The Sonora Noose

by Jackson Lowry

  And maybe for Nate to get a promotion at the general store. Yes, all had gone well indeed.

  5

  IT NEVER GOT COOLER. MASON BARKER KEPT HIS face down as he rode toward town to keep the sun from burning his already leathery hide. Not even a hint of breeze cooled him, pulling the sweat off his skin to keep him from feeling as if he had been dunked into a rain barrel. Mesilla stirred in the early morning, working to get chores completed before it got really hot. He touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment to many of the citizens but didn’t stop to talk.

  Not till he reached Hugh Dooley’s store. The owner of the general store stood in the middle of the street, hands balled and resting on his narrow hips and shaking his head as he studied the window displays.

  “Morning,” Barker said, stopping a few yards away. “Not liking what you see?”

  “Not a bit of it. A display has to reach out and pull in the curious. There’s nothing there that draws the eye.”

  “And opens the pocketbook,” Barker finished. He smiled. Dooley didn’t. “You been reading ’bout selling merchandise from them merchants back East?”

  “I have, Deputy.” Dooley turned and scowled. “I should know that a man such as yourself would understand the importance of what is written.”

  Barker had no call to discuss books or his reading material.

  “Might be a flash of color would call attention to your window. Red always makes me look.” He didn’t say why. Red meant blood, and blood meant somebody had been shot up.

  “You might have something, Deputy. You just might. There’s a bolt of cloth I haven’t been able to sell since I bought it six months back. Using it lavishly, like it was a colored waterfall, would give a flair to the window. Yes, sir, a flair.”

  “Might be you can put what will actually sell on the cloth, making it stand out all the more.”

  “You’ve missed your calling, Deputy.”

  “Not looking for a job,” Barker said hastily.

  “Neither is that boy of yours,” Dooley said, dashing Barker’s hope of building some sort of bridge to the distant store owner. All the work he’d just done talking him up evaporated like snow in this miserable heat.

  “You saying that Nate’s not working?”

  “Not working out,” Dooley said, scowling. “He shows up and does what I tell him, but he gripes the entire while. He’s driven off more than one customer with his grousing about how hard he’s working.”

  “Not much other place a customer can go,” Barker said, immediately regretting the words when he saw the storm cloud that descended over Dooley.

  “I pride myself on providing good merchandise at a fair price. I never insult a customer or do anything that would chase one off. Doña Ana isn’t much of a town, but they have a general store and it’s only four miles away. And Las Cruces? Not much of a store at all there, but they’re competitors. A few dollars spent there won’t be spent in my establishment.”

  “You working out supply with that lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant Greenberg is a clever young man, a shrewd Yankee merchant, unless I miss my guess. How he ended up in the army is quite the head-scratcher.”

  “So he rooked you?” Barker couldn’t help but smile. And this time so did Dooley. He had finally cracked the man’s dour exterior again with a little joshing.

  “He thinks he has. He gets better beef and hardtack and I get twice what you’d pay if you waltzed into my store for the same product.” Dooley pursed his lips. “That’s assuming you’d ever come into the store, Marshal, since I’d want you to pay on your bill.”

  “I’ll have a talk with Nate about his attitude.” He didn’t add that it wouldn’t be the first time, and he doubted this time would be different. He touched the brim of his hat and rode on to the small marshal’s office near the Catholic church just off the plaza.

  As he dismounted, he tried to think of business—law business—but couldn’t. Nate continued to worry at him like a pebble in his boot. Every time he took a step, he was reminded that something was wrong. The difference with the pebble was being able to locate it

  Inside the dim, cool adobe jailhouse, he settled down into his chair and swiped at the dust to clear a spot for his paperwork. It took the better part of an hour to go over the new stack of wanted posters and the letters from Marshal Armijo, his boss. The federal dictum had come down to find the gang of desperadoes from Sonora. The wanted poster, lacking any likeness of any of the gang, sported a fifty-dollar reward. Barker sighed as he thought of how much good that money would do him. Ruth could pay off all their bills and still have plenty left. Maybe he could take her up to one of those fancy spas at Manitou Springs outside Colorado Springs. It would do her spirit a world of good to soak in the mineral baths and partake of the cool, crisp air at the base of Pikes Peak.

  Barker heaved a sigh, remembering the one time his pa had taken them there. His ma had been feeling poorly and the sulfur water at Navajo Springs Resort had been just the thing to get her feeling spritely again. Barker ran his finger over the creased wanted poster, knowing that fifty dollars was hardly enough for such a magnificent vacation. Just getting north to Manitou Springs would eat away most of that reward.

  Now, if the gang continued to kick up a fuss and the reward was raised ...

  Barker slammed his fist down on the desk, sending paper dancing in all directions. He was a lawman, not a bounty hunter. He shouldn’t be wanting the road agents to ply their trade more so their value as prisoners would go up. Settling back in his rickety chair, he knew he should have stopped them after the first stagecoach robbery.

  From everything he’d heard all around Mesilla, and from an army scout who had ducked into the Plugged Nickel the night before, the gang was getting nervier. More than rustling and robbery drove them. Barker had seen their like before. Mean, vicious men. It wouldn’t be long until they began killing the men they robbed.

  The door creaked open. Barker looked up to see a dusty ranch hand standing hesitantly there, outlined by the brilliant sunlight, with his face hidden in shadow.

  “Come on in and close the door. You’re lettin’ in too much heat.”

  “Marshal Barker?”

  “That’s me.” He pointed to the solitary chair on the other side of the desk. Too seldom he had visitors. Gus Phillips used to stop by to play a hand or two of gin rummy, but for whatever reason the visits had become fewer, and now Barker couldn’t remember the last time he had lost a stack of pennies to the barkeep.

  “I work on the Triple B, out to the east.”

  “Fetched up along the Organ Mountains,” Barker said. “I know your boss. How’s Mr. Garrison doing these days?”

  “Not so good since he lost the missus.” The cowboy saw Barker’s surprise. “Happened a couple weeks back. She took sick and passed in just a day.”

  “Sorry to hear that. She was a gracious, lovely lady.” The words came easily enough, but truth was, he thought she was a harridan and had been well on her way to worrying Dave Garrison into an early grave. Not that the man was necessarily better off without his wife. Barker had long since stopped trying to figure out why people stayed together—or didn’t.

  “Well, Marshal, Mr. Garrison, he wanted to complain’bout some of them buffalo soldiers stealin’ his cattle. They rustled two head, and he’s concerned they’ll come on back for more.”

  Barker frowned, then chewed a mite at his lower lip. Finally, he said, “Did your boss see them doing the rustling?”

  “No, sir, he saw them ridin’ away, but two beeves had been all butchered up. They didn’t even do a good job at it.”

  “I’ve talked some with Lieutenant Greenberg from up at Fort Selden, and he’s got his hands full chasin’ rustlers all over the landscape. Said some Mescaleros went off the reservation.”

  “Ain’t seen nothin’ of no Injuns. My boss, he’d have for certain sure told me to tell you if he had.”

  “There’s a new gang, up from Mexico, trying to make a na
me for themselves. They’ve robbed a stage or two, and the lieutenant is sure they’ve been doing some rustling. Might have been them instead of Indians.” Barker pushed the wanted poster around so the cowboy could read it. He saw right away that the man couldn’t read, so he hastily added, “You take this here wanted poster to Mr. Garrison and show it to him. Says there how these banditos are wanted and how the federal marshal’s put out a fifty-dollar reward for their capture.”

  “That’s more’n I make in three months,” the cowboy said, awed at the amount.

  “More’n I’m likely to see, too,” Barker allowed.

  “But you’re the deputy marshal,” the cowboy protested.

  “I’m stuck here in Mesilla and the buffalo soldiers are out after the rustlers. That’s the difference,” he assured the cowboy. “I don’t think they killed your cows. I think they came across this here gang’s theft and got on the trail right away. You tell Mr. Garrison that.”

  “All right,” the cowboy said reluctantly.

  “Take this wanted poster. It’ll confirm everything you just heard me say.”

  “Thanks, Marshal.” The cowboy coughed and then coughed again, looking almost shyly at Barker.

  “Why don’t you get yourself a beer to cut the trail dust? That sounds like a nasty cough you’ve got. Mr. Garrison couldn’t say anything about a man taking care of his health.”

  “You got a way with words, Marshal.” The cowboy tucked the wanted poster into the front of his shirt and left.

  Barker was sorry to see him go. It got suddenly lonely in the tiny office. He shuffled through the papers on his desk awhile longer, opened the drawer, eyed his lovely book on the wonders of Italy, then slowly closed the drawer and levered himself to his feet. His back felt mighty good today. It must have been the board he put under his side of the mattress. Ruth had complained, but his being able to get out of bed in the morning without a lot of groaning and moaning had quelled her protests.

  The sun hadn’t gotten any cooler, but then it was hardly an hour since he had gone into his office. It still lacked four or five hours until noon, and then the heat would fry the pimples off a horse’s ass until the sun sank behind the mountains to the far west. He knew he ought to make a few social calls on the townspeople, to hear their complaints and maybe share a glass of lemonade or something stronger, depending on who he spoke with, but instead he headed for the general store.

  A smile crept to his lips when he saw Nate aggressively pursuing the dust that always piled up on a boardwalk. His broom lacked enough bristles to do a proper job, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.

  As Barker got closer, though, he understood why Nate wasn’t bothered by the puny broom. He was too busy swearing under his breath.

  “Not good cussing up a blue streak when customers might hear you,” Barker said.

  “You’re no customer.”

  “Your ma and me buy from Mr. Dooley.”

  “Don’t do much in the way of payin’. I seen the books.”

  “He said you’re insulting the customers with your attitude.”

  Nate threw down the broom and squared off, as if he was going to throw down on his pa. There wasn’t a six-shooter hanging at his side—and Barker hoped there never would be. With Nate’s temper, he wouldn’t last very long, even in a peaceable town like Mesilla, if he called out the wrong man. Why, even Dutch Hubert had come through here. There was no telling what other desperadoes might be sucking up suds or downing a shot of whiskey in any of the town’s bars.

  “You don’t have no call to tell me to do anything. For two cents and this—” Nate spat on the boardwalk between them, “I’d quit. No, wait, that’s not so. Keep your damned two cents!”

  “It’s not easy being responsible,” Barker said, fighting to keep his temper in check. “You’ve done good at the work. It’s just that Mr. Dooley wants you to be civil to the customers so you don’t drive them off.”

  Nate looked as if he would spit again, then settled down.

  “Not like I got better things to do,” he said sullenly.

  “I wanted to know if the army supplies are getting out all right.”

  “You workin’ for them—” Nate bit off his comment, then shrugged. “Looks as if they’re gettin’ what they’re payin’ for. Dooley don’t let me handle such exalted chores as that.”

  “Good. It’s not as if I brokered the deal, but I want the lieutenant and Mr. Dooley to both think they’ve come out ahead.”

  “I ought to take a break. Dooley said I could come back at ten o’clock,” Nate said.

  “We can go to the café and ...” Barker’s words trailed off when he saw Nate pull an ornate watch from his pocket and open the gleaming gold case. His son peered at the face, then snapped it shut.

  “That watch have a date etched inside the case? August 20, 1861?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “I don’t have to tell you. You always treat me like this.”

  “Where?” Barker said, a steel edge to his words now. “That watch was stolen from a stagecoach passenger. He described it to a fare-thee-well—that’s the date he got married.”

  “It’s my watch.”

  “You never had one before. You couldn’t afford one that gaudy, either.”

  “I ... I paid for it. A vaquero. I ... I bought it off a vaquero for a ... for fifty cents.”

  “You had to know that watch is worth more’n four bits.”

  “He had another, said he wanted to get rid of it. He ... he’d won it in a poker game. He said.”

  “Let me look at it.” Barker took it from his reluctant son, ran his calloused fingers over the case, and then popped it open to see the date, just as the man had described.

  “Where’s this vaquero now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When did you buy it?”

  “Last night ... this morning. Over at the Plugged Nickel. On the way to work I stopped and—”

  “Never mind,” Barker said, knowing he would get angry about the wrong thing if his son told him he was drinking before showing up for work. “Did Gus see this vaquero?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Barker had turned to go to the saloon, when Nate called out, “You keepin’ the watch? That’s stealin’!”

  “It’s stealing, sure as God made little green apples,” Barker said. “And I intend to find who’s responsible.” Thought of the fifty-dollar reward fluttered through his mind, but even better was the chance to stop the Mexican gang before they got into serious trouble beyond stagecoach robbing and a little bit of rustling. “What’s he look like, this vaquero?”

  Nate hesitated, then said, “Not too tall, stocky. He wore a big sombrero with gold thread.”

  “That describes most vaqueros that come through here,” Barker said.

  “He had a ... something wrong with his eyes. They were crossed.”

  Barker looked at his son, then nodded. This was as good a description as he was likely to get.

  “Anything else?”

  Nate shook his head, then bent and picked up the broom to continue moving dust from one side of the boardwalk to the other.

  Barker reached down and made sure his six-shooter rode easy in the holster at his side. Only then did he head for the Plugged Nickel. He stopped in the doorway, squinted hard to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, then stepped through. Gus Phillips waved to him.

  “Howdy, Marshal. You’re in mighty early. What can I get for you?”

  “You see a Mexican here this morning? He’d have been talking to my boy.”

  “Nate?” Gus looked around like a rat in a corner hunting for a way out.

  “None other. You see him and a vaquero this morning?”

  “Reckon I might have.”

  “Did the vaquero sell this to Nate?” Barker held up the watch. Judging from Gus’s lack of comprehension, there wasn’t going to be any kind of corroboration coming.

&
nbsp; “Don’t know, but I did see the pair of them together like they was old buddies. Nate, he didn’t, well, he didn’t have nothin’ to drink. Honest.”

  “Don’t care about that. You see where the vaquero went when he left?”

  “Didn’t ride off, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t see a horse nowhere near.”

  “Thanks,” Barker said. He turned, then stopped. “It’s all right, Gus. You’re not in trouble. Neither is Nate.”

  “But that Mexican?”

  “That remains to be seen,” the marshal said.

  He stepped outside and looked around for a horse outfitted in the Mexican style. Down the street he saw an unfamiliar horse standing in the shade beside the Lucky Lew Saloon. Again he checked his pistol, then went directly to the other saloon. The Lucky Lew changed hands about once a month, or so it seemed. For whatever reason, the owner always ran into a stretch of bad luck. The last two owners had been murdered, and another the year before had been shot up so bad he had retired. The last Barker had heard of him, he was in El Paso working as a telegrapher with his one good hand.

  He circled the building, hunting for any back way the vaquero might find to escape. The back door stood half-open to get some air circulating through the long, narrow saloon. Barker went in through it, moving quietly down the hallway, past the storage rooms and to the back of the room, near a billiards table sadly needing new felt. It looked as if the table had the mange, with large green patches falling out.

  The piano leaned against the far wall. Somebody had ripped away half the keyboard, and Barker thought the dark spots on the remaining keys might be blood. But he moved quickly to a spot where, reflected in the filthy mirror hanging behind the barkeep, he could see the vaquero standing at the bar.

  The barkeep looked up and started to ask if Barker wanted anything, then clamped his mouth shut when he saw the lawman wasn’t there to drink. He licked his lips, then ducked down behind the bar.

  The unexpected action caused the Mexican to stand on tiptoe and look behind the bar.