The Horses

by Bill Brooks

  He tied the horse good so it wouldn’t run away, then went inside and found a bar of old yellow soap and walked down to the river with it, thinking of the German’s big, wide-hipped wife.

  He stripped out of his clothes and stood naked there at the river’s edge, watching the brown flowing water move lazily along. The recent rain had made it run a little higher than usual. At its worst, it could be something to behold, overrunning its banks, carrying with it trees and coffins and bloated animals.

  He waded in to his waist, the water cold enough to shrink his nuts, causing him to shiver. It had been seven months since he’d bathed last. It was time. He washed his hair and under his arms, his neck and chest, his still strong legs made that way from years of running as a youth. He was nearly as brown as the river. Soap stung his eyes and he washed it out. The water curled between his legs, and he thought of the women he’d had in his lifetime. Gone now, probably all dead or blind or crippled by time. He remembered their beauty, and the memory had sustained him over the years of living alone.

  He rinsed off and came to the bank and took his clothes and soaked them in the water, then scrubbed them with the bar of soap and slapped them on a big flat rock and rinsed them again and climbed out carrying the wet clothing. He hung the clothes, still dripping river water, from the lower limbs of a lightning-struck cottonwood and went inside the house and found an old but clean blanket and wrapped that around his shoulders and went back out again and sat in the sun. The sun’s heat took a long time to get down to his chilled bones but finally it did, and he felt better. He sat until the sun dried his hair too.

  He closed his eyes and dozed like an old dog and was awakened by the sound of something strange. And when he opened his eyes and looked there she was—the German’s big wife getting down from a buggy had a leather quarter-top and was drawn by a single roan horse.

  She looked around at the place in a sort of wonderment.

  “Yah,” she said.

  “Yah,” he said.

  “Yah, yah…”

  He followed her inside the house. He pinched her big bottom, and she yipped. It was going to be a good day all the way around.

  Jim walked back up to the Cat’s Paw. The place had cleared out some, just one table of poker players, a couple of men standing at the bar jawing at each other. Bilk was looking at the cover of the ten-cent romance even though he couldn’t read a word.

  “I’ll take the job,” Jim said.

  “I run it past the rest of the town council already and they approved.”

  “Got a piece of paper and a pencil?”

  “Sure, somewhere.”

  “Get them.”

  Bilk went down the hall to the back, then returned with said items, and Jim wrote out a contract:

  I, Jim Glass, do hereby accept the position of town constable for the town of Domingo in the territory of New Mexico on this day, April 9th, 1885, for the sum of sixty dollars for a period of not more than thirty days, or until a new constable is hired, but not longer than for a period of one month from this date. The amount will be paid in full to me…

  Jim paused and allowed one possible consideration to enter his thoughts, then continued:

  …or to be paid to Luz Otero in the event of my death. Further, it is agreed that any expenses I incur in the pursuit of my duties as constable shall be reimbursed to me by the town council including mileage.

  Signed: J. Glass.

  He left room for Bilk to sign it. Bilk looked slightly embarrassed when Jim handed him the paper and told him to read it and sign it.

  “I never learned how to read.”

  Jim read it to him.

  “Just make your mark there next to my name,” Jim said, pointing to where. Bilk put an X and Jim wrote Bilk’s name next to it, then folded the paper and put it in his pocket, intending to give it to Luz.

  Jim went out again and walked to the jail where Woody sat the chair behind the desk in the small anteroom, the shotgun resting atop the desk.

  “You want to be a deputy?”

  “I’ve no experience.”

  “Neither did I the first job I took,” Jim said. “Thing is if you think it beats clerking at the hotel.”

  “Not sure that it does.”

  “Fine, I’ll find somebody else.”

  “No. I mean, well, I’d like to give it a try.”

  “Then I deputize you and see that you get thirty a month. You know anybody else who has any grit to them would want to also be deputized?”

  The name that popped immediately into mind was Black Bob.

  “He picks up what work he can, digging graves, hauling freight between here and Lincoln, but I don’t believe he has nothing steady. I think he’d make a good man for you.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Just south of town, quarter of a mile. Little hardscrabble place with lots of chickens, some goats, a few pigs, lots of kids.”

  “Okay. You need relief, walk up and get you a beer and something to eat at the Cat’s Paw, tell Bilk to put it on the tab, that you’re my new deputy. I’ll wait here.”

  Woody high-stepped it up the street, thinking this would be an adventure he would someday write about—that a poet’s life was not one to be lived within four safe and boring walls, sitting behind a desk and handing people room keys, but out on the streets of the living humanity, the good and the bad—the blessed and the evil.

  Jim went back to the single cell to check on his prisoners. They were there, one bleeding, holding his mouth, and the other looking befuddled. They looked at him with crusted hateful eyes.

  When Woody returned, Jim instructed him at the noon hour to go and get the prisoners some sandwiches wrapped in butcher’s paper and a canteen of water and pass it to them through the barred opening at the bottom of the door, but not to unlock it.

  Then he rode off south in search of Black Bob’s place.

  He spotted it right off, set back a dozen yards from the road. Could smell the pig stink because the wind was right.

  Seven black faces looked at him when he rode up—the man’s, the woman’s, and the five children’s, none taller than the man’s waist. An old hound stood its ground, barking, its hackles raised. The chickens squawked like they were being murdered.

  “Black Bob? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

  “Robert Lee Washington,” the man said.

  “You looking for a job?”

  “Always looking for a job, what you got needs doing?”

  There was a buckboard in the yard, a pair of horses grazing from picket ropes. The house looked too small for all of them in it at one time. The red handle of a water pump stood waiting for someone to jack it. The woman was thin, had her hair bundled in a gray scarf. The kids—three boys and two girls—were barefoot, their clothes faded from wear and wash.

  “I need another deputy.”

  “You the new law?”

  “I am, for now. Name’s Jim Glass.” Jim extended his hand while sitting his horse, and the man came and shook it with a strong grip.

  “You mean you want me to wear a gun?”

  “Only if you feel comfortable wearing one, but yes, that’s what lawmen generally do, wear a sidearm.”

  “Might rile some folks, black man wearing a gun, being the law over them.”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “Might I ask what you’re paying?”

  “Thirty a month, same as the other deputy’s getting. Thing is, I’m only temporary till they can find a permanent man. He comes, he might want to hire his own men, and you could be out of a job. But till then, the pay’s a dollar a day plus meals, but a guaranteed month’s worth of work no matter.”

  “Where do I sign up?”

  “Raise your right hand and swear to uphold the law of the town of Domingo.”

  “I do.”

  “You got a gun?”

  “Rifle.”

  “That’ll do for now. Hie on over to the jail and relieve Woody come about six o’c
lock. I’ll relieve you later on tonight.”

  “That’s it then?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll let the others in town know what the arrangement is, but anybody gives you trouble, you come see me at the Cat’s Paw. You know Bilk, the owner?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’m not there, you ask him where I am.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll see you later then.”

  Jim turned his horse back toward town. It was probably going to be a long week waiting for the circuit judge to arrive. But it was a thing that needed doing, and a week was only a week in a lifetime waiting for him.

  He stopped at the mercantile and went in and asked to see a catalog had suits in it. Found one he liked.

  “How’s this work?” he asked Ortega, the owner. “I just order it, or what?”

  “First we measure you.”

  Ortega measured him with a tape and wrote the numbers down on a slip of paper. The suit was fifteen dollars. It was a nice suit of black broadcloth, coat and trousers. Fitting enough for a man to be married in. Wedding suit.

  Suddenly he felt different.

  A good feeling it was too.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They sat there over supper, across from each other in Luz’s kitchen of Mexican tile, the big heavy wood table and chairs taking up most of the room. They’d eaten bowls of chili, warm biscuits. And now they sat smoking cigarettes and sipping whiskey.

  “I ordered a wedding suit,” he said. “A black one.”

  Her eyes seemed to brighten slightly, then dimmed again. She was thinking: Wedding, or funeral?

  “Everything will be okay,” he tried again reassuring her.

  “Yes, of course it will.”

  They heard a bird singing outside; they weren’t sure which kind. It was Saturday. People would be gathering for a dance in the plaza. In the quiet evening air they could hear the musicians tuning their guitars, practicing with their voices. Lights were starting to come on in the growing dusk, luminaries lit.

  “I need to go check on the jail,” he said.

  She didn’t say anything. Perhaps she’d drunk a little too much. Her features were loose.

  “I’ll come back in a little while and maybe we can walk down to the plaza, perhaps dance if you like. I’m not very clever with my feet.”

  He could tell she was filled with sorrow. He gathered his hat and settled it on his head and went to the door without any more conversation.

  Went down the stone path to the gate, out it to the street. Looking one way he could see the flickering luminaries in the plaza, circling it, a glowing ring of flickering desire. The church just beyond stood sentinel like some moral overseer. He turned away and headed toward the center of town instead and to the jail where Black Bob sat, but choosing to sit out of doors to hear the music rather than within—the shotgun laid across his legs.

  “How is everything?” Jim said.

  “Fine, boss.”

  “Woody feed those men earlier?”

  “Said he did.”

  “I want you to go get some supper, and bring them something too.” Gave Bob the same warning he had given Woody—to slide the food under the barred door, not unlock it.

  “Okay, boss.”

  “I’ll wait for you to return.”

  Black Bob stood and headed up the street to the Dollar Café. Jim rolled himself a shuck and struck a match off the stone wall, causing a flame to jump to life, then put the end of his shuck to it and drew deeply before snapping out the match.

  “Hey you son of a bitch, when we going to eat in here?” a voice shouted from inside. He knew it was the smaller man—the one called himself the Mortician.

  He stood and went inside and looked at the two of them.

  “Food will be here soon, hold your water.”

  “You got no right to hold us.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I killed the goddamn lawman yesterday because he stuck his nose in my business and I’ll sure as hell do the same with you.”

  “That was yesterday, and I’m not him, and you’re locked down case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Then I’ll by God kill you tomorrow.”

  “You’re about a funny son of a bitch. Good luck with that, eh.”

  “Listen, you let us out, I’ll give you the three hundred, even though we didn’t have nothing to do with your horses.”

  “Stick the money through the bars.”

  Moment of silence like a paused heartbeat. Jim exhaled a stream of smoke.

  “I’ll have to go get it…”

  “Yeah, good luck with that too.”

  Jim went out again and leaned against the wall and stared up into the deepening purple sky. People were starting to come up the street in earnest now, headed for the plaza, knowing the dance would soon begin. Two that wouldn’t be there and would not be coming were old Tug Bailey and Trout Threadneedle. No more dances for them, ever.

  After a time Black Bob returned carrying two pails. One held a stew, the other ice beer.

  “Those aren’t going to fit between the bars,” Jim said.

  Bob looked consternated.

  Jim walked back inside with him and took the key from his pocket and called in.

  “I’m unlocking this door so you boys can be fed, but you come out of there like caged badgers, the only thing you’ll end up eating is lead and dirt. Stay back away from the door.”

  Jim unlocked the brass lock and unhooked it, then stepped back with the shotgun at the ready, nodded, and Bob set the pails inside the door, then closed the door and snapped the lock back into place.

  “Have at it, boys,” Jim said. Then to Bob: “You get yourself fed?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “Good, I’ll send Woody around to relieve you later.”

  Black Bob sat alone, his chair tilted back against the wall outside, and listened as the music down at the plaza began to take hold of the night. It was sweet, heart-beating music that set one foot to tapping against the flatboards of the sidewalk. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for his days of youth back. What a rover he had been, everything from driving cattle up the long lonesome to being a buffalo soldier with the Ninth. There were all sorts of gals, from high yaller to dark as coal, pretty gals and not so pretty gals. He loved the laughter of a pretty gal and wished he was out there in that plaza dancing with one now. Then he thought of his wife, how sullen and difficult she’d grown over the years from the sweet and meek gal she was when he took up with her. Now she was all loud mouth, full of bitterness, at whatnot, he didn’t even know exactly. But he loved his children and knew he’d never leave her because of them. Oh, that music was surely sweet.

  Later, after the music quit and the people had all gone home, Woody arrived, carrying a pistol in the waistband of his trousers, holding a lantern that swung light in the darkness.

  “Bob, how you making out?”

  “Good enough, you?”

  “Good enough. Any problems with those galoots?”

  “What sort of problem is a man locked up bound to give?”

  “Don’t know. None, I suppose.”

  “You come to relieve me?”

  “Yes. You want a taste of this before you go?”

  Woody took a bottle out of his back pocket and held it forth. It was blackberry brandy.

  “Something to warm you.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Woody squatted on his heels and the two men passed the bottle between them, drinking slow, deliberate little mouthfuls of the sweet alcohol.

  “You can go on home you want to,” Woody said.

  “Nah, it’s okay, boss. Late as it is, all my kin will be in bed asleep.”

  “Should have brought a deck of cards.”

  “You hear that music earlier?”

  “Yeah, I went down there to the dance.”

  “You do any dancing?”

  “Some. Danced with a pretty li
ttle thing, but her mean-eyed mama kept watching us.”

  “Otherwise you’d danced off in the dark with her.”

  “I sure would have, I do believe.”

  “They tells me you write poetry.”

  “Yes, but it must not be very good. Can’t get anybody to publish it.”

  “Don’t mean it’s no good.”

  “What good are words written on a page if nobody reads them?”

  “Got a point there. Here’s your bottle, boss.”

  “You ever read any poetry, Bob?”

  “Can’t say as I have. No time for such things as reading, too busy just trying to put a little meat on the table. Them kids of mine eat like they got no bottom to ’em, Alberta too.”

  Woody smiled in the shadow of the ring of light thrown off by the lantern and bit off another swallow of the brandy, sloshed what little was left around in the bottom, and handed it back to Bob.

  “No, boss, your liquor.”

  “Go ahead,” Woody said. “I got to stay awake till dawn.”

  “Seems foolish to have us just sitting out here like this all night. Those two jakes ain’t going nowhere ’less they can claw their way through these here walls with their fingernails.”

  “I know it.”

  Bob drained the bottom of the bottle, the liquor warming his blood and making him feel like he could tip over if he wasn’t careful.

  “I guess I best get on home,” he said.

  “Pleasure talking with you, Bob.”

  “Sure enough, boss.”

  “Hey, Bob.”

  “What?”

  “You’re walking the wrong way.”

  “I know it.”

  Bob had set himself a course for town. Maybe Little Paris would give him a throw on credit—against money he was about to earn end of the month. He felt lonesome for a loving woman, one wouldn’t give him grief about every damn little thing in this old life. The liquor and music down in his blood now, running hot and to every part of his body, needed cooling off. Just a little, lawd. Just a little, as he walked off into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Two