by Edson, J. T.
‘Maybe we should’ve left him where he was,’ Grey growled, remembering the threats made by one of the neighboring ranchers to start duplicating the actions of another by bringing in hired guns as a means of dealing with the problem arousing bad feelings throughout Bonham County.
‘Maybe we should,’ Ransome replied, finding herself drawn in a way she could hardly understand by the rugged masculinity of the man lying at her feet. ‘Only time will tell, Halcón Gris.’
‘We could maybe speed said time a mite.’
‘How?’
‘Go through his pockets and gear to see happen he’s carrying anything to say who he be and what’s brought him down this ways.’
‘We’ve no right to do that,’ Ransome protested, despite having a desire to learn more.
‘Should I buy a hoss, I’d look it over to make sure it didn’t have nothing wrong with it,’ Grey pointed out.
‘This is a man who’s hurt,’ the girl reminded her companion. ‘Let’s get him back to home so we can have him tended.’
‘You’re figuring on taking him back to the spread?’ Grey asked.
‘It’s closer than town and, even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to trust even a mangy old cur dog to Doctor Grantz,’ Ransome answered, her tone and expression giving further evidence of the dislike she felt for the man whose name she had mentioned. ‘Anyways, you always say that Juanita’s better for ‘tending hurts than any doctor. And having him at the house will give us a chance to find out what’s brought him to Bonham County.’
‘And what happen it’s something you won’t like?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be able to bear up under it.’
‘Have it your way,’ Grey assented and, although neither his voice nor badly scarred features suggested any quality of softness, there was something in his eyes which indicated a belief that the girl could do no wrong. ‘You ’most always do.’
‘I do, don’t I?’ Ransome admitted with a smile. ‘Find something to make a travois, please, Halcón Gris and I’ll do what I can to make him ready for moving on it.’
Chapter Three – I Don’t Know Who I Am!
‘So that’s what I look like!’ the Texan muttered sotto voce, looking into the mirror of the dressing-table at his rugged features from which the bruising acquired while falling into the arroyo was beginning to fade and deciding, a razor would come in handy to remove the stubble from his chin. ‘Well, one thing’s for sure. I’m not any Mark Counter.’
Even as the man saved from the flash flood completed the comment, he found himself puzzled by it. He had no idea of what kind of ‘marks’ were counted, nor why he felt sure this was not his occupation. Giving a frown and shrug, he decided he felt well enough to make a start at finding out who and where he was and how he came to be there.
On first regaining consciousness and feeling as if he was struggling desperately against choking water which filled his mouth and nostrils, the Texan had discovered it was nothing worse than imagination. His eyes, had revealed after a moment of blurred vision that his circumstances had vastly changed and apparently much for the better. The room in which he had found himself was large and cool, with whitewashed walls and a polished timber floor. A cool breeze was filtering through the net curtains which were draped across open glass paneled doors and prevented him from being able to see what was outside. There was another door, of solid wood, set in the wall opposite the bed. A washstand surmounted by a mirror and with a jug, bowl, bottle filled with a yellow liquid and topped by a glass on it was at the left side next to an intricately carved wardrobe. On the opposite wall hung a painting of the Madonna and Child which might have served as a clue about the people who owned the property if he had not still been in a somewhat befuddled condition. Next to the bed, a chest of drawers and a high-backed chair completed the furnishings.
While gazing about him, the Texan had become aware that every part of his body was aching to some degree. Nor was it hard for him to find out why. His head had throbbed abominably and he had winced as his fingers came into contact with the stitches which had sealed the gash in his scalp. Although he had not been able to see them, he was a mass of bruises and abrasions. The continued exploration by his fingers had encountered a bandage wrapped firmly around his ribs and established this was the only thing he had on. Pushing aside the covers, he tried to sit up. Instantly, a stabbing pain in his left side temporarily robbed him of breath. Sinking back on to the thick and soft mattress, he had wondered what had happened to him.
Only a moment was needed for the Texan to realize just how little he knew!
All the injured man’s examination of the room had established was that he had no idea where he was!
The Texan could not remember how he came to be in the bed, nor even how he had received his injuries!
As far as the injured man could recall—!
With a sense of shock, the Texan realized he could not recollect anything beyond the moment when sentience had returned and he found he was lying bandaged, but otherwise naked, in the bed!
The injured man could not so much as remember his name!
Perturbed though he had been, the Texan had found his attempt to rise and go in search of information proved too much. Slumping back on the bed, he had lapsed into a state of somnolence. Nor had he any idea of how long it had lasted. Even now, although he felt physically much better and was able to leave the bed instead of being compelled to collapse back upon it within seconds of even sitting up, only the memory of a huge woman—with a dark brown skin and features which he felt sure could not belong to one of his own race—who had fed him and attended to his needs for the indefinite period since his first recovery seemed real.
For the rest of the time, the Texan had had only uneasy stirrings in his mind and seen vague images. At times a thought had come that he had been sent somewhere to do something; but he was unable to recollect by whom, nor where or for what purpose. He had an indistinct remembrance of a tall man with a deeply bronzed and badly scarred face holding out a hand towards him, but not why or when. He had a vague memory of a second tall man, but more slender and distinguished looking, speaking to him once. However, he could recollect nothing of what had been said. On occasion there also had been two beautiful young women who were either present, or just imagined. He was uncertain which it had been. One was black haired, with olive brown features which seemed to vary between childlike innocence and a wistful greater knowledge. Slightly older, the other was a blonde whose face expressed disapproval. Try as he might, he could not think of who either was. For all that, he was as unable to shake off the belief that the latter was somehow more closely involved in his life than the former.
On waking a short while ago and finding daylight streaming through the lace curtains, despite having no idea of how much time had elapsed since his first partial return to a conscious state, the Texan had discovered his physical condition seemed vastly improved. There was none of the nausea which had plagued him earlier. Even the drowsiness that had kept him somnolent and little aware of his surroundings was gone. At some time, he had been clad in a long flannel nightshirt and the bandages had gone from his head and chest. Leaving the bed, after a brief unsteadiness, he had found soaking his face in cold water from the jug on the washstand had left him able to think clearly enough to make use of the mirror of the dressing table.
Turning away after learning nothing of use from seeing his face and hoping to gain some clue to his identity elsewhere in the room, the Texan ran his gaze over the clothing in a neatly folded pile on the seat of the chair by the bed and the black hat dangling by a fancy barbiquejo chinstrap from its back. Then he glanced at the pair of freshly polished boots beneath it and he decided they all belonged to him. A gun-belt with a holstered revolver lay on the chest of drawers. Finding he was instinctively reaching for the uppermost item of clothing, he told himself wryly that he obviously had not forgotten everything learned in his unremembered past.
‘What was it they told the Bohunk
first time he got a pair of these?’ the man mused, looking somewhat quizzically at the garment. ‘You put ’em on with the yellow in front and brown behind.’
Regardless of there being no such color scheme to assist him, the Texan donned the underpants without needing to think about how to do so and slipped into the undershirt and shirt. Then, having donned the Levi’s pants and threaded the narrow brown belt through the loops at the waist band, he turned his gaze to the chest of drawers. Impelled by a thought he could not explain, he went over to pick up the gunbelt. Noticing there were some scratches on the holster which he sensed had not been there previously, he buckled it around his lean waist. It was only when he was bending to tie the pigging thongs to his right thigh that he realized what he was doing. Straightening up, he concluded the weight of the rig felt both comfortable and natural.
Whatever his past life might have been, the Texan thought, the gunbelt and revolver had evidently played more than an insignificant part in it!
Whether for good or bad, the man told himself, he had yet to find out!
However, the Texan sensed the possession of the rig was in part responsible for the speculative and even worried attitude of the beautiful black haired girl on those occasions when she had appeared before him!
Even as the man was wondering why he should have aroused such interest from somebody who he could- not shake off the belief was a total stranger, a movement across the room caught the corner of his eye!
Turning his gaze in the appropriate direction, the Texan saw the wooden door was starting to ease open so slowly it seemed whoever was beyond it had some reason for wishing to avoid being heard or noticed!
Acting rapidly upon the supposition and without the need for conscious guidance, the Texan swung around. While he was doing so, his right hand dipped even more quickly to coil the second, third and little finger around the staghorn grips of the holstered Colt and lift it. Despite his thumb curling around the spur and drawing back the hammer until the firing pin was clear of the retaining strap, he refrained from fully cocking the mechanism and his forefinger stayed outside the trigger guard until the four and three-quarter inch long barrel was clear of leather and its muzzle turned towards the cause of the action.
Making the draw in a fashion which indicated he was fully conversant with all its movements, including one very important safety measure intended to guard him against firing prematurely and sustaining an injury, ix the man came to a halt in an almost crouching posture on slightly bent legs and with feet spread to about the width of his shoulders. Held centrally before him at just over waist level, counterbalanced with his left hand being extended sideways, the Colt was pointing by instinctive alignment towards the cause of the reaction. However, at that moment, a realization that he had failed to take the simple yet vitally important precaution of first ensuring the revolver was loaded struck home with sickening force. What was more, the weight of the weapon indicated to his senses that it was not.
A moment later, the Texan realized that having no bullets in the revolver’s cylinder was more of a blessing than a potentially dangerous omission!
Framed in the doorway, face showing shock and alarm, was the beautiful black haired girl who had figured in the man’s imagination or—more likely it now seemed—had actually existed from the vaguely remembered period since the first time he had recovered consciousness!
Aware that the herbal stew with which Juanita had plied her patient for the past three days induced sleep to alleviate pain, Ransome Cordoba had not expected him to be awake. Wishing to avoid disturbing him, she had inched open the door to peep inside. Finding he was on his feet and almost fully dressed would have been sufficient of a surprise, albeit also a tribute to the excellence of the massive part Mexican-part Indian woman’s ministrations.
However, despite the suspicions which had been aroused by the attire and armament of the Texan, the way the girl was greeted came as a shock. He had moved with the lightning speed of a striking rattlesnake and the muzzle of his weapon, looking much larger than its actual caliber of .45 of an inch, seemed to appear before her in no more time than it took to blink an eye. Although she had never been further than Brownsville to the east and San Antonio in the west, having grown up amongst fighting men, she was sufficiently wise in such matters to appreciate how grave a peril she had created. Nevertheless, despite having forgotten the Colt had not been reloaded when it was cleaned by Tom Grey and being very startled by the response her unannounced entrance had provoked, she had sufficient presence of mind to avoid any action which might have made the potentially dangerous situation worse.
‘Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not polite to point?’ the girl inquired, forcing herself to stand like a statue in the open doorway and to speak calmly despite the sensation of alarm which assailed her.
Freezing the forefinger with the depressing of the trigger still uncompleted, the Texan lowered the revolver. The knowledge that it was not loaded offered him only a cold comfort. The realization of what might have happened if it had been shook him to the core. Completing the pressure on the trigger and allowing the hammer to sink against the frame under control, he permitted the barrel to sag downwards. His left hand was shaking slightly from the reaction as he passed his fingers through his hair.
‘I’m real sorry, ma’am!’ the Texan replied with genuine contrition, admiring the cool nerve displayed by his visitor. Twirling the Colt back into leather with a dexterity which matched the speed of its withdrawal, he went on in what he realized was not the best of explanation, ‘Coming in so quiet-like, you took me by surprise.’
‘So it seems,’ Ransome answered, still employing all her self control to keep her voice steady and doing all she could to prevent her shaken nerves from making their condition too obvious. Stepping into the room and closing the door behind her, she continued, ‘But there is no need for you to be alarmed. This is Rancho Mariposa and you’re quite safe here. I looked in to find out how you are.’
‘I’m some better than I’ve been for a spell,’ the Texan declared, wondering whether ignorance of just how narrow an escape she had had or considerable courage was responsible for the girl’s behavior. Concluding it could be the latter rather than the former, he went on, ‘And, like I said, I’m right sorry for throwing down on you that way.’
‘It was as much my fault as yours,’ Ransome asserted. ‘I should have knocked before I opened the door, but I didn’t want to disturb you if you were still sleeping.’
T haven’t been up and around for long,’ the Texan admitted. ‘But I felt so much better when I woke, I reckoned I’d get dressed and take a look around.’
‘Are you hungry?’ Ransome asked, wanting to change the subject as she could see the visitor was disturbed by what he had done.
‘I’m nowheres close to starving,’ the Texan replied, removing and returning the gunbelt to the top of the chest of drawers. ‘But I could eat a mite, I reckon, ma’am.’
‘In that case, I’ll have Juanita bring up some food,’ Ransome offered and watched for any indication of recognition as she continued, ‘Then my father, Don Jose Fernando de Armijo y Cordoba, would like to come and talk with you if you feel up to it.’
‘I’d count it an honor to see him whenever he’s a mind, ma’am,’ the Texan asserted, deciding the name he had been given was only vaguely familiar rather than one with which he had had a long acquaintance. ‘Am I right in figuring I don’t belong here?’
‘Yes. You had an accident five days ago and we brought you.’
‘Five days back?’
‘Five,’ the girl confirmed. ‘Your horse was startled by lightning and threw you into an arroyo. Hale—Tom Grey, our segundo, fetched you out and we brought you home to have your injuries treated. My nurse, Juanita, has been ‘tending to your hurts and she’s as good as any doctor you’re likely to meet, but you’ve been unconscious, or close to it, ever since you got here.’
‘So that’s why things’ve been seeming mighty fuzzy,�
�� the Texan said quietly. ‘Anyways, it’s real good of you folks to’ve done all you have for me, ma’am.’
‘We’d have done it for anybody in your position,’ Ransome declared. ‘That you were a stranger made no difference, Mister—Mister !’
Realizing the girl was using a tactful way to find out his name, the Texan opened his mouth. Then he closed it again and a look of puzzlement close to alarm came to his face.
‘What is it?’ Ransome asked, startled by the response to her hint.
‘That’s the trouble, ma’am,’ the Texan growled and turned to stare at his reflection in the mirror on the wash-stand. ‘I don’t know who I am!’
‘I’ve heard of that happening when somebody’s taken a bad fall like you did,’ the girl claimed soothingly. ‘But it doesn’t last. You still look a mite shaky. Sit down and rest. I bet you’ll soon remember everything about yourself.’
‘It can’t come soon enough for me!’ the Texan declared vehemently, but sat on the side of the bed. ‘Aren’t I toting anything to say who I am?’
‘How would I know that?’ Ransome asked, her manner changing from solicitous to cold.
‘I can’t remember anything except waking up in here,’ the man replied. ‘I felt better and got up. When I saw these clothes on the chair, I figured they must be mine and started to get dressed.’
‘They’re what you were wearing when Halcón Gris and I found you,’ the girl explained, watching for and failing to detect any suggestion that the sobriquet of the segundo might mean something to the visitor as she suspected had been the case when he had heard her father’s name. ‘We had everything you were wearing cleaned and put your war bag and rifle in the wardrobe.’
