by Jory Sherman
“Maybe.”
Anson pulled the rifle back, but he did not uncock it.
“I want to give you something before I go,” Bone said. “It is in my saddlebag.”
“If you go for a pistol, Mickey, I’ll shoot you out of the saddle.”
Bone smiled. Anson could barely see it in the gathering gloom of the grove.
“Get it real slow, Mickey.”
Mickey leaned back and twisted in a turn to lean over his left saddlebag. He reached inside and brought out an object that Anson could not see. But he knew it was not a pistol. It was flat and could have been a package of tortillas, for all he knew.
“I want you to have this,” Bone said. “I found it in the brasada.” He leaned toward Anson and handed him the flat rock.
“What is it?”
“It is a stone with very old writing on it. I do not know what it means.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“I do not know. I have thought about it much. I think you might one day know what it says.”
“I cannot see the writing,” Anson said, as he took the stone, held it closer to his eyes.
“It is very strange writing. Pictures. I think it belonged to the old ones who came before—who are no longer walking the earth.”
“I will keep it for you, Mickey. It means a lot to you?”
“It means that I, too, will pass on, and my family, and there will be nothing but stones to mark where our bodies once were.”
Anson put the stone in his saddlebag. It was growing darker by the second.
“Mickey, ten cuidado.”
“You take care as well, Anson.”
Bone turned his horse and rode away, into the mesquite shadows. After a moment Anson was alone, as if Bone had never been there.
“So long, Mickey,” Anson breathed softly, and wondered if he’d ever see Bone again.
He turned his horse and started riding back to where Peebo was waiting.
The darkness overtook him and when he rode up on his friend, Peebo swung the rifle toward him.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me, Anson.”
“Jumpy?”
“Listen. Somebody’s comin’ down that there road and it ain’t no solitary soul, neither.”
Anson realized his rifle was still on cock. He left it that way and listened.
The hoofbeats were muffled, but Peebo was right. There were a bunch of them and they were riding slow, following his tracks, most likely. In a few minutes he and his men would be up to their necks in trouble.
“That’s them,” Peebo said.
“Part of them, anyway. You take one shot and then turn tail and follow me. Hear?”
“You want me to aim at any particular party or thing?”
“Don’t get smart. You take out the front man. I’ll get whoever comes after him.”
“God, I hope there’s time for two shots.”
“You won’t even hear mine, Peebo. Just remember to get the hell out of here.”
“I hope your hands drop a couple.”
“They will. They’ll shoot at those in the rear. That ought to set the whole bunch to milling like a bunch of turkeys.”
Peebo didn’t say anything after that; for now they could see dark shapes in the road, coming from the direction of Matteo Aguilar’s Rocking A.
In the darkness, the riders looked like phantoms. Anson could have sworn they all had death’s-heads atop their shoulders, skulls that were grinning at them as they came on, saddles creaking, rifles sticking up, all of them silent, like men hunting wild game before time had begun to be counted on the earth.
30
REYNAUD RODE ON the right flank of the small column for as long as he could see open country. He changed flanks when the cover got too close, so he constantly rode back and forth through the column, watching the lead riders with an intensity that made the two men up front nervous enough to turn their heads every so often to see who was staring at their backs.
Those around Reynaud, those closest to him, portrayed their nervousness, too, often slowing their mounts so they could keep their eyes on the Frenchman.
The nervousness among the men was contagious and the line of men became ragged and spread out until finally Reynaud called a halt.
“You men,” he said, “keep a horse-length of distance between you. You’re too spread out.”
The Mexicans shrugged and several muttered the time-worn phrase used by their kind to ignore English commands: “No sabe,” which Reynaud knew was not even good Spanish. But Reynaud understood what they meant, and his facial features contorted with rage and the veins in his neck stood out like purple worms bulging under a scarlet scarf.
“You understand me. Close up, close up.”
The Mexicans bunched up, but as soon as Reynaud started roaming, they began to thin their ranks, letting gaps form between them until they were strung out again, offering no show of force, or any protection for Reynaud.
“Que pasa?” Reynaud shouted, for at least the tenth time. “Nuncio, que estas haciendo?” he yelled to Nuncio, the point man. That was the only name Reynaud knew him by and he didn’t know the names of many of the other men.
“We are following,” Nuncio said in Spanish. “Siguiendo, no mas.”
“Malditos,” Reynaud shouted. “’Cerca. ’Cerca,” which he hoped meant for them to close up. He did not see that the Mexicans were smiling and grinning at one another. But he saw that none made a move to close up the gaping holes in the column.
Reynaud, it seemed, had reached the limits of his patience. He was about to draw his pistol and offer to shoot the first man who refused to obey his orders, when the column stopped abruptly. When he looked toward the front of the line of men and horses, he saw Nuncio holding up his hand to halt the procession.
“Now what?” Reynaud said, to no one.
He heard the men talking in rapid Spanish and then those in front of him began trotting their horses to the head of the column, leaving Reynaud by himself at the rear. He swore under his breath, but did not draw his pistol. He tried to make out what Nuncio was saying as he prodded his horse to catch up with the others.
The Mexicans milled around, chattering among themselves as Reynaud rode up. He knew they were excited, but he didn’t understand why until he looked down at the ground in front of Nuncio’s horse.
“Many tracks,” Nuncio said. He was a dark-skinned man with a heavy moustache that covered his upper lip and most of his lower as if he had a black bat stuck to his face.
“So?” Reynaud said.
“They go this way and that way.”
Reynaud studied the ground. The sun was just brimming the western horizon so that there was enough light to see. But in a few moments they would lose the light, he knew.
Should he follow Bone’s tracks, Reynaud wondered, or those of Anson Baron and his men? Reynaud knew he didn’t have much time. He had to make a decision, and make it fast. He looked again at the tracks, marveling that he had made sense of them, that he had actually been able to read the marks on the road and decipher them.
But what did they mean? Why had Bone ridden off the road? And where had he gone? Reynaud had never trusted that half-breed son of a bitch. Bone was up to something, that much he knew. But what? Had he warned Anson Baron, then ridden off to God-knew-where to hide while Baron waited in ambush just ahead?
Reynaud looked at the tracks again. He thought, for an instant, that Bone and Baron might have ridden off together. But no, there was only the one track leaving the road. Bone’s. Christ, he thought, what in hell was going on?
Suddenly Reynaud was gripped with a sense of panic. His palms began to sweat, turn clammy. He rubbed one, then the other on his trousers as if they were stains that marked him for a coward. In the distance he heard the raucous calling of crows. They sounded like the cries of terrified children.
He looked toward the setting sun. The rim had disappeared and now the shadows filled in all the hollows of the earth
around him and the road turned sullen and mysterious in both directions.
“Nuncio, Obispo, come here,” Reynaud called, as he faced the Mexicans still bunched down the road. “Andale, andale.”
The Mexicans did not hurry as they rode their mounts toward Reynaud. He could see that they were deliberate in their slowness, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it. The more he harangued them, the slower they would be. He wished now, as he had for the past several days, that he had never gotten involved in that slave deal with Matteo. He wished he had never told Matteo that lie about Martin Baron when he said that Baron had defiled his sister and gotten her pregnant. It was not a lie so much as an exaggeration. Martin had come to their home, and Reynaud’s sister had been smitten with Baron, but, in truth, it was merely an infatuation and Martin had not taken advantage of the girl’s lovesickness. But his sister had wept for days after Martin had left, and later she had thrown herself at another man, who had gotten her pregnant. That man was now dead, his skeleton at the bottom of a bayou. But his sister had named the son she had birthed “Martine,” since she was still infatuated with Baron. So he had not lied too much to Matteo. And he still hated Martin Baron for reasons he could not clearly define. He had seen Martin’s effect on his sister and her subsequent confusion, the loss of her virginity, and that was enough, in Reynaud’s eyes, to blame Martin for what his sister had done, gone and given herself to the first scoundrel she happened to meet.
He knew that Matteo hated Martin Baron, and it had been easy to devise a scheme to meet the man and do some business with him; all he had had to do was pretend that he and Matteo had a common enemy: Martin Baron. At first he had just wanted to sell Matteo slaves, slaves that had cost him nothing but time to steal. Then he had thought he could use Matteo’s greed to his own advantage, perhaps help the Mexican regain the lands his forebears had sold to Martin and thereby gain either a monetary benefit or land for himself. Or both.
But, as it was turning out, Martin Baron was a more formidable foe than he had realized. The land was bigger than he had imagined, and much of it unfit for human habitation. And, as he had discovered, Matteo was cash-poor. He had paid for the slaves, of course, but only partially. Since the slaves had not been sold at market, Aguilar hadn’t paid the remainder of the money due Reynaud.
And now Reynaud was chasing after Martin’s son, Anson, whom he did not know. He had known Martin in New Orleans, of course, seen the money he had made driving cattle there, had heard the talk that Baron would one day be rich, as the market for cattle grew. Now, with the nation entering a civil war, he doubted if Martin would ever be able to develop Northern markets.
In those moments, as Reynaud was waiting for the Mexicans to ride up to him, he saw his schemes vaporize into air as the land darkened around him. He knew, then, that he had made some serious mistakes in his plans, mistakes in judgment. He had thought Matteo would back any move he made, but instead he had been sent on a wild-goose chase with a bunch of sullen men who did not take orders. He wondered now if there was any way out of his predicament. That man who had been watching him, Obispo—had Matteo sent him along for a some nefarious reason? Was Obispo to be his assassin if he failed to find and kill Anson Baron?
The thought not only crossed Reynaud’s mind, it planted itself there and bloomed like some poisonous flower.
In the next instant, just before the men came up to him, Reynaud made his decision.
“You have found something?” Nuncio said. “What have you found?”
“The Indian, Bone,” Reynaud said, “is trying to fool us. He rides off here, is that not so?”
Nuncio and the others all examined the tracks for several seconds. They uttered exclamations and nodded their heads in agreement.
“It is so. Bone rode that way, toward the setting sun.”
There was a quiet then. Reynaud no longer heard the cawing of the crows. He looked at the men in the gathering dusk. He sought out the eyes of Obispo and when he found them, he stared directly into them.
“Obispo and I will follow Bone. Perhaps he is running away; perhaps he knows where the other riders are going. You, Nuncio, take the others on down the road and shoot anyone you see.”
Nuncio turned to look at Obispo. Obispo nodded to him.
“I will take the men and find where the tracks go on the road,” Nuncio said. “And where will you be if we find them?”
“We will hear the shots and come to you,” Reynaud said.
“Bueno,” Nuncio said. “Vamanos.”
He and the others rode on, while Reynaud and Obispo stayed behind.
“You lead out, Obispo,” Reynaud said.
“Why?”
“Because you are a better tracker than I. Go ahead.”
Obispo hesitated. Reynaud fixed a steely gaze on Obispo.
“Go on,” Reynaud said again.
“I think we should go with Nuncio and the others.”
“I’m in charge here. You will do what I say or turn back to the Rocking A.”
Obispo sucked in a breath. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Bueno,” he said. “We will follow Bone and see where he goes.”
Reynaud nodded.
Obispo turned his horse off the road and began to read the ground, following Bone’s tracks.
Reynaud rode a horse-length behind him. He kept his eyes on Obispo’s back.
The sun disappeared over the horizon, leaving a last long blaze in the far sky. The bottoms of the clouds looked as though they had been forged of gold just before they turned to ashes as the furnace died out beyond the western rim of the bleak land.
31
PEEBO SPOKE FIRST. “That them?” he said in a thin whisper.
“Nobody but.” Anson eased the hammer back on his rifle, pressing the trigger slightly so as to lessen the metallic noise of the cocking mechanism.
Anson heard the faint scrape of the sear on Peebo’s rifle locking into place as he cocked it. The riders came on, dark shapes in an indistinguishable mass. Peebo lifted his rifle to his shoulder.
“Wait,” Anson whispered.
“You start the ball, then.”
Anson drew his own rifle to his shoulder and drew a bead on the dark mass of men. At that angle there was but a single shape. He waited, tracking the progress with the muzzle of his rifle, moving it slowly as the group drew closer. He knew that once they completely rounded the short bend in the road, he would begin to see single figures.
As the men riding toward them began to separate, Anson began counting. When he had counted six and saw more coming, he took a bead on the second man. He figured the first would turn around if Peebo didn’t drop him, and the men behind the second man would scatter for cover.
Mentally Anson figured yardage, and it was difficult in the dark. There was no moon up as yet and judging distances was tricky. He relied mostly on memory—memory gathered in daylight.
“Well, fuck,” Peebo whispered rhetorically, and Anson wanted to strangle him. But he had his man picked out and he led him just a hair and squeezed the trigger when the buckhorn front-sight eased away from the Mexican’s chest. The flintlock whispered a spark into the pan and the pan flashed. Flame shot through the hole and ignited the powder grains and the rifle belched flame and lead. White smoke billowed from the barrel and obscured not only Anson’s target, but the entire procession. He heard the report from Peebo’s rifle right on the heels of his own and knew that Peebo had fired while he could still see.
A man screamed through the billowing cloud of smoke and then his scream was cut off as if the sound had been sliced by a guillotine. Other men shouted in Spanish, cursed in two languages. Anson shoved the smoking barrel of his rifle into its boot and turned his horse.
“Let’s light a shuck, Peebo,” Anson said, loud enough for his friend to hear. As he rode into the mesquite wood, he heard Peebo’s horse pounding the ground behind him.
Other shots sounded from across the road and more men screamed. Anson dodged through the trees,
huddled over his horse’s neck so that he wouldn’t be knocked out of the saddle by a low-hanging bough. He hoped his men had gotten away; in fact, he was counting on it. They had the advantage. Matteo’s men would be shooting into the woods at shadows, blinded by darkness and fear.
Anson heard more firing from the road, and then an awful quiet descended on the forest as his horse twisted through the trees, surefooted as a dancer. Anson slowed, so that Peebo could catch up to him. He didn’t want to wear out his horse and he was sure they had gotten far enough away so that none of Matteo’s men could track them through the mesquite thicket.
Peebo rode up alongside as they reached a small clearing.
“We done spilt blood, son,” Peebo said.
“Maybe.”
“Hell, I saw that second man in line throw up his arms just as I shot number one clean out of his rockin’ chair.”
“Did you get shot at?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Right after I started chasin’ you, I heard rifles poppin’ off like New Year’s from acrost the road.”
“You count how many there was?”
“I seen there was more’n enough to go around.”
“That’s why we’re going back.”
“Huh?”
“Follow me,” Anson said, and cut his horse hard to the left, following an arc that would bring him and Peebo up into the rear of the column. He stopped just before reaching the road again and slid his rifle down until he gripped it close to the muzzle. He began pouring powder down the barrel directly from the horn slung over his shoulder.
“You’re crazy as a damned hoot-owl, Anson,” Peebo said, when he pulled up alongside.
“Reload your rifle. Got any buckshot?”
“I got some.”
“Put a patch over the barrel once you’ve got the powder poured and drop about six or eight buck balls down on top.”
“You are plumb loco.”
“Hurry up. We can catch ’em by surprise.”
“Or they can catch us.”
Anson leaked a half dozen balls of buckshot down onto a greased patch, then rammed the load home. He poured fine powder from the small horn into the pan, and blew away the excess. He adjusted the flint, made sure it was tight and closed the frizzen.
