Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  She beamed back. “Thank you. A lady always appreciates a well-meant compliment.”

  He donned the straw hat. “Well, I guess I’d better get on down to the corral, so’s I don’t miss the big hullabaloo. You want to come with me?”

  She eyed the crowd. “What’s all the excitement about?”

  He did a shrug-and-grin. “From what they tell me, same thing as happens here ever’ week or two—a cowboy with more guts than brains has taken it in his head to ride Sweet Alice.”

  “I assume we are talking about a horse.”

  “Some of the boys would say so,” Dollar said darkly. He spat three times on the cottonwood bark, used the toe of his boot to make an X in the sand, added in a husky whisper: “Others hold to the ’pinon that Sweet Alice is a she-devil that slipped into a horsehide.”

  She smiled at the superstitious man. “Then she’s a hard one to ride?”

  “Ride? Hah! That ol’ cayuse has never been broke—and no man-child on the Big Hat or the Columbine has been able to straddle her saddle for long as it takes to sneeze. And those dumb enough to try have ended up with broken bones and busted heads…and worse.” Seeing as how a lady was present, he did not elaborate on what was worse.

  “But someone is about to try it again?”

  “Oh, sure.” Dollar Bill heard the “why” in her voice. “All because of some damn-fool bet.”

  Bet? Her heart skipped a beat. “Where is Charlie Moon?”

  “Oh, the boss’s down there with the rest of the boys.” He chuckled, shook his head. “He’s the damn fool that’s goin’ to get his brains kicked out, and all for a month’s pay. It’ll be quite somethin’ to see.”

  She felt her skin go cold. “He won’t actually get hurt, will he?”

  “Oh, he’ll get hurt all right. Question is—how bad. When I left, the odds was even money he’d get at least one bone busted, one-to-three he’d get himself kilt.” He gave her a hopeful look. “You like to put some money in the pot?”

  “Certainly not!” McTeague clinched her fists. “Someone has to put a stop to this!”

  Dollar Bill was pleased at the prospect of this new wrinkle. “You want to come an’ try?”

  Before he had gotten all the words past his lips, the woman was marching off toward the corral. “Stomping post-holes,” as cowboys like to say.

  She would, of course, be too late.

  Charlie Moon had seen her coming. Before she had a chance to say, “Are you out of your mind or what?” the tall man was in the saddle. “Okay,” he muttered to the sullen beast, “do your best stuff.”

  It seemed that Sweet Alice was all out of stuff. The ugly mare simply stood there on spraddled legs, looking bored with mindless cowboys, weary of the burdens life had put on her swayed back.

  Seeing McTeague arrive at the corral fence with a look of wide-eyed alarm, the Ute felt the shame burning on his neck. This predicament was the rodeo cowboy’s worst nightmare. I’m goin’ to look like a regular idiot sittin’ here on a stuffed animal that don’t have the common decency to at least put on a little show—

  A keg of equine dynamite exploded underneath him.

  It was like getting hit in the butt with a sledgehammer. The occasional bronc rider felt his spine jam up against the base of his skull, his eyes pop halfway out of their sockets, his teeth snap down on the tip of his tongue. And that was the good part. For the next few heartbeats Charlie Moon did not think about the pretty woman who was watching, or even the horse who was determined to do him in.

  There was no time for thinking.

  All of his instincts were focused on staying in the saddle. And staying alive.

  Blood in her eye, the wily old horse went up with her head pointed north, twisted like a pretzel come to life, hit the earth looking in the general direction of New Mexico.

  Cowboys were whooping it up, yelling encouragement that was—depending on how they had placed their bets—directed to either horse or rider.

  The animal flipped her muscular rump almost vertical, seesawed this way and that, reared up like a black bear batting at peaches, did a double-crawfish, landed on her stubby forelegs, completely left the earth, launched into a half-sunfish, hit the ground with a thunderous thump that shook every post in the corral fence.

  What a fine show! The cowboys waved their hats in the air.

  His Stetson gone, his molars jarred loose, Charlie Moon hung on. Every second in the saddle was like an hour inside an Oklahoma tornado.

  It was about to get worse.

  On the far side of the corral from the spectators, Sweet Alice seemed to lose her footing. (Later on, some of the cowboys would claim that the she-devil had done this on purpose, and with evil intent.) Whether with malice aforethought or not, the mare fell hard against the fence. There was a sickening crunch of something breaking. Creosote-soaked railings, for sure—the spectators could see the splinters fly. But some of that cracking sounded awfully like bones fracturing.

  The horse laid on the rider for a horrific moment, then struggled to her feet.

  Sensing the cold hand of Death, the cowboys stood as silent as tombstones.

  Calm as you please, Sweet Alice lowered her head, sniffed at the still form on the ground.

  McTeague wanted to move but her limbs would not respond. “Oh, God,” she said, “Oh God.”

  By this prayer, the spell of paralysis was broken.

  The Wyoming Kyd was the first to vault the fence. The young cowboy sprinted across the corral, brushed past the outlaw horse. The county agent—closest thing to a doctor for thirty miles—was not far behind.

  The Kyd dropped to his knees. The boss’s eyes were shut, his body limp.

  The veterinarian was there a heartbeat later. Forrest Wakefield poked and prodded, carefully examined Charlie Moon’s prone form. His initial impression was that this did not look good. If the man survived, he would probably have a broken back.

  One by one, the other cowboys gathered around. With the head of the outfit down, they waited for the Kyd to take command.

  Wakefield felt for a pulse under the thrown cowboy’s jaw. He put his ear to the Ute’s mouth, hoping for a whisper of breath.

  They spectators stared.

  The veterinarian looked at Kydmann, shook his head.

  Kydmann could not believe it. He put his ear to the Ute’s mouth. Confirmed the horse doctor’s diagnosis.

  This was going to be a hard thing to do; both men set their jaws.

  The Kyd called on the Mexican cowboy, muttered a few hushed words in Spanish.

  Señor Cruz nodded, went back to the crowd. The word was passed to the employees.

  One of the cowboys picked up the Ute’s black Stetson, knocked off the dust, pushed out the dimples, placed it on the fallen hero’s chest.

  Jerome Kydmann got to his feet. The young dandy removed his spotless white hat, pressed it against his heart.

  The other men followed suit, pulling off their soiled, sweaty hats, hanging their heads in mournful fashion.

  The veterinarian nodded to his assistant. “There’s nothing for us to do here,” he murmured. “Let’s go.” The stunned young woman followed her supervisor back to the county agent’s truck.

  The bow was bent double, the sinew pulled tight. It was as if time had stopped.

  Sensing that something had to be done that was appropriate for the moment, Portuguese Tom thought he might sing “Rock of Ages.” Problem was, he could not remember the lines. Falling back on something more familiar, he cleared his throat. In a voice that crackled with age and the ravages of raw whiskey, he began to whine a few lines from an old campfire song:

  There, down in the corral, jus’ standin’ alone,

  Was that old cavayo, old strawberry roan.

  His knees was knobby, he had big pigeon toes,

  Little piggy eyes and a big Roman nose.

  A pair of the older hands joined in for the chorus:

  Well, it’s oh, that strawberry roan,

  O
h, that strawberry roan!

  He’s ewe-necked and old, with a long lower jaw,

  You can see with one eye he’s a reg’lar outlaw.

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  Transfixed in numb horror, McTeague beheld the eerie performance. Charlie must be dead.

  The dirge continued:

  Well I puts on my spurs and I coils up my twine,

  I piled my loop on him, I’m sure feeling fine.

  I piled my loop on him, and well I knew then,

  If I rode this old pony, I’d sure earn my ten.

  The woman forced herself to move.

  Well it’s oh, that strawberry roan,

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  He lowered his old neck and I think he unwound,

  He seemed to quit living down there on the ground.

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  Lila Mae McTeague climbed the corral fence, pushed through the cluster of cowboys, knelt by the man who’d had little enough sense to ride Sweet Alice. The FBI agent pressed her thumb under Moon’s jaw, felt an instant surge of hope. “He’s still got a pulse.” She counted seven pulses in ten seconds, multiplied by six. “About seventy.”

  Taking but slight notice of her arrival, more sad-eyed cowboys had joined in the song:

  He went up towards the east and came down towards the west,

  To stay in his middle I’m doin’ my best,

  He’s about the worst bucker I’ve seen on the range,

  He can turn on a nickel and give you some change.

  The FBI agent had lowered her cheek to his parted lips. She waited for some evidence of air moving, felt nothing. Oh, my God. He’s not breathing. All business now, she tilted Moon’s head back, put her mouth against his, exhaled the breath of life into his lungs.

  The singers were improving with practice. Harmony was now close and sweet, like a well-honed barbershop quartet.

  Well, it’s oh, that strawberry roan,

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  He goes up on all fours and comes down on his side,

  I don’t know what keeps him from losin’ his hide.

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  Oblivious to the singing, McTeague continued her work. Out with the bad air. In with the good. Out with the bad…If he doesn’t start breathing on his own pretty soon… But she brushed aside that grim possibility.

  As if sensing that her valiant efforts were pointless, the cowboys’ tones had become softer, almost funereal. Tears rolled down one old cowhand’s leathery cheeks.

  I loses my stirrup and also my hat,

  I starts pulling leather, I’m blind as a bat;

  With a big forward jump he goes up on high,

  Leaves me sittin’ on nothin’ way up in the sky.

  Lila Mae McTeague paused from her strenuous mouth-to-mouth efforts to check the man’s pulse. It was still there, which meant his heart was getting oxygen. Oddly, it was also strong—thumping like a drum under her thumb. And much, much faster. At least 130.

  Well, it’s oh, that strawberry roan,

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  I’ll bet all my money the man ain’t alive

  That can stay with old Straw-berry when he makes his high dive.

  Oh, that strawberry roan!

  The FBI agent was a qualified EMT. First in her class at Quantico. She also had a remarkable memory. Running through the written and oral instructions from her training, she tried to recall what a racing pulse could mean in a case like this. McTeague eliminated a half-dozen unlikely possibilities. Arrived at the truth of the matter.

  “Charlie,” she said.

  No response from the patient.

  She slapped him on the cheek. “Charlie Moon!”

  He was still as death.

  The woman glared at the sculptured face. Waited for the inevitable.

  The laws of human physiology are writ in stone. After twenty-one painful seconds, the prone man sucked in a deep breath.

  I knew it. He was faking all along!

  The patient emitted a pitiful groan, a melancholy sigh.

  “Save it!”

  Moon opened one eye, peered up at a pitiless face. “What…who are you?” After a thoughtful pause, he made a guess. “An angel come to take me to heaven?”

  The lady tried to look stern. “You should be ashamed of yourself!” She turned to the choir. “And you morons were in on this.”

  There were a few sheepish grins.

  McTeague pointed to no place in particular. “Get out of here, all of you!”

  The crew wandered off this way and that, mumbling. The general consensus was that this town woman had no sense of humor.

  After a tense silence, Moon asked the Big Question: “What was my time?”

  “Your what?”

  “My time in the saddle. If I didn’t stay on for twelve seconds, I owe the Kyd a month’s pay.”

  McTeague shook her head, sighed.

  The bronc rider closed his eyes. These women just don’t understand.

  He’s such a little boy. She touched his face. “Is anything broken?”

  Moon wiggled his fingers. Then his toes. “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you hurt anywhere?”

  “Everywhere.” He groaned again. “Even my hair.”

  She raised his head, put it in her lap. Stroked his forehead with her hand.

  “Ah,” he said, closing his eyes against the noonday sun. “That’s much better.”

  46

  Picnic

  The man who called himself “Cap” approached the corral with some trepidation. Having been one of the few souls on the Big Hat to miss the excitement, the cook had heard from the cowboys how that outlaw horse had attempted to murder the boss, and come within a gnat’s eyebrow of getting the job done—but Charlie Moon wasn’t quite dead, and he’d whispered to the vet and the Wyoming Kyd that he wanted to play a little prank on the FBI lady and the word got passed around and all the boys fell right in with it. The cook had also heard about how the hot-tempered woman had ordered everyone away from the scene of the mischief. On top of all that, Cap—like a sizable portion of Charlie Moon’s other employees—had his reasons to stay clear of the FBI agent and other sworn officers of the law. But the outfit’s hash slinger had a job to do, and he took his responsibilities seriously. The seriously nearsighted man entered the corral through the gate, bumped into a hefty post, meandered over toward the pair. He was within a couple of yards before he could make out exactly who was there. A man, whom he took to be Charlie Moon, was stretched out on his back. The Ute’s head was resting in a woman’s lap. They were talking in low, intimate tones, and seemed unaware of his presence.

  Cap rattled the covered lunch bucket.

  The woman gave him a look.

  “Uh—I thought the boss might like some lunch.”

  McTeague focused her big eyes on the stainless steel bucket. “I don’t think he feels like eating just yet.”

  Moon sniffed. “What’d you bring, Cap?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Few pieces of fried chicken. Buttered corn on the cob. Mashed potatoes. And some rhubarb cobbler.” He rattled the bucket again. “It’s good and hot.”

  “Well,” the stricken man said with a moaning groan, “just set it down. Maybe the lady would like to have a bite.”

  Cap left the pail on the ground, departed. On the way out of the corral, he bumped into the same post again. And called it an unseemly name.

  McTeague watched him head more or less toward the Big Hat headquarters. “The man needs to see an ophthalmologist.”

  “If he could see an ophthalmologist, there wouldn’t be no need for him to—”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Cap already has himself a serviceable pair of spectacles.”

  “Why doesn’t he wear them?”

  “He does, sometimes.” Moon managed a wan smile. “But whenever you’re around, he takes ’em off.”

  “Why on earth would he do that
?”

  “If you don’t know, I ain’t gonna tell you.”

  She blushed. “Don’t be silly, Charlie.”

  “False modesty doesn’t become a pretty gal like you, Lila Mae.” Fried chicken sounds like just the ticket. “Did you notice Cap has grown himself a fuzzy little beard?”

  “Of course I did. It looks nice on him. He has a smallish chin.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “Not the part about his chin.”

  “That’ll take half the fun out of it.” He grinned at a drumstick-shaped cloud. “I feel a bit of an appetite comin’ on.”

  She opened the lunch bucket, was overwhelmed by a mix of delicious aromas wafting up from therein. “What would you like?”

  “I was hoping for some dessert,” he gasped. “How about another helping of that artificial resuscitation?”

  Smiling, the lady unwrapped the foil from an ear of corn. “Stick this in your mouth.”

  He gave the food a cross-eyed look. “I don’t think I can eat while I’m flat on my back.”