took his hat off and set it on the bar. His hair was cut tight to the sides of his head but was long on the top. Strands of hair fell in front of his eyes. He pushed the hair out of his face and grinned.

  “Yep,” he said. “You looking for me and me looking for you. Funny, ain’t it?”

  “Not really,” Virgil said.

  Virgil stopped looking at Victor.

  “Well, I’m right here,” Victor said.

  He opened his coat.

  “And I ain’t heeled.”

  Wallis placed the whiskey and beer in front of him. Then moved away from Victor quick-like. As if Victor might be some kind of creature that might bite.

  “I damn sure should be heeled, but I ain’t.”

  He downed the whiskey, then slid off his stool as he picked up his mug of beer. He sauntered in our direction.

  “No matter,” Victor said.

  Virgil remained looking forward as he spoke.

  “No,” Virgil said. “It matters. If you was heeled, I’d have to lock you up.”

  “That’s funny,” Victor said.

  “No,” Virgil said. “It’s not.”

  “What do you think, Everett?” Victor said. “You think that is funny.”

  “No,” I said.

  Just then two of Victor’s hands, Wayne and the big man, Noah, walked in the side door. I picked up my eight-gauge and had its hammers back with the barrels pointed in their direction as Wallis dropped quickly down behind the bar.

  52

  They stopped a few steps in and stood side by side, looking at us. Noah smiled, holding his hands away from his body.

  “They ain’t heeled,” Victor said. “Show ’em?”

  Noah and Wayne nodded and opened their coats.

  “I’ll be damned,” Noah said. “We meet again.”

  “And I got to say it
is a real pleasure,” Wayne said.

  Virgil glanced at them, then turned his attention to Victor.

  “What do you want to tell me about James McCormick?” Virgil said.

  “Know he’s dead,” Victor said. “I just watched him get put in the ground while ago.”

  I leaned away from the bar so Virgil could have a clear view of Victor.

  “Newspaper said he died of natural causes,” Victor said.

  “You have something to do with those natural causes the newspaper wrote about?” Virgil said.

  Victor laughed.

  “I know that is why you and the dumbass Appaloosa deputies are looking for me. What were you gonna do if you found me? Got nothing on me.”

  Virgil stared at him.

  “Did you?”

  “You killed my brother,” he said. “And you have the goddamn gall to ask me that question?”

  “I know telling the truth is not part of your way of being,” Virgil said. “But I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You fucked up,” Victor said.

  “But I won’t be in the giving mood much longer,” Virgil said.

  “I know exactly what happened,” Victor said. “I talked to his whore, she told me what happened.”

  “Good,” Virgil said.

  “You killed my brother.”

  “He had a chance and he chose not to take it,” Virgil said. “And now you have the same chance.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Just giving you the facts.”

  “Sounds like a threat to me.”

  Virgil shook his head.

  “Everett?”

  “Might sound like a threat to you, Victor,” I said, “but Virgil don’t threaten anybody. Warning’s more like it.”

  “I had fucking nothing to do with James McCormick getting his ass buried, but why should you believe me?”

  “That’s a damn good question,” Virgil said. “Don’t you think, Everett?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Where were you?” Virgil said. “Last Friday in the afternoon?”

  “Why, I took the train to Yaqui,” he said.

  “For?” Virgil said.

  “None of your business,” he said.

  Victor grinned, then fished a ticket out of his breast pocket.

  “Got my ticket right here. Just so you law dogs can have a look-see at my departure from Appaloosa and my return to Appaloosa. Nice place, Yaqui.”

  He walked closer and tossed his train ticket on the bar near me. Then he backed away to his seat. I picked up the ticket, read it, then put it in front of Virgil.

  “What about your brother?” I said.

  Victor downed his beer, then set the mug down hard on the bar.

  “What about him?” Victor picked up his hat off the bar. “Fact is, he’s dead. And of course James McCormick died of natural causes, so there is nothing to really be concerned about there, nothing to discuss. Least that is what the paper said.”

  He dropped a few coins on the bar.

  “Since you like Yaqui so much,” Virgil said, “you might ought to do yourself a favor and go back there. Think you might find it a better place for you and yours.”

  “No,” he said. “I like it here better.”

  He tipped his head toward his men.

  “And we have ourselves a job here, don’t we, boys.”

  They nodded and smiled.

  “We do,” Noah said.

  “’Sides that,” Victor said, “I understand there is a big town get-together shindig coming up. Appaloosa Days. We damn sure don’t want to miss that.”

  Victor sneered, then started for the door. He walked extra slow. And I kept my eye on him, but Virgil did not. Victor stopped at the door and turned to face me.

  “Let me tell you boys something. You done lit the fuse. This is the beginning of hell to pay. And know this . . . that is not a goddamn threat to either one of you, or a warning. It’s a rock-solid promise.”

  Victor turned and walked out. Wayne and Noah considered us a second, then followed him out the door.

  “Pesky no-good fucks,” I said.

  Virgil leaned forward, looking at the cigar boxes behind the bar that were lined up under the mirror.

  “Wallis?” he said.

  Wallis was leaning on the backside of the bar with his arms folded. It was his “I ain’t listening” pose.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  Virgil pointed to the cigar boxes.

  “Let me have one of those Julietas there.”

  “You bet.”

  Wallis got a cigar from the box, cut the tip, and handed it to Virgil. Like magic, he held out the flame of a stick match. Virgil leaned in to the fire. When he got the cigar going, he nodded.

  “Couple more whiskeys for me and Everett,” Virgil said.

  “You bet.”

  Wallis poured. Then he left the bottle with us and moved away. He was good like that. Knowing when to give Virgil and me privacy.

  “He didn’t do it,” Virgil said.

  I thought, then shook my head.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  I picked up the ticket.

  “And he didn’t need to show us this to know that,” I said.

  “No,” Virgil said. “He did not.”

  “He wouldn’t even be back here,” I said.

  “Ventura didn’t do it, either,” Virgil said.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think he did, either.”

  “He didn’t,” Virgil said.

  I nodded.

  “Yeah. Victor leaving town,” I said, “and Ventura doing that on his own with the poison and the stabbing all the while he’s shacked up with that whore up there on the north end. That did not happen.”

  Virgil shook his head as he puffed on the cigar.

  “No,” he said. “Didn’t.”

  We thought about that.

  “Maybe James fucked over somebody we don’t know about, some bad business dealings,” I said. “And they come back for revenge.”

  “Could be.”

  “We ruled out Baptiste and Pritchard, and the Bartholomew brothers,” I said.

  “And the other Baptiste gun hands were locked up,” Virgil said.

  “So who the hell did kill James McCormick?” I said.

  “Damn good question,” Virgil said. “Someone damn sure knows something.”

  “What do you think Victor meant about the rock-solid promise of hell to pay?”

  “Guess we’ll know soon enough,” Virgil said.

  53

  The teamster’s wife was saddled on a lean and muscled buckskin, and the kid was on his pinto. He was towing a small mule with packed panniers. They were mostly full of her gypsy clothing. She rode up ahead of him as they made their way toward Appaloosa. They passed the turnoff that led up toward the gold mines. When they got to the shortcut trail, she turned off the main road.

  “Where we going?” the kid said.

  She turned in the saddle, placing her hand on her horse’s rump, as they rode. She stared at him briefly, then turned forward again.

  It was getting late as they traveled the narrow passageway through the canopy of trees. The sound of cicadas was overwhelming. Finches and sparrows moved quickly as evening approached, squeezing and separating the birds from their daylight.

  “I have made plenty of trips through here,” she said as she watched the birds darting about. “Many times before, I have come through here.”

  The sun was slanting through the trees. It was shining directly on her. It was as if she was in the light by some kind of magical design. Like it was her personal divine ray leading her. He watched her backside moving sensuously with her horse’s gate. The sexual rhythm made him want he
r. He wanted to stop and take her there on the trail in the woods, but he did not say anything. He just watched her as they rode on.

  She did not wear a hat or a bonnet. Her dark, violent hair was up, piled high atop her head. She wore a black dress that was loose but fitted and clung to her strong frame. And she wore sandals that laced up her muscled calves. She resembled something one of the old master painters might have painted. He had seen images of Michelangelo before and she reminded him of something biblical. He knew a little bit about God and the scriptures. Not a lot, but he knew some. He knew the difference between the Old Testament and the New Testament, and he’d seen plenty of biblical paintings in the Catholic churches in Mexico. And he prided himself on his imagination. He had a good painting in his head as to what women folk like Delilah or Jezebel or Salome might look like. And he thought this magnificent creature riding in front of him would fit perfectly in an old painting created by masters.

  Her dress was open about the neck, and her dark skin and parts of her shoulders and chest shined in the light. She wore strands and strands of beads around her neck. Strange necklaces made of shells, small animal teeth, bones, and shiny stones. Polished stones that he figured were valuable. They were bright blues and dark greens. And she wore bracelets. Silver bracelets. There were many of them, and they made noise when she moved about.

  “Why?” the kid said.

  She glanced to him.

  “Why have you made trips through here?” he said.

  She rode some before answering.

  “At another time, when I was very young and with my tribe, my travelers, we made and sold things,” she said. “Traveled all through here from Santa Fe to Yuma to Yaqui to Appaloosa. And from here we made trips to the ocean.”

  “I’ve never seen the ocean,” he said.

  “One day, maybe,” she said.

  “Sold things to survive?” he said.

  “Survive?”

  “Yeah,” the kid said.

  “Isn’t that the final destination? The end result, survival?”

  “I suppose,” he said. “Never really thought much about it. Not like that. Final destination. It’s just what people do. People do things to survive. To eat.”

  “Everyone has to eat,” she said.