Rides a Stranger

by Bill Brooks

  “You are a do-gooder,” she said.

  “Why, because I won’t drink with you?”

  She looked suddenly sad. “I’m sorry. I guess I just think everyone should feel as miserable as I do.”

  He watched her tilt the bottle to her mouth again. “Tell me your story,” he said.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “I’d like to know more about you,” he said. “I mean we have some time, right?”

  “You tell me yours,” she said.

  So he began to tell her about himself and his late wife and how she died and his lonesome wanderings ever since and meeting Jim—how he’d found him and how it seemed to him all so strange and yet predestined somehow.

  “Even this, the two of us sitting here waiting for death to come,” he said, “seems to me somehow predetermined and I’m okay with that.”

  And after he finished she told him about herself, the pain of losing the person you loved and being with someone you didn’t, and somewhere in the middle of telling their stories, their hands met and held to each other and he even shared a little of the whiskey with her. And then they drank the wine. And by the time they’d done all this, the sun had set off in the west and the room had grown almost completely dark and he found an old bull’s-eye lantern that still had some oil in it and lit it and sat back down next to her.

  “When do you think they’ll come?” she said.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  She shrugged.

  “I was wondering what it would be like to kiss you. Would you allow me to?”

  She thought of Pedro, of his request to kiss her—how his voice and eyes spoke of the deep loneliness. His need wasn’t born of desire. But Tom’s was, and it raised her own desire as well.

  “Funny,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing, about kissing you.”

  “Because you’re scared this may be the last time you ever kiss anyone?”

  “No. I’m scared this may be the last time I ever get to feel something real again.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too. But even if those men weren’t coming to kill us, I think I’d still want to kiss you.”

  She closed her eyes and tilted her face to him. He kissed her and she kissed him.

  “Would you like to turn out the light?” she said as they held each other.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As luck would have it—or fate, which he knew was how Tom would put it—the pursuit got delayed when the Indian’s horse came up lame. There was some debate about what to do, and the sun was dropping out of the sky, making our shadows long.

  “Why don’t we just shoot that son of a bitch, boss, and give the Indian his horse,” the man who seemed closest to Waco said.

  “No, I’m saving him for something special. Let the Indian keep afoot.”

  So we went with that plan for a time and I was pretty amazed how much stamina the Indian had, running about as fast as a horse could trot, but even he couldn’t keep it up long and stood at some point bent at the waist with his hands resting on his knees.

  It had been a mistake on Waco’s part to slow the chase, and he realized it when the last light went out of the sky and we still hadn’t caught up with Tom and Antonia. Waco cursed his decision and ordered his top hand to pick a man to give up his horse and stay behind come morning—that we’d make camp tonight. I was ordered away from the campfire and tied to the trunk of a small blackjack tree. I was also damn glad to be off a horse; every bounce rattled my already sore bones.

  I sat there in the dark watching the others crowded around the campfire moving in and out of the light, filling their plates from a cook pot of beans and their cups with coffee. My belly crawled with hunger.

  I tried closing my eyes and not thinking about what was going on or how hungry I was or how much I ached. It didn’t do any good to think on it. Instead I thought about Maize and Fannie Watts and several of the other women I’d been with. Even if I hadn’t loved them, they still provided me some nice memories—except for the bad parts—and I could lose myself thinking about them, about particular moments, and it helped ease my troubled self. About all a man has to rely on is his mind and what’s in it and what all he’s done in the past—the good and the bad. It’s like looking through an album of photographs somebody took of your life and all the people you’d ever met.

  I was roused from my reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps. A shadow stood over me when I looked up. He was holding something. I did not care.

  “You remember me?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Bob,” he said.

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  He squatted down and I could see and then smell the plate of beans and the cup of coffee he was holding.

  “You hungry?”

  “This bound to be my last supper?” I said.

  “No. I don’t reckon it is,” he said. “I think the boss wants to use you pretty good before he drops you down a hole.” He leaned forward and untied me and then handed me the plate.

  “Your boss know you’re doing this?” I said.

  He shrugged, said, “What do I give a shit?”

  “Bob?” I said, trying to remember the name; nothing came to mind.

  “Back at the line shack that day. Me and my pard came ’round and you jumped us and tied us up and I had to piss and you were decent enough not to make me piss in my drawers. You remember now?”

  “Oh, yeah. I do.”

  “Go on and eat ’fore that gets cold.”

  I ate and he retied me to the tree.

  “I figure this way we’re even on things,” he said.

  “Much appreciated,” I said.

  He stood then. “Take care friend,” he said.

  “Wait.”

  He paused.

  “We’re not quite,” I said.

  “We’re not quite what?”

  “Even.”

  “How you figure? You done me a good turn and now I done you one.”

  “You remember the last thing I did that day?”

  He stood silent.

  “I left your ropes loose enough so you could work your way free.”

  “That make us even in your book, I was to do the same thing, knowing if Mr. Waco learned of it he’d probably break my hands then have the boys use me for target practice?”

  “You seem like a man who don’t let his debts go unpaid.”

  He looked back down to the campfire. A lot of the others were already wrapping up in their blankets for the night.

  “Shit,” he said, and bent and retied the ropes nice and loose.

  I was already working my way out of them by the time I saw him dip into the camp’s firelight. I stayed put until it looked like most everyone in the camp was asleep. The remuda was tied just on the other side of the campfire. I didn’t have anything to lose.

  I came up on the horses easy and untied the first one, a dark bay, and led him off away from the camp, rubbing his muzzle as we went. A gun or two would have been nice and so would a saddle, but all the guns and saddles were with those sleeping men and I couldn’t risk charging into the camp.

  Then something cold and hard pressed to the back of my skull and a low voice said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Nowhere, I guess.”

  Then the pressure relieved itself and Bob stepped around in front of me and said, “You’re probably going to need this,” and handed me a Winchester.

  “We’re more than even now,” I said.

  “You goddamn straight we are.”

  I swung up on the back of the bay.

  “Oh, by the way, that’s Waco’s horse. He’s going to be real pissed you took it.”

  “What about you?” I said.

  “Me? Shit, I’m in the wind as of
this night. I guess I about used up any welcome I once had here.”

  I reached down a hand and he shook it and I heeled the horse to a walk moving away from the camp and didn’t stop till I topped a ridge and looked back and it looked peaceful, the firelight flickering down there in the great darkness. I could see them rising in the morning, stretching and yawning and trying to work the kinks out of their stiff bones, because I’d done it a thousand times myself. I could see the man who came and told Waco his horse was stole and then hear the confusion about where old Bob had gone off to and how all I managed to get away.

  The Indian would stand looking baleful as usual, not letting any of them read what was in his thoughts, and pretty quick they’d get it figured out and find Tom and Antonia and do their business.

  I knew I had to reach them first.

  Chapter Thirty

  He woke and wept alone—away from his wife, where she could not see or hear him. He held his broken hands up in the air and stared at them and it brought tears to his eyes each time he did. The bones had been more than broken, they had been smashed, and even though they were healing slowly, they would never heal right and he couldn’t look into the future and imagine what it would be like to be a cripple after he had all his life made his living using his hands.

  He worked his revolver out of its holster and tried to hold it and fumbled it and picked it up and tried again but it was a useless frustrating exercise. His fingers would not bend to the trigger, his thumb had no leveraging strength to cock the hammer. Even with two hands he had difficulty.

  He had let everyone down—Antonia, his wife, and maybe the town, if Johnny Waco took it in his head to burn it down.

  He hated having Nora see him this way. Hated having her wait on him, tie his shoes, button his shirt, while he held his broken hands like claws. He considered in those dark private moments of getting on a horse and just riding away. The towns people looked on him with pity, kids stared at his hands. His two deputies showed no respect for him any longer. Life went on. He felt left behind.

  On just such a morning there came a knock at the door and using both hands he fumbled the latch open and saw a face he hadn’t seen in years.

  “Chalk,” the man said.

  “Dalton.”

  The man was well-dressed in a fine suit and overcoat and a sugarloaf hat; he wore kidskin gloves. He was a tall angular man, well groomed with neatly waxed moustaches that were more gray than dark.

  “You mind if I come in?”

  Chalk stepped aside and the man entered, ducking his head slightly as he did.

  “When’d you arrive in town?”

  “Late last night, on the flyer,” he said.

  “Why you’re here is the more important question.”

  “What happened to your hands, Chalk?”

  He looked again at his hands then into the slate gray eyes of the visitor.

  “Long story I’d just as soon not go into.”

  The man nodded and took off his hat as he followed Chalk into the front parlor—a small room just to the right of the front door whose windows looked out onto the street and were draped with tatted curtains.

  Chalk nodded toward a chair with padded arms, and the man sat, crossed one leg over the other and rested his hat on his knee.

  “I came to see my daughter,” the man said.

  “She’s not here,” Chalk replied.

  “Perhaps you could tell me where she is?”

  Chalk shrugged, said, “I ain’t sure, Dalton.”

  “I see. I’d gotten a letter from her recently that concerned me. In it she wrote some veiled references. Antonia always was a bit cryptic. I thought I’d come and find out what’s going on for myself.”

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No.”

  Dalton Stone took a ready made from a silver case and struck a match with his thumbnail and fired the end of the cheroot, then snapped out the match and looked for a place to set it. Chalk walked over to a small table and took a pewter tray from it with both hands and brought it to his visitor.

  “Thank you.”

  There was a long moment of silence where only the sound of a clock in another room could be heard.

  “Tell me about the trouble my daughter is in, Chalk.”

  “How much do you know about her?”

  “Not much. It’s been several years since I’ve seen her. She rarely writes. I knew she had left you when she thought you were dead and married John Waco, that he’s a rancher. She didn’t invite me to the wedding. I asked then if I could come and see her and meet him and she told me not to. I respected her wishes. I figured then there was a reason behind her not wanting me to meet her new husband and I am guessing the reason still holds true. That’s why I came to you first.”

  “Johnny Waco turned out not to be a blessing to her.”

  “He’s mistreated her?”

  “I’m not sure how much or in what ways.”

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “I know she left him and ended up here in Coffin Flats working for a man named Pink Huston.”

  “Odd name.”

  “Fits his profession.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jesus, Dalton, I hate to even have to talk about this with you.”

  The man drew deeply on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a long blue stream, his gaze fixed on Chalk Bronson.

  “Whatever it is, I can take it,” he said.

  “Pink runs a hog farm.”

  “You mean a house of prostitution.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Antonia became one of his girls?”

  Chalk shrugged. “Something along those lines.”

  He saw Dalton stiffen but only slightly, saw him touch the brim of his hat resting upon his knee as though to brush something from it.

  “So she’s working for this Huston?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  “Let’s not be mysterious, Chalk. Say what you know.”

  Chalk told him the story—all of it that he knew so far. Dalton listened intently, stubbing out his cheroot by the time the marshal had finished.

  “So you think this Jim Glass has gone to rescue her?”

  Chalk looked at his hands.

  “That was his intent, yes sir.”

  “But you don’t think he’s capable?”

  “No sir. I don’t see how with it being just him against Johnny Waco and all his men.”

  He saw Dalton Stone lower his gaze then in a contemplative manner, heard him take a deep breath and let it out again.

  “Then I must go and do what I can,” he said.

  “I don’t know what that would be, Mr. Stone.”

  “Nor do I.”

  “I’m sorry I let her down,” Chalk said.

  “Your hands,” the man said. “Have you seen a doctor, and what does he say?”

  “Says I’ll be lucky to tie my own shoes once they heal.”

  Chalk watched as Dalton Stone took out a card and wrote something on it and handed it to him.

  “That is the name and address of a doctor—a surgeon I know in Denver. I want you to go there and have him examine your hands. I’m sure there is something he can do for you.”

  “I appreciate it, but I can’t afford trips to Denver and special doctors. I can’t even get a job sweeping out a store…”

  Dalton Stone took out a black leather wallet and took from it two hundred dollars and set it on the table next to the ashtray.

  “For tickets and a place to stay. Tell Dr. Jameson to send me his bill.”

  “I can’t accept your charity.”

  “The hell you can’t. Don’t be a fool. You were always good to my daughter as far as I know and you tried to help her when she was in trouble and it’s little enough I help you now.”

  Chalk felt contrite, slightly embarrassed, but grateful.

  “I’d like to hire as many men as I can—men who aren’t a
fraid to use a gun. Can you recommend any?”

  “Not in this county, but the next county over maybe. I’ve got a contact or two there.”

  “Can you send a telegram on my behalf to your contact?”

  “Yeah, I can.”

  “How long do you think before your man could get some people here?”

  “Two days.”

  “No sooner?”

  “Two days would probably be the soonest.”

  “Then if you would.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll be at the hotel, just ask for me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Dalton put a hand on Chalk’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your hands.”

  “I would have let him cut them off if it would have saved her.”

  “I believe that you would, Chalk.”

  He put the sugarloaf hat back on his head and went out, and when Chalk turned back from the door, his wife was standing there.

  “Who was that?” she said. “And would you really have traded your hands for her?”

  He didn’t know how to tell her—how a man could love two women at the same time, how he could give his hands or even his very life for either one. There were just some things you couldn’t explain.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I knew I’d never be able to locate Tom and Antonia in the dark, and even when it grew light I’d have a hell of a time finding them. So instead of riding away trying to stay ahead of Waco’s men I went up to a ridge and waited. It was a long cold night of waiting and two or three times I started awake from a doze.

  But finally the dawn came over a ridgeline or rocks to the east and I saw the small figures in the distant camp below me stirring awake. I saw too the small panic among them when they found out I was missing. It seemed to quicken their pace and in short order they were riding out, led by the Indian, except two left short of horses.

  I kept my distance in following them. If the Indian was as good today as he had been yesterday he’d find my friends for me.

  We rode till near noon and then I saw them stop atop a bluff of red sandstone. I wasn’t quite able to see what they were looking at below. But it looked like Waco gave them orders and they descended the bluff slowly.