by Peter Corris
Despite the open window, the room was hot and airless, smelling of rat droppings and dry rot. Lincoln sat down on the bed, pulled out his pipe, stuffed it and puffed clouds of smoke. He took another drink before bending forward to examine the stiff bundle of cloth which was all that remained of a pair of corduroy trousers. The rats had eaten the parts where blood and faeces had collected and much of the leather belt that had held the trousers up, but Lincoln recognised the heavy, circular brass buckle. He had seen it often enough when his father had slowly unfastened the belt as part of the whipping ritual.
'I ain't stroppin' you, boy, I'm stroppin' the evil in you.'
'You old bastard,' Lincoln said. 'You beat me again.'
Lincoln sat in the room for an hour before pulling the bed across so that he could stand high enough to cut the rope. He carried his father's remains out to the buggy, shot several buzzards that had gathered around the corpse of the dog, and drove to the town cemetery. Nothing stirred in Snakehole. The trail that led south to the Rio Grande and Mexico had been practically obliterated by drifting sand and desert weeds. The cemetery was not large and it was laid out in two sections—one for whites and one for Mexicans. He located several Burgos graves—that of the grandfather who had never owned him and at least one of his uncles and a couple of cousins. Wind and weather had blasted most of the headstones and erased the numbers and dates burned into the wooden crosses, but he found his mother's grave. She was buried in the white section, but Lincoln judged that it would have been Burgos money that paid for the flat headstone that had resisted the six years of weathering.
' "Maria Burgos Lincoln".' he read aloud. ' "Aged forty-eight years. Daughter of Luis and Maria, loved sister of Pedro, Jose and Javier, mother of Wesley. At rest with God." I hope you are, Mama, I hope you are, but I'm going to plant Pa with you and I hope it don't disturb your rest.'
He found a rusted shovel in a corner of the graveyard and dug out a trench beside his mother's grave. It did not need to be very deep or wide and there was no fear of animals digging up a skeleton. He wrapped the remains in a bedsheet he had taken from the house and rolled it into the hole. By the time he had finished his hand was aching mightily, but he shovelled the dirt back and lifted a few loose stones to lay on top of the mound. He sat on one of the stones and took a deep drink from his bottle. The second drink he made a toast. 'No words to say, Pa. You were a liar all your life, but I guess you deserved better than this. Maybe.'
It was late in the afternoon and some storm clouds that had been gathering in the west moved quickly up to blot out the sun. Lincoln had another drink as the cemetery took on a sombre, shadowy look. He sniffed, his shoulders twitched and then he was weeping, shaking with deep sobs for his mother and father, his Spanish kin and for himself. He drove back to town and, although he was exhausted, he piled tumblewood, dry grass, fallen branches and loose timber around the whorehouse and the church. He kicked in the door of what had been the hardware store and found several bottles of coal oil which he splashed around the piles of wood and tinder. He set both buildings ablaze and then looked for a place where he could eat and drink, rest up and wait for John Perry.
The mule was a cantankerous beast and Perry found it difficult to strike a rhythm with it. On the other hand, it was strong and in good condition for what could be a difficult ride. Another consideration was that a coloured man on a jut-eared, hide-scarred mule was less likely to attract attention than if he'd been riding a good horse. He had set out with a minimum of provisions—blanket, water canteen, beef jerky, coffee, ship's biscuit, beans and flour—and wearing the oldest clothes in his wardrobe. The Mexican from whom he'd bought the mule had sold him a poncho and a sombrero and given him some critical advice about the mule.
Speaking Spanish, the man had said, 'He likes to hear singing. Do you sing, Senor Perry?'
'Not well,' Perry had replied in the same language.
'I don't think he knows if it is good. He just likes to hear it.'
But Perry was in no mood to sing. As he saw things he had just one advantage—that Lincoln could not know he was being pursued. Otherwise, the odds were against him. Edward Travers had known quite a lot about Lincoln but almost nothing about Snakehole. The belief in Fort Stockton was that the place was a ghost town, but Perry knew such stories were often an exaggeration. Potentially, any remaining resident of the town was an enemy and Perry had no wish to confront anyone other than Wesley Lincoln himself. He had been encouraged to hear that his quarry appeared to have plenty of money. Other information was ambiguous. According to Kite, Travers had said that Lincoln was a sick man.
'In what way?' Perry had asked.
The major had shrugged and flexed his left hand. 'Got some kind of trouble on the left wing. Drinks and takes drugs for the pain. Got himself in a gunfight and a cutting contest back in El Paso. Lucky to get out of it, Travers says.'
Perry considered this as he rode. Lincoln sounded like a violent man, erratic perhaps, and all the more dangerous for it. He grew accustomed to the mule's gait and adjusted his seat and the arrangement of his saddlebags to it. Night fell but the sky was clear and the moon and starlight kept the road well defined for Perry's sharp eyes. His night vision was excellent, and, although he was tired from the hard fight and was experiencing some discomfort in the groin, he was too tense to think of sleep. The countryside was flat and bare with only occasional rock outcrops and scruffy patches of rye grass, mesquite and cactus to break the monotony. Not until he almost fell asleep in the saddle did Perry stop for the night.
He hobbled the mule and watched it carefully for a few minutes. If it felt there was any danger from coyotes or other predators it would exhibit the signs quickly. The animal cropped contentedly at the thin grass and Perry made a quick, rough camp in the shelter of a sand-pitted ironstone boulder. He ate beef jerky and drank coffee. After he'd given the mule some water he settled down by the fire with his rifle and pistol and cleaned and oiled them thoroughly. He checked and rechecked the actions, examined his ammunition and reloaded both weapons. Perry had bought the Martini-Henry rifle in London at some expense and had maintained it carefully ever since. He could achieve pinpoint accuracy with it over 500 yards and, when in practice, a very rapid rate of fire.
He set off early in the morning. The chill quickly gave way to a warm, still day. He had slept well and the ribs Sergeant Mills had pounded were not troubling him. Perry was fairly sure he could see signs of a buggy having gone down the road some time ahead of him. Wind and sand had swept away most of the wheel marks, but here and there an imprint was preserved in soft earth and loose stones. At mid-morning a glint not far off the road caught Perry's eye and he rode over to investigate. He dismounted and found a spent .45 cartridge shell. Nearby he found traces of a recent camp—the carcass of an animal had been buried and scratched up by the prairie scavengers.
'Travelling soft and living off the land, eh, Mr Lincoln?' Perry said.
The mule whinnied and Perry scratched its ugly head, thinking of Jamaica and how much more quickly and comfortably he could have travelled through this desolate country on that fine horse. He dismissed the thought—it would have led to memories of Sarah Braun and the feel of her mouth on his and her body pressed against him. Not to be indulged in now when he still had two days riding ahead of him and great uncertainty after that. He flicked the spent shell into the sagebrush, remounted and smacked the mule's rump. The beast turned its head as if to nip him; Perry laughed and burst into song:
'Gwine to run all night!
Gwine to run all day!
I bet my money on the bobtail nag,
Somebody bet on the bay.'
The mule pricked up its ears and trotted briskly back to the road.
'That's the way, Romeo. I'll sing all day if you'll dig dirt like that.'
Towards the end of the long day, after only a brief stop for a drink of water and some ship's biscuits for himself and the same for the mule, Perry saw two riders away to the west near the sky
line. He was singing at the time and the mule was loping easily. He eased the animal back, stopped singing, slumped in the saddle and let his head droop forward—the image of the idle, heedless-of-time Mexican. The riders checked briefly but then passed on without giving any of the usual friendly signals of travelling people.
This charade depressed Perry and he pushed on until the sky clouded over and night drew in suddenly, bringing with it a cold wind that stirred up the sand and caused him to tie a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Up ahead a mile or so and a few hundred yards away from the road he could see a stand of cottonwoods and he urged the mule forward towards them as the wind increased in velocity and the sand cut down the visibility. The mule struggled on over rising ground, protesting as the sand blinded it. Perry dismounted and tugged on the reins, forcing the animal to progress through the howling wind and stinging sand. He gained the shelter of the trees and spat sand from his mouth and dug it from his nostrils and ears. The mule snorted and drummed its hooves, sneezed and coughed and Perry found himself laughing and singing again:
'O give me a home where the buffalo roam,
Where the deer and the antelope play,
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word
And the skies are not cloudy all day.'
Perry spent a miserable night sheltering from the windstorm which did not abate until dawn. There was a little rain, just enough to turn the sand and dirt that had blown onto him and his possessions to a light sticky mud that took time to clean off. He got underway late and had difficulty locating and staying on the road. The next night was more comfortable and he shot and roasted a scrub turkey and allowed himself some brandy in his coffee. But his last canteen was almost empty by the end of the third day and he was becoming concerned. The mule seemed to be able to make do with the dew on the morning grass and the odd muddy puddle.
That night Perry scooped out a depression and spread an oilskin groundsheet over it. He collected the dew that had accumulated before the sun rose; he trickled the water into his canteen and took a small drink. The mule was licking energetically at the wet grass and making dissatisfied noises. By Perry's rough calculations, Snakehole could not be more than a few hours away and it had become a matter of necessity to get there now, over and above his search for Lincoln. He rode hard, straining his eyes at the horizon. The sun was almost at its highest point in the sky when he saw the dark smudge in the distance where Snakehole ought to be.
40
Lincoln prowled through the deserted, crumbling town, taking anything that pleased him, although the last residents had cleaned out almost everything of value. A hat and a coat, some books, an axe and a saw and several bottles of tequila comprised his loot. He took up residence in the house which had formerly been occupied by the manager of Snakehole's barely profitable silver mine. The house was built of timber like all the others, not a defendable position, but it was on high ground and offered a good view of the road that led into the town and the trail leading to the border. It also had a pump in the backyard which, after Lincoln had done a considerable amount of work on it, yielded a thin trickle of brown water. All the other pumps and wells were dry, but there was a muddy soak on the eastern edge where stray dogs and wildlife came to drink. Lincoln tethered the horse on a long rope in this area and moved it about each day over the scanty grass.
Hunting through the empty houses and stores and remembering the scenes from his youth they provoked, soon palled. He was living on the remainder of his provisions which were monotonous and getting low. He could have shot rabbits or scrub turkeys but he was wary of making noise. He slept poorly in the mine manager's sagging bed, starting awake from bad dreams at the night sounds—flapping roof iron, coyote howls and the brushing of tumbleweed against wooden walls. From feeling that he had the upper hand, knowing that Perry was coming, he began to feel like a prisoner, alert and waiting, but trapped and not knowing how long he would have to wait.
His hand hurt and he took laudanum. When he knocked it against a post it throbbed agonisingly and he took a morphine pill. He slept through the afternoon and into the night and woke sweating, disoriented and sure he could hear footsteps around the house. The panic abated and he forced down some food and drink before wandering around the town with his rifle in the crook of his arm and a cold wind cutting through his thin coat. The result was a chill that had him shivering and feverish for two nights and left him weak and fretful. He was talking to himself more, drinking more and eating less. A morning, afternoon and evening dose of laudanum became a regular habit, not even thought about until he became aware that his supply was dwindling.
He brushed away cobwebs and dirt and sat at the upright piano in the empty saloon, trying to remember the melodies he'd once been able to pick out. Several of the keys were missing and the instrument was hopelessly out of tune, but it didn't matter anyway. He couldn't use his left hand and he couldn't remember which keys to strike. Enraged, he took his axe to the piano, demolished it and was left feeling stupid and impotent. He looked for his harmonica in his bags but couldn't find it. He drank tequila, sat on the porch of the house, gazed up the road and whittled.
There had been no rain since his arrival nor some time before, and everything in the town was tinder dry. One night the wind lifted and a howling sandstorm blew in briefly from the badlands. Lincoln huddled in the house listening to things banging and breaking all around. He drank brandy and opium, dozed and only woke when he became aware of the smell of smoke. He rushed outside and saw that half of the town was on fire. Lincoln was safe on the south side of the wide main street—on the other side, everything combustible was burning or threatened as the now light wind, blowing away from him, pushed the fire on. Lincoln stood and watched, fascinated, as the flames ate up everything in their path.
The flames shot up high into the night sky and buildings crumbled and fell, sending out masses of sparks that fell on dry grass and started pockets of fire that crackled brightly and quickly died as the dry grass burnt out. Lincoln laughed as he watched the buildings fall. As the last one was enveloped he was tempted to light a torch and carry the conflagration across to the other side of the town. He didn't. The town was dead. There was no point in damaging it further. Lincoln fetched a blanket from inside, uncorked a tequila bottle and sat on the porch to watch the fire burn itself out. The gatepost of a picket fence around a house that had been occupied by one of the men who had tried to lynch him burst into flame. The fire ran along the fence, catching the dried-out pickets which flared like a series of firecrackers.
'Never thought a small, mean place like this 'un could put on such a good show,' Lincoln said as he swigged on the tequila. He fell asleep again, sitting on the porch in only an undershirt and pants with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He was shivering and feverish again when he woke up and crawled back into the house to drink rusty water and dose himself with laudanum. When he finally re-emerged around midday he was feeling steadier although he looked a ruin: his clothes were crumpled, dirty and stinking, his hair was matted and he had a growth of saliva-stiff beard. The money belt under his shirt itched where it rubbed against his almost fleshless ribs.
The burnt part of the town was now a smoking mess, still sending up occasional showers of sparks as a post fell in or a beam collapsed. Lincoln took his rifle and the tequila bottle and wandered up to the church and inspected the debris. He stood for some time, sniffing at the debris before he poked around with the butt of his rifle and discovered the probable source of the fire—a stash of corn liquor jugs under the residential part of the church had been covered with a thick layer of burlap sacks. The fire he had started must have smouldered here before being fanned into new life by the windstorm. The jugs must have blown apart and provided explosive fuel.
Lincoln let out a short, harsh laugh as he kicked at the shattered jugs and stomped on the burnt sacking. 'You were right all along, Pa,' he mumbled. 'You brought hellfire and damnation down on this lousy burg just like you always pre
ached.'
Perry left the road and circled to the east, onto higher ground where he hoped to be able to catch sight of the town early. He was still several miles distant when he started to encounter flecks of ash being borne on the wind towards him. The smell of burnt paint, timber, grass and rubber also reached him. Perry had encountered major fires before but they always carried another scent—that of burning flesh. This had claimed no human lives or stock. He stopped and gave the last of his precious supply of water to the mule which was flagging in the heat. Perry judged the tendrils of smoke curling up into the still air to be no more than a couple of miles away. He took out a spyglass he had bought in San Francisco and examined the landscape. Nothing moved on his side of a low rise approximately a mile away.
He remounted and rode forward. He stopped before the rise and worked his way along a winding arroyo until he had a clear view of the country ahead. He saw the dried-up bed of the creek and the effect this cessation of water had meant to the town. What had been fenced pasture was now sand and dirt and the trees that still stood were grey and had lost branches to the wind. He used the spyglass again, peering through a smoky haze, and saw how half of the town had become a blackened ruin while the other half wore a flattened, defeated look. There were only two patches of green indicating the presence of water—a paddock with a broken fence where a horse was tethered near a trampled, muddy soak and a pump behind one of the intact houses where a bucket was catching precious drops.
He tethered the mule to a rock in the arroyo and worked his way down the slight slope towards the town, taking cover from available rocks, cactus and scrub. He drew his pistol, adjusted the sling that held the Martini-Henry across his back, and worked his way towards the yard with the pump. A perfect place for a trap, and he scouted it carefully from all sides before quietly entering the house through the open front door and looking into each room. The place was deserted and Perry, still crouching and alert, went out to the yard and grabbed the bucket. The rusty water was balm to his parched throat. He sipped carefully before taking one long swallow. He wet his handkerchief and wiped sweat and dust from his face and eyes. There had been signs of occupation in the house and there were boot marks around the pump.
