Waltzing With Tumbleweeds

by Dusty Richards

  In due time, the coffin was loaded and old man Shurer talked their ears off about how much he appreciated them doing this for him and of course, for poor Mrs. Holt. Jeff agreed, anxious to have the whole thing over with, when he climbed onto the seat and undid the lines.

  A few blocks away, a ball bearing mousetrap with one good eye, both ears eaten off in fights, called His Majesty, finished his dinner of a short tailed rat. His belly full and feeling nutritionally satisfied, his spring steel mind turned to thoughts of reproduction. So the gray striped male set out from the security of the area underneath the feed store floor and went west across the alley beside the adobe wall. Then using his whiskers to keep him safe from the spiny pads, he used the prickly pear fence to advance upon Montoya Street.

  This wide stretch of open ground with the dirt ruts held the greatest risk for him. A mean yellow cur called Alphonso guarded the entire block against any feline invasions. The blazing sun high, His Majesty began a nimble trot over the dusty tracks. Half way acrossthe street and feeling secure, his mind was fixed on having some amorous adventure with a gray female who was sorely needing his attention.

  Then the worse sound he could ever imagine shattered the neighborhood quiet. A yellow rocket tore out of nowhere at him. His Majesty sped through Raphael Torres’ yard, over a noisy pile of tin cans, leaped on his treasured tea rose bush, went over the head-high adobe wall into Sancho Blanco’s yard. He raced under the brush arbor, passing beneath Sancho’s wife sleeping in a hammock and around the many flats of sliced tomatoes drying in the sun.

  Alphanso, not to be outdone by the cat’s tactics, charged into the Blanco’s yard. His sudden loud approach caused the rather plump lady to be unceremoniously dumped from the hammock to the ground. She looked up in time to see the moment the yellow invader collided with her stands. Dried tomatoes and racks flew everywhere. She scrambled to her feet with the intentionof killing him. Armed with a broom, she reached the street seconds after the pair.

  His Majesty decided on another diversion, though the smell proved offensive. He scrambled over the mesquite-ironwood railings and leaped in to land on top of a hundred pound shoat. Max Ickel’s prize pig. The barrow’s back was matted with baked on mud and at the new rider’s arrival, the hog turned into a bucking horse. His squeals awoke the rest of the herd and threw them into a panic. A skinny sow breached a hole in the west wall, the rest of the herd followed. His Majesty’s claws were dug in. Considering Alphonso’s rapid approach, he decided to stay on his porker steed despite the bad smell and the ear shattering screams.

  Down the street, ran the frightened pigs that could have outrun a racehorse. An angry yellow cur with a fat Mexican woman on his heels bound on revenge after them all. A spotted dog joined the chase. Soon others added their barking and eagerness to join in on the fun. Riding the lead hog, His Majesty looked back and wished his mount would run faster for foaming mouthed Alphonso looked to be closing in on them.

  Meanwhile back at the funeral parlor, Jeff nodded to Shurer and they drove off. He felt better with the wagon underway. Ratch snubbed the dancing horses up close. They made good controlled progress for the first block.

  At the second cross street Alveron, Jeff only had a moment to look up and see the wild melee coming down it. He would have sworn he saw a big gray cat riding the lead hog. Already committed to that intersection, coming out of the east were four frightened hogs, a pig riding cat, twenty barking dogs and one very out of breath Mexican woman with a broom.

  It was more than the big horse Brad could stand. Ratch was forced to toss aside the lead rope. The big bay bogged his head and went off bucking down Alveron ahead of the whole pack, cat, hogs, dogs and the senora.

  The grays leaped over the pigs, real and imagined. They set out in a wild run with Jeff’s boot heels jammed on the footboard and him muttering short prayers. When they flew across the little used irrigation ditch, he looked back in time to see the coffin lift up and fly out the back of the wagon. Somehow, he managed to turn them in time to avoid smashing into Juan Margues’ adobe hovel. In another block, he sawed them down to a trot and Ratch caught up to help him.

  “You see that cat riding that hog?” Ratch asked.

  Jeff shook his head. Out of strength and disgusted with his crazy unbroken horses, he had no intention of admitting he’d seen such an unbelievable sight.

  “We lost Shorty,” he managed.

  Ratch agreed with a wary look back, then he helped him circle the team and wagon around.

  From a half a block away, Jeff could see the splintered coffin. Right there in Frisco Street lay the stiff body of Shorty among the splintered boards which at one time had been his casket.

  “Oh, Lord,” Ratch whined as he dismounted. “What will we do now?”

  Jeff set the brakes and tied off the reins. He stalked to the front to join him. His mind full of self-criticism for even offering to do this job. Stopped dead in his track, he blinked in disbelief. Whoever the corpse was, it sure wasn’t Shorty Holt. He knew him.

  “Ain’t him,” Ratch said.

  “Nope.”

  “What will we do? His widow and the family are all waiting at the cemetery.”

  “Wrap whoever this is in a wagon sheet, tie it tight and let them bury the poor soul.”

  “But it ain’t him. What do you figure happened?”

  “I don’t know. He died down at Hot Springs and no one knew him down there so it was probably a mix-up of the bodies.”

  “An honest one?” Ratch asked.

  “On our part, yes.”

  “We better hurry or they’ll think we’ve stolen him.”

  They buried “Shorty Holt” without a hitch and later placed a stone over his head. Six months later, Cora Holt married Sam Kane. They hard scrabble farmed on Shorty’s old place.

  Three years passed and Jeff had forgotten about the mixed up identity fracas. He and Ratch drove a cavy of horse over to southeastern Arizona. Between the Apache raids and rustlers, the price of broke horses around Tombstone was double that in West Texas. A livery man bought half of them, and two ranchers split the rest. So with their pockets full of money, they wandered down Tough Nut Street to join the Sunday crowd gathering for the cock fights.

  Being strangers, they held back from the ring setup. Several handlers held their multicolored birds to await their turn in the ring. Betters frequented through the crowd waving money.

  Jeff turned at the sound of a familiar voice shouting, “You Boys—”

  His hand shot out and he restrained the shocked looking Ratch in time. No one in the world ever said those words exactly like that, except Shorty Holt. Turning his friend around, he pressed his fingers to his lips to quiet his partner.

  “But it’s him!” Ratch protested in a stage whisper.

  Jeff shook his head. They must be mistaken. The red-faced man with the good-looking young Mexican girl on his arm was a dead ringer for the deceased. But Shorty was dead. They knew it, because they had hauled him to his funeral.

  “That his daughter?” Ratch gasped.

  “I don’t think so. Maybe his niece?”

  “Where’re you going now?”

  “Back to the saloon and have me a big drink of whiskey. I sure don’t want this afternoon to turn out like the last time we had any dealings with Shorty. I don’t want to see another cat come riding a runway hog down some side street leading a parade of dogs and one fat Mexican woman.”

  Ratch fell in beside him and laughed. “I don’t either. Let’s get that drink.”

  Rose and the Kid

  Rose hitched up her low cut dress before she pushed through the batwing doors of the Silver Moon Saloon. She took a wry look around the bar room at the passed out drunken cowboys and miners. Struck with disappointment, she shook her head. Every customer in the place was either snoring open mouthed or out cold. Duffy, the barkeep stood on a chair as he lowered the wagon wheel lamp to snuff out the candles.

  “It’s getting late,” the Irishman said. “S
orry, Rose, but there sure ain’t any business for you in here.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “Have a good night, Duffy.”

  “I’ll have them packed out back in the alley in a little while,” he said. “If you’re looking for some company?”

  She saw the expectancy in his eyes and smiled to console him. “Not tonight, Duff.” He had expected a free toss in her bed. Perhaps another time. She turned on her heel. This had been a slow night for her. She’d managed to win a little money in a card game up the street at the Los Amigos Bar. But, she had hoped to find a cash customer at closing time. Outside the shuttered swinging doors, she paused on the porch to place her hands on her hips and stretch the tight muscles in her tired back. She dreaded the hike back to her shack on Cabbage Hill. Damn the luck. Typical middle of the month night, everyone was broke. In the cool mountain night air, she strode the dark, hollow-sounding boardwalk.

  “Evening, Rose,” the town marshal, Reagan said, stepping out from the shadows of a doorway.

  “Hello, Reagan,” she said and shot a grim glance back down the boardwalk.

  “What’s wrong?” Reagan asked, moving in to stand close to her. “I can tell by your voice that you’re upset.”

  “Just one of those nights, I guess.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  She felt the lawman’s hand brush her hip and then familiar-like cup the left side of her butt. Reagan liked her, she just wasn’t that certain how she felt about him. Her fingers caught his overly familiar hand in a firm grasp. Carefully, she removed it. “I owe you, don’t I?” she asked.

  “I’ll be by in the morning to collect,” he said, with a boyish grin.

  Rose could read his devilish look. His words were no idle threat. In the morning, she promised herself, she would be able to tolerate him. Besides, in her business, giving free services to the law was expected. Call it payoff, whatever, she understood her place. The tradeoff was simply part of a dove’s life and a necessity for survival in a frontier town. Having one of the town lawmen sweet on her was another advantage.

  As she stood on the boardwalk with him, she wondered if she would ever do anything about his offer for her to move in with him? Perhaps someday.

  “See you in the morning,” she said and left him.

  The street up Cabbage Hill was rutted from the mine wagon traffic. In the starlight, she lifted her dress hem as she climbed the steep grade past the row of darkened frame shacks.

  She shouldered open the front door to her one room place. Then crossing the dark interior to the table, she felt for the familiar coal oil lamp.

  “Don’t light it, Rose,” a man’s husky voice said.

  “Who’s here?” she hissed. Her eyes were not adjusted to the interior darkness. Anger rose in her chest at the notion of an uninvited intruder in her cabin.

  “Billy.”

  Billy Bonney. Her heart began to race at the realization that Billy the Kid was back. She recognized his silhouette as he stood by the window. There was no doubt, it was him.

  “What are you doing back in San Marcos, so soon?” she asked, almost weak with shock.

  “Is that all you can ask?” he demanded. “I came a long ways to see you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, regretting her harsh words. Billy was her favorite man, even if he was a wanted, convicted killer. She considered him to be her loveable Billy. Despite the danger of his being there, she smiled, damn Bill and all his problems, he was someone special to her.

  He crossed the room and took her in his arms then kissed her. For a long moment, locked in a tight hug, she forgot what problems his visit might cause and savored his mouth on hers. Same old Billy, she mused.

  “That damn Pat Garrett’s on my trail,” he said releasing her and walking back to the window. “He keeps hounding me like a rabbit.”

  “Did he follow you here?” she asked.

  “No. He thinks I’m in Old Mexico.”

  “When did you eat last? Never mind, I’ll fix you some cold beans,” she said, knowing that Billy never ate regular meals.

  “I just needed to talk with you a little . . .I think about you a lot, Rose.”

  “That’s nice,” she said. In the trail of starlight from the window, she spooned the frijoles onto a plate for him. Billy wasn’t any different than most men, Rose mused, they lied when they wanted something, like for her to crawl in bed with them. He’d probably slept with fourteen different Mexican putas in the past two weeks.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” he asked, sitting down at the table.

  “Oh, Billy,” she sighed. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Well, I’ll just get a few hours sleep here and ride on.”

  “Don’t act like a mistreated school boy,” she said. “You can stay that long, but the town marshal’s coming in the morning to visit me.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “It doesn’t matter. He does favors for me,” she said, not wanting to discuss the matter.

  “I’ll be gone by then,” he said as he wolfed down his food. “Do I know him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you see him often?” he asked in a soft voice.

  Rose put her hands on her hips. “Where do you get off asking me what I do, Billy Bonney?”

  “I’m sorry, Rose,” he apologized. “I tell you Garrett has me on edge.”

  “Take your clothes off and climb on the bed,” she said. “I’ll sit up and wake you before dawn.”

  “You ain’t in a mood to share the bed?” he asked cautiously.

  “I said for you to get some sleep.” She suppressed a smile. “Tired as you are... besides you never are much of a lover when you’re tired like this.”

  “Hey!” he said defensively.

  “Get some sleep. We’ll see about it before you leave.” She shook her head. Why did she always feel so obligated to the wild boy who called himself Billy the Kid? There was no logical answer, she just kept a special place in her heart for the carefree gunman.

  She stood by the window and stared at the ghostly white mountainside which was studded with Spanish bayonet. Billy was already asleep, she noted, as his troubled breathing turned to snores. Just like a man to fall asleep when his head hit the pillow. She slowly shook her head in disbelief. Every lawman in the New Mexico Territory wanted her guest and he was sleeping like a baby in her bed.

  Rose awoke with a start. Exhausted, she had fallen asleep with her head on the table. It was light outside. Her whole body trembled in fear, she had overslept. Shakily, she pushed herself up, then tugged up her dress. Reality returned to her as she viewed the face-down, slumbering Billy in the bed. Sunlight shafted in the window on him. His one-piece underwear was wash worn and faded. She rushed to wake him.

  He certainly was not a very big man for all the trouble he caused, she decided as she shook his shoulder. He was hardly more than a boy even if he tried to pass himself off as older than he was. She always considered his pretense at being a bad man, was a poor facade. Billy was just one of those men that never would grow up.

  “I’m getting up,” he said, looking at her through sleepy eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “I dozed off,” she said. “It’s daylight and too late for you to leave.” She straightened up, sweeping back her thick hair from her face. She felt full of regret for falling asleep.

  He would have to stay all day at her place. Then the notion of Reagan’s coming struck her. What would she do? She must think of something. She closed her eyes to consider their dilemma.

  “What time is it?” he asked, sitting up.

  “How should I know? I don’t have a clock.”

  He was out of bed, pressing his face to the window to see. “What have you done?” He whirled on his heel and gave her a frown.

  “I fell asleep,” she said, holding out her palms.”

  “When’s this marshal coming?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  He began dressing. “This is just gre
at.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To get the hell out of here.” He stood up and buckled on his gun belt.

  “Someone will surely see you and have a posse on your tail. Sit down. We’ll think this out.”

  “What do you recommend?” he asked, remembering to button his fly.

  “There’s room under the bed for you to hide,” she said. “I can handle him. I just don’t want either of you shot. Do you understand me, Billy Bonney?”

  “You like him that much?”

  She shook her head in anger. “I like you too. I want your word, Billy.”

  “Okay,” he said with a downcast look. “I promise. But will this work?”

  “Men are my business. You just get ready to get under my bed, savvy?’

  Rose’s head cocked at the sound of a shod horse coming up the hill. She whirled to face him. “Get out of sight.”

  He gathered his things and scrambled under the bed. As he wiggled out of sight, she drew a deep breath and touched her hair. She must look a mess. Oh well, Reagan probably wouldn’t notice. She wet her lips, just so he didn’t detect Billy.

  She opened the door and smiled at the lawman as he hitched his horse to the front picket fence. He removed his hat and smoothed down his black hair. Reagan searched around before he came up the short walk.

  “Morning, Rose,” he said with a wide grin.

  “You came early enough,” she said and let him by, taking his hat. She knew Reagan wasn’t a man to be backward around women. He quickly took her in his arms and began to kiss her. His deep hungry kisses made Rose grateful for his eagerness. The quicker their business was over, the sooner Reagan could leave. She would think of something when he was through and send him on his way.

  Reagan was a lanky man. His skin paler than the starched shirt she unbuttoned for him. He hardly had a hair on his thin chest. Rose ran her hands over his skin and the corduroy ribs. He needed feeding, too.

  His mouth was demanding on hers as she undid his belt buckle between them. Reagan’s fingers were fumbling with the hooks and eyes hooks and eyes down the back of her dress. She eased from his hold to do that herself, fearful he might rip the dress open in his haste.