Servant of the Law

by Dusty Richards

  For Bobby’s good deeds, such as saddling the hands’ ponies and other chores done for them, he managed to borrow powder, balls, and caps for his pistol. Any idle time he had he spent target-practicing on brown bottles set up in a dry wash back of the corrals. Soon accurate shooting became as automatic to him as walking. It was point, shoot, and bust a bottle.

  The more he practiced, the better he became. He went to smaller targets, like the base of the bottle tossed in the air with his left hand. The Colt in his right blasted it to smithereens.

  “Not bad, kid,” Phillips said from behind his back, breaking his concentration.

  Bobby turned and nodded to the older man who had slipped up unnoticed by him. Phillips was old to be a puncher; men his age usually were foreman or the boss.

  “Next time you go up against the old man, load your gun with birdshot and you won’t ever miss.”

  “Good idea, Phillips. I’ll remember it.” Bobby shook his head in dismay. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  Late that night, he appropriated some shotgun shells McClure used on hawks that got too curious about the ranch’s loose chickens. He knew where the foreman kept the spare brass cartridges in a desk drawer. It was ammunition that fit the late-model pump twelve-gauge on the wall in the adobe hovel he called his office. All Bobby wanted was the shot out of a few shells for his own reserve, in case he ever got another chance to shoot at plates in Chisum’s front yard.

  Saturday night, according to their usual ritual, the hands saddled up to head for Roswell. There was to be a fandango, so Bobby had washed his clothes and wore his suit coat. The sleeves were too long, but he didn’t care, and Rosa wasn’t that fussy how he dressed. Using a ranch horse for his transportation, he rode out the gate with the hooraying cowboys and his own designs for a night of frolicking with his Rosa.

  At the edge of town, he parted from the crew with a foolish grin that spilled his secret plans to the others. His face felt heated for a moment as he realized they knew exactly what his scheme for the evening with her would be.

  He rode off down to the water course. There, under some gnarled, rustling cottonwoods, he unsaddled and turned the horse loose to graze. He had plenty of time before she came to join him. With his back to the twisted tree trunk, hat brim pulled down, he planned to take a siesta. Wind stirred the treetops and birds chirped nosily. Somewhere, a jackass brayed mournfully.

  A stray dog came by, sniffed at Bobby’s boots, dodged his kick and hurried off. He soon drifted into slumber. She would come for him at sundown with food and some wine. His Rosa. He visualized her smooth body, her firm breasts, and imagined making love to her.

  He heard loud voices and his eyes fluttered slowly open. With great surprise, he panicked at the sight of several angry men standing above him with clubs. It was sundown, and in the canted red light he could see they were armed and angry. They had come there to do him harm. But why? What did they want? He went for his gun. Before he could draw, they threw a blanket over him and pinned him to the ground. Angry voices cried out in Spanish, harsh words that he shed like small hailstones. Then they began beating him with sticks and clubs.

  Were they mad? Crazy?

  Past midnight, battered and still dazed from his beating, Bobby managed to crawl to the river. Every muscle and bone in his body ached. A front tooth was broken off. He could feel the empty space with his tongue. His right eye was swollen shut and his left only allowed a narrow slit for partial vision. On the sandbar, he fainted.

  He awoke shortly, spit out the grit in his mouth, and forced himself to sit up. Too groggy to clear his head, he wondered about the reason for the attack. He was a friend, an amigo, to many Mexicans. Plenty of them worked on the Chisum ranch. He always got along with them and knew enough Spanish to communicate with them.

  He tried to open his aching eyes. He could only see the shimmering moonlit water of the Pecos from his left one. Had they harmed Rosa? No matter how bad he felt, he must see at once that she was safe.

  After several tries, he managed to get up and stagger to his horse. Forced to use his left hand to throw the saddle on the horse’s back, his right arm felt so bruised he could barely flex his gun fingers. The condition of that arm bothered him. Would he ever be able to use it again?

  With all his teeth clenching effort, he managed to mount and ride into town, where he found the other Chisum horses in front of Flanagan’s Saloon. He half fell out of the saddle, staggered across the porch, and lurched through the swinging doors.

  “Kid, what in the hell happened to you?” Phillips shouted and jumped to his feet, upsetting a whore from his lap. He rushed over and helped settle Bobby into a chair. One of the girls brought a pan of water and a cloth to clean his cuts. Someone else shoved a glass of whiskey in his hand.

  The rye burned like hell going down his throat. He drank some more and someone with a bottle refilled his glass while the puta very carefully cleansed the cuts on his face.

  Word quickly went out to the others and the Chisum outfit soon filled the saloon around him. Like warriors anxious for revenge, they hung on their teammate’s every word. Bobby told them the entire story, still confused about the reason for the. beating. He tried to flex his right arm, but even the whiskey that eased his hurting had not helped to limber it.

  Phillips took charge when he finished.

  “Tootle, you and Cooly ride down there in messikin town and get a couple of them. Bring them back here and we’ll get to the bottom of this mess.”

  The pair agreed and pulled down their hats. They waded out the batwing doors in their bullhide chaps and everyone else nodded in approval at the plan. They would soon know the truth. Bobby drank some more whiskey and tried to focus his good eye on the mirror beyond the bar. Whew, he sure looked beat up. Some good-looking young puta kept pestering him—didn’t bother her how he looked.

  In a short while, Tootle and Cooly returned with two sullen Mexican prisoners. They roughly shoved them inside the saloon.

  “Here they are,” Tootle announced. He parted the others standing around and went to the bar for a drink. The rest of the cowboys soon surrounded the prisoners.

  Phillips rose from his chair, inspecting the two as he used his thumb to tip back his Stetson. “Why the hell did you beat up our pard here?” He pointed at Bobby.

  The two Mexicans huddled together, obviously awed by Chisum’s men. They shrugged as if they knew nothing.

  “Get a lariat,” Phillips said. “Maybe if we stretch their damn necks they’ll remember something.”

  Yeah, Bobby agreed in his whiskey haze. Why in the hell did they beat him up anyway? He needed to know. One of the cowboys busted in the swinging doors, waving a coiled reata in his hand.

  Then the shorter of the two men fell upon his knees, his hands clasped over his head as if in prayer and began babbling in Spanish a mile a minute.

  “What’s he saying?” someone shouted.

  Cooly pushed his way in closer, then made a scowl. “He’s saying something about Rosa being pregnant?”

  “Rosa!” Bobby roared, bolted out of his chair and rushed to kick the man to death. How dare that bastard say anything about her. But the other cowboys restrained him.

  “Bobby! Bobby!” Phillips shouted in his face to break through his blind rage. “It’s no use. He says that she’s gone to Las Cruces and has already been married to an old man.”

  Rosa married? How could he believe this liar? But it must be the truth or she would have checked on him by this time. Bobby’s knees threatened to buckle. Blood left his face. Cold chills raced through his jaw muscles. The cowboys holding him helped him into a chair. For a long time he sat there in shock, absently drinking more whiskey and barely hearing the consoling voices of the other ranch hands and the whores around him.

  A while later, dead drunk, he went outside, protesting that he wanted to be alone. He mounted his horse under the stars and rode down to the barrio where all the Roswell Mexicans lived side by side in adobe hovels.<
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  Under the starlight, he cursed them at the top of his lungs for what they had done to him and, worse yet, for what they had done to her. Swaying in the saddle, he used his good hand and emptied his pistol at the dark buildings. Finally, he passed out and fell off his horse.

  He awoke in a cell that smelled of old piss pots and realized then about his own captivity. Two days later, John Chisum rode into town and paid his fine. Like the father Bobby never knew, Chisum stood outside the bars looking aloof, while the deputy unlocked the iron door.

  “Budd, you owe me four more months’ work,” Chisum said.

  Bobby grabbed his hat and rushed out of the cell. “I can count.”

  “Good,” the big man said, trailing after him to the front office. The other deputy returned Bobby’s knife as well as his gun and holster. In his rush to get outside, Bobby strapped on the holster and strode through the door into the sunshine. Once on the boardwalk, he drew a deep, grateful breath of freedom. He never wanted to be in another jail as long as he lived.

  Chisum stood beside him, looked up and down the empty street, and started off. “Let’s go have breakfast at the Majesty Hotel.”

  “I already owe you four more months’ pay.”

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Bobby jerked around and blinked at the man. “I ain’t!”

  “I need an avenger, not a crybaby.”

  Taken aback by the big man’s word’s, Bobby considered his good fortune. His headache fled and his ears were tuned to hear every word of the man’s offer.

  “First …” Chisum paused for a rig to go by and tipped his hat to the handsome women seated beside the driver. “Can I trust you to never implicate me?”

  “I ain’t stupid.”

  “If you ever get in trouble with the law while working for me,” Chisum said through his teeth, “I’ll hire the best lawyer that money can buy. Of course, he won’t know who hired him.”

  “I understand—”

  Chisum silenced him with a frown as they climbed the hotel’s front stairs. “We’ll have a good breakfast now,” he said to settle the matter and guided him through the lobby.

  Bobby drew the rich smells of the cooking up his nose. Yes, he would have a great meal in this fancy place with the big man and he was also about to become an avenger at last. Avengers made the big money.

  The waiter was familiar with Chisum for he called the man by name, then showed them to a table and seated them. To demonstrate that he knew what to do, Bobby unfurled the napkin and spread it over his lap. Chisum nodded his approval, giving the waiter their orders for breakfast.

  At length, Chisum leaned forward and spoke under his breath. “The first man I want eliminated is Arthur McKey. He’s a rustler, small-time, but he’s an example of the worthless ones eating and selling my beef to others.” When he finished, Chisum fished out his gold watch and acted busy with it. Finally he raised up his flinty gaze to look hard at Bobby for his reply.

  “I’ll find him and he will be no more,” Bobby promised.

  “That is what I expect. Of course, this is our last public meeting. Your money and instructions from now on will be in the Tank line shack. Check the northeast corner under the roof, reach up and feel for a snuff jar. They will be in it.”

  Bobby simply nodded to indicate he heard and busied himself cutting up his fried eggs. Saliva filled his mouth. After two days of jail slop, he could hardly contain himself to gobble up the real food on his plate. Instead, he attempted to relish each bite and listen carefully to what else Chisum had to say.

  “Stay clear of the main ranch.”

  “I understand.”

  “You learn of any rustlers—” Chisum made a point with his fork. “I want them eliminated.”

  “I understand,” Bobby said, carefully savoring his first taste of the fresh eggs.

  “Get a new Colt, that old cap and ball might misfire. I’ll give you money for one. Buy you a good horse, not some damn old pinto like you rode in on. And for Christ’s sake, you don’t need a flashy horse that folks will notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find you a place to stay, out of sight and mind. If you don’t mess with Sheriff Garrett, he won’t mess with you.”

  Bobby nodded as he bit down on the biscuit. The brown crust melted in his mouth with a swirl of fresh sweet butter flavor on his tongue as he chewed. It was hard to conceal the excitement coursing through his veins.

  “You’re your own man from here on. You get drunk and land in jail, you figure out how to get out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chisum grew taller in the chair. His eyes became dark pits, then he spoke. “You’re smarter than most. But don’t fall into a damn bottle again. I don’t hire drunks nor do I keep them on my payroll. You got it?”

  Bobby nodded that he understood.

  After breakfast, flush with the roll of bills Chisum paid him, Bobby bought a stout bay horse and a good used saddle at the livery. Then he rode the new mount up the street to the Salinas Brothers’ Mercantile, hitched him to the rack, and went inside.

  He purchased a bedroll with a tarp, some coffee, bacon, dried beans, cheese, canned tomatoes and peaches, crackers, salt, and a canteen. Then he selected a new .45 center-fire Colt from the glass case, spun the pistol on his finger, hefted the balance and took an imaginary aim at a lamp.

  “Give me four boxes of ammo,” he said to the anxious clerk.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy about his age said.

  “Oh, and a holster too.” Bobby intended to wrap up his old cap and ball in its own holster and put it for safekeeping in his saddlebags.

  Bobby’s glance fell on the split-tailed canvas coats hanging on the rack. They would shed water and wind and looked a lot more stylish than his old suit coat. He strode over and tried on the first one. The coat was way too large, but he kept trying them on with the clerk’s help until he found one with sleeves short enough.

  “Certainly looks dressy,” the clerk said.

  Bobby studied his image in the tall mirror. He reset the weather-beaten hat on his head once or twice, then nodded. He finally looked and even felt the part of a real avenger.

  A week later, after much scouting and planning, wearing a cotton sack mask with holes for his eyes and mouth, Bobby stealthily crossed the McKeys’ porch in the late night darkness. Two days earlier, he had poisoned the rancher’s dogs, so he knew there would be no barking to give his presence away. With care, he eased himself through the open bedroom window, the oily-smelling new Colt ready in his fist. A floorboard creaked under his boot sole and he paused to listen carefully for the couple’s steady breathing. Satisfied, he continued. In the starlight, he could make out a man’s form on his side of the bed. Beside McKey, his wife in a white nightgown slept in a fetal position.

  Bobby cocked the hammer back and aimed it. A foot away from the man’s face, he blasted the .45. Exactly like when he shot Rinker, the same coldness coursed his veins. Rid of another no-account, was all he could think. The ear-shattering explosion in the bedroom caused the woman beside McKey to jolt awake and she immediately began screaming at the top of her lungs. To be certain the rustler was dead, Bobby shot once more at point-blank range in the man’s face, then he slipped out the window.

  The gunsmoke was choking him. Outside the house and fleeing the porch, he stripped off the mask to escape some of the fumes still in his nose and throat as he hurried for the barn. In a long lope, he crossed the open yard, coughing on the gunpowder fumes. Anxiously, he stopped, caught his breath, and glanced back to check for pursuit. The house buzzed with the sounds of the hysterical family members. Satisfied McKey was dead, he quickly mounted the bay and rode away.

  One less rustler, Chisum.

  The next day on his way back to his hideout, he paused at a cantina and bought two bottles of good rye. Earlier, he’d found an old shack in the hills. After driving out the packrats and scorpions, he set up housekeeping in the hovel. There was plenty of cured grass a
round it for the bay and water, too, in some potholes down the dry wash. Nearby, a small live spring filled a large ollah to overflowing each day with his drinking-water needs.

  The hideout was set back in the junipers, off the main path. He considered the shack a good enough place to cool his heels. General work around the place such as gathering cooking wood kept him busy. It was the nights that began to get to him.

  All his life, Bobby had never missed a chance to sleep soundly, either at siesta or at night. But more and more, he saw Rinker in his dreams, not when he killed him, but when the blacksmith brutally raped him. The man’s hard callused hand clamped over his mouth, smothering his breath to silence his screams of protest at the excruciating pain. After the dreams, Bobby woke up in a clammy sweat, his body quaking.

  Then new dreams began to awaken him. A woman’s piercing screams filled his mind. He dreamt the dead rustler got up out of bed unscathed. Time and again, Bobby would bolt up and hug his goose-bump-covered arms to his body in the chill of the night. He peered hard in the shack’s darkness to be certain he was alone.

  A few good swallows of whiskey sometimes chased away the images as he struggled to slip back to sleep. The next day, Bobby would dread the coming night and the possibility that the nightmare would return. He visualized McKey’s last reflexes again as the lead smashed into his brain. His body’s spasmatic jerks in death’s throes. McKey was dead. Why did his dreams keep bringing him back—alive?

  To try and escape the matter, he rode the next day to the Tank line shack and reached far back in the corner under the eave for the snuff jar. The glass clutched in his hand, he grinned at the sight of the thick roll of bills and carefully read his new orders:

  One down, many more rustlers to go. Verl Butler has a slaughterhouse at his ranch near Black Pine. Old man and both boys are rustlers.

  Verl Butler and sons would be next.

  Bobby’s interest quickly turned to all the cash in the roll. He felt the crispness of the twenties in his fingers. Recalling what Chisum had said to do with those written orders, he held a lit match to the note and soon it was consumed. He dropped the flaming piece of paper short of burning his fingertips and with his boot sole ground the black ashes in the dust of the floor.