Mariana's Knight

by W. Michael Farmer

  Mounting Midnight, I led the mules back down the trail and didn’t waste any time getting back to Rufus. He was sitting against the same rock where I’d left him. He had his rifle across his knees and was smoking his pipe like nothing was wrong at all.

  “That job’s done.”

  He nodded and said, “Good boy. Those bastards oughta not be found for a right long time once the varmints get their fill.”

  “You any better? Why do you have your Winchester out and cocked?”

  “I’m a-hurtin’ purdy bad, but I can ride. Done had a coyote through here sniffing at the bloody spots. Wasn’t gonna take no chances that cuss was gonna come sniffin’ after me.” He groaned as he shifted position. “Now, Henry, if you can load up Elmer and saddle Sally, we’ll get on over to the Jarillas.”

  CHAPTER 44

  DARK NIGHT IN THE JARILLAS

  When we rode out of the mouth of Dog Canyon, the moon still hadn’t risen to midnight. Rufus rode bent over, holding onto his saddle horn with both hands. I led the way, taking paths that avoided the glow of campfires in the distance and making as straight a line as I could toward Monte Carlo Gap in the Jarillas. Thankfully, it was a fairly easy ride. We didn’t stop to rest the whole way because Rufus wanted to get where we were going, change his bandage, and then rest.

  Crossing to the west side of the Jarillas, I found the ocotillo thicket in front of Yellow Boy’s canyon and threaded our way through it to the little stream toward the back. I helped Rufus off Sally, got him some water, laid out his bed, and unloaded our gear near the overhang next to the little wet-season stream. He lay back with a hard sigh and motioned me to rub down and feed the animals before I did anything for him. When I finished with the animals, we changed his bandage and found the bleeding had almost stopped. I unsheathed the Sharps, wiped the dried blood off the stock, loaded it, and lay down next to Rufus. I was exhausted. I was even more tired than the night after I’d taken my first shot at Stone.

  At least I hadn’t missed today, and Stone lay somewhere at the bottom of a thousand-foot cliff with wolves and coyotes sniffing around for a piece of him. My father had a measure of justice. If Yellow Boy caught Tally, then the debt was nearly paid in full, except for settling with Oliver Lee. I was proud of the work we had done that day.

  I awoke to voices and the sound of cattle moving past the canyon. The sun was up, and it was already starting to get hot. I looked over at Rufus. His eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched together. His face was covered with sweat, and his breathing, labored. I knew he must be in a lot of pain.

  “Rufus! What can I get you? Do you need water?” I was frantic to do something.

  “Ummph,” he groaned. “A sip outta that canteen is gonna taste mighty good, Henry.”

  I got the canteen and helped him sit up to drink. After a couple of swallows, he lay back and said, “Been needin’ that fer a while.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I asked, angry with myself for not waking to check on him sooner.

  “After ye hauled them bodies up the Eyebrow and brung me here? I’d a-died ’fore I’d a-done that.” He hooked a thumb toward the cattle and said, “They’s been a herd goin’ by here since first light. That oughta wipe out any tracks we made gettin’ in here. You all right, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine. You look like you’re hurtin’ bad, though.”

  “Reckin I ain’t ready to swing no gal in a saloon jig.” He clenched his teeth again as a new wave of pain swept over him. Then he panted a little and seemed to relax as he smiled and said, “By damn. We got ol’ Stone, didn’t we?”

  “We sure did.” I smiled with him and nodded.

  “He shore as hell ain’t gonna pull any more sorry shootin’s on this here range. Tally ain’t gonna be a shooter anymore, either. You’ll see when Yellow Boy gets back.”

  I felt a sudden urge to throw my arms around the old man, but I remembered how he’d shaken my hand when I jumped up to hug him after he’d returned long overdue from Mrs. Darcy’s, and I chided myself for continuing to want to act like a boy. He wanted me to act like a man, needed me to be a man.

  A few moments later, he said, “Henry, I want you to slide your hand agin’ that hole in my back and show me the blood.” He looked at my face and managed a grin. “Remember, son, cold and cakilatin’. Go on now. It ain’t a-gonna hurt that much, and I need to see. Gimme a stick to bite on ’fore you start.”

  I cut a stick off a mesquite bush and gave it to him. He clamped down on it and nodded. I slid my hand up under his back as carefully and easily as I could, but he groaned deep in his throat, and his breath came in short, desperate pants over the mesquite stick. I felt around on the wet spot under the bandage and pulled my hand back. It was smeared with dark blood, not the bright, red kind I had seen when he was first wounded.

  Rufus squinted at my hand through his dust-covered glasses as I held it up for him to see. He nodded and relaxed. I guessed that the dark blood was a sign the poultice we’d rigged up was doing some good. The bleeding didn’t seem to be that bad, just a slow low-level ooze. His pain seemed to recede as I took the stick out of his mouth.

  I stepped over to the little stream and washed the blood off my hand then came back and sat down cross-legged beside him. I felt the warm sun on my back. It was more peaceful now that the herd of cattle had passed by. Canyon wrens were chirping in the bushes.

  “Rufus, what does it mean?” I asked. “The blood was dark, almost black. Is your poultice workin’?”

  He managed a smile and said, “Naw. Ain’t no poultice gonna fix me. Dark blood means I’m liver-shot. I ain’t gonna make it more’n a day or two at best. I’m bleeding to death inside.”

  I felt as though I’d been punched in the gut. “You’re not gonna die, Rufus,” I said. “You can’t die!”

  “Yes, sir. I reckin I am. They’s nuthin’ anybody can do about it. I’m done. We got to figure out the best thing fer ye to do next. Stone mighta told somebody he was a-goin’ lookin’ fer ol’ Rufus and his kid. If’n he don’t come back, and they think he went a-lookin’ fer me and you, they’s a-gonna come lookin’ fer us, too. Ye oughta lay low fer a while ’fore ye go back to yore mama. Yellow Boy is still yore ace. Ain’t nobody gonna guess ye’re with him.”

  I felt sick, enraged, and alone, helpless to stop him dying. Even worse, he was going to die because he’d helped me. I wanted to cry in shame and frustration, but didn’t dare do it in front of him. All I could do was sit, stare at him, and chew on my lip. This couldn’t be happening to me again. Stone had helped murder my father. Now he had killed the man who’d raised me like I was his own. It wasn’t fair. I wished I could kill Stone again as the memory of smashing in his face rose in my mind. I felt so helpless and weak.

  Rufus squeezed his eyes shut again and clenched his teeth as pain rolled over him again. When he began to relax, he looked over at me and said, “They’s nearly a full bottle of laudanum in my kit. It’s the dark brown one with the red thread tied around it. Guess now is as good a time as any to use it. It’ll make me easy in a little while. Git it fer me, will ye?”

  I found the laudanum and gave him a good swallow. Then he took a big swig of water and lay back. As the air got hotter, he began to relax and drift in and out of sleep.

  The animals were getting restless. I took care of them, straightened up the camp, and found some cow chips and wood for the fire. The work dulled the ache I felt in my heart and gut knowing Rufus was about to die. I felt like I was staggering around senseless in a nightmare.

  I sat by him through the rest of the day, keeping the flies off the bloody bandage and giving him water and laudanum when he asked for it. He became peaceful and slept easily through the heat of the day. I got hungry as the sun was going down and shadows filled the canyon, so I made some stew and ate. Rufus awoke and watched without speaking, and when I asked if he wanted to eat, he shook his head.

  “Is the laudanum working?”

  He nodded and said, “It’s
a-doin’ its job, son. I ain’t a-hurtin’ much now. Just feel kinda dreamy. Havin’ a hard time a-thinkin’ straight. See if’n ye can find a bottle of whiskey in the grub sack, and give me a swaller or two, would ya?”

  I found the bottle, and he took two or three long pulls. He smacked his lips and said, “That there stuff ain’t gonna do my liver no good, but it shore warms a feller up on the inside. Sit down here next to me, Henry. I’ll tell ya what I’m a thinkin’ if’n ye’ll fire up my pipe fer me.”

  He corked the bottle and sat it beside him. I found the pipe in his vest pocket and tobacco in the other. I filled and lighted it as I’d seen him do many times. It took some coughing and wheezing on my part to get a good coal in it, and he grinned while he watched me struggle with it. I handed it to him and sat down cross-legged next to him so I could see his face. I stared at his rheumy blue eyes, waiting for him to speak as he pulled long and slow on the pipe.

  “Don’t feel so bad about me dying, Henry. I done lived several year past seventy. Shoulda been dead a few times ’fore this. My string just run out is all. Bible says we’re done after three score and ten anyhow. Guess God gimme me a little extry time to take care of ye and help settle the score with Stone and Tally. It’s time fer me to go an’ I’m ready.”

  Again I had to fight an urge to embrace him. Tears rolled down my face. “I don’t want you to go, Rufus. I need you here. Please don’t die.”

  He patted my knee. “Ye’re a man now, son. I’m mighty proud of the way you handled yoreself yestidy. Yellow Boy’s gonna help you along till yore full growed. Ye’re gonna be fine, boy, just fine.” He grimaced and said, “Gimme another swaller of that whiskey, will ye?” I uncorked the bottle, and he took a couple more long pulls before lying back with a sigh. He was quiet for a while as he pulled on his pipe and sent puffs of smoke floating up into the still, cool air.

  “I ain’t got nobody else ’cept you, Henry. I want you to have all my stuff and the ranch. Git a piece of paper outta my medicine kit and write what I tell ya.”

  The only paper I could find was folded up in a flat leather pouch along with a lead pencil. On one side of the paper, creased and yellowed by the years, was a letter from Mrs. Darcy. It read:

  Dear Rufus,

  Thank you for bringing my Charlie home to me after the Apaches shot him. He was a fine man, and he liked riding with you. Now that he’s gone, I’m selling our place and starting a boardinghouse in Lincoln to support myself. Our children are gone, and all I have left are good friends like you. Please come and expect to stay at my boardinghouse whenever you’re over in this part of the country. I look forward to a visit soon.

  Your friend,

  Sarah Darcy.

  I showed the letter to Rufus. He brightened at seeing it and said, “Sarah Darcy. Damn good woman fer any man. Go ahead and write on the back of it, Henry. She won’t mind a-tall. Now write what I tell ye: Bein’ clearheaded and thinkin’ straight, I, Rufus Pike, leave all my possessions, includin’ land, cattle, mule, dog, and guns to my friend Henry—”

  He paused for a moment and said, “Henry I don’t think I oughta call you Henry Fountain since ever’body thinks ye’re dead, and they might think I’s crazy or ye’s a thief.” He stroked his beard and asked, “What’s a good name to call you in this here will? Uhmm . . .”

  I didn’t try to answer because I understood he was talking to himself at this point. At last he said, “I think you’s saved from Jack Stone by the grace of God, so I’m a-gonna call you Henry Grace. Is that all right, Henry?”

  I said, “That’s just fine.” I thought, Anything to make him easy.

  “Henry Grace you are, then. Where was I? Oh yeah . . . to my friend Henry Grace. Signed this date, first of September, nineteen-oh-two. Rufus Pike.”

  He paused again and said, “I know it ain’t the first of September, Henry, but I know it’s September, so the exact date don’t make no never mind. Hand it over here, and let me sign it.” I gave him the pencil and paper and the skillet I had turned over to write on. He struggled to sit up straight, sweat pouring from his face, signed it with strong strokes, and then lay back, exhausted. I folded the letter and put the paper and pencil back in the leather pouch.

  He took another pull on the whiskey bottle and sighed. “It’s a getting cold, ain’t it, Henry? Bring me another blanket, would ye?”

  It was dark, but the air was still warm in the canyon. I was sweating, and he had a blanket wrapped around his legs. I couldn’t understand why he thought he was cold, but I went to get another blanket.

  When I spread the second blanket over him, he said, “When ye’re ready to use the will, take it over to ol’ George Adams in Las Cruces. He’s a lawyer who helped me git the ranch recorded and rode with me in the old days. He’ll know my signature, and he’ll make shore things is done right.”

  He coughed, spat some blood, and then took another pull on the whiskey bottle, but most of it dribbled down his chin. I reached to hold up his head and steady the bottle for him, and he coughed and choked a little as the liquid fire flowed down his throat.

  Rufus was still for a while, and then he turned and said, “Henry, I just remembered they’s four sacks of gold coins under the porch post closest to the barn. I took ’em off a freight wagon the Apaches wiped out years ago on the San Antonio road. I buried ’em fer when I needed the money, but never touched it. I ’spec they’s about twenty thousand dollars there. Ye take it and git yoreself a good education and a good start. Ye got the guts and brains to be anything ye wanna be. Never stop trying at anything ye wanna do, and it’ll happen. Understand me, son?”

  I nodded, but I couldn’t speak. I knew he was slipping away. The tears trickled down my cheeks, bathing my face in sorrow. I felt so helpless.

  He lay quiet, breathing easy for a while with his eyes closed. I sat by him cross-legged, rocking back and forth, my hands clasped together in an attitude of prayer, hoping against hope that somehow he’d live. The moon swung up over the mountains and climbed high in the night sky against puffy, drifting clouds. Stark shadows mixed with golden light filled the canyon. When the moon began its downward arc, Rufus’s eyes flickered open. He looked at me with a peaceful smile and said, “Good-bye, Henry. Live a long time, and do good.” His spirit left with a deep sigh as he closed his eyes and was gone.

  Gently, I pulled the blanket up over his head to cover him. I hadn’t been able to cry for my father at the time he was killed, but I cried for Rufus that day. I cried like a man cries, from deep in my gut, feeling the springs at the bottom of my soul opening and flooding a great empty place left in my life.

  CHAPTER 45

  TALLY MEETS YELLOW BOY

  Sitting there with Rufus’s body, I wondered if my life had a chance ever to be right again. It was like I was the only person left in the world. I thought that maybe God had cursed me for some reason and that my destiny was for those close to me to die before their time so I’d suffer. I thought about that for a long time. Then I remembered Rufus had often told me that we mustn’t blame God for the bad things that happen to us. God wanted justice, and one way or the other, justice happened. Either we helped it along, or we didn’t, but it happened.

  “Henry,” he’d said, “it’s all gonna come out even, regardless of what we do. The Good Book says cast yore bread on the water, and it’ll come back to ye, and Jesus talked about reapin’ and sowin’. That there means if ye do good, ye’ll get more a lot more good back than ye ever intended and maybe in ways ye never believed possible. If ye’re doin’ a good thang for the right reasons, ye don’t expect nothin’ back anyways. If’n yore works is bad, the payback can be a hundert times worse, ’cause ye always reap more’n ye sow.”

  The river of grief pouring out of my soul finally stopped. I sat beside Rufus’s body the rest of the night. The times we’d spent together tumbled out of my memory fresh and clear. As I thought about it, I realized Rufus must have spent a fortune on cartridges teaching me to be a marksman with the Sharps.
I’d probably shot well over three thousand rounds at the targets he put in front of me. We’d probably carried a hundred tons of rock, twenty or thirty pounds to each stone, to make me strong and to build that cabin and fences he’d wanted.

  He hadn’t had much of a repertoire when it came to cooking, but I’d never been hungry, and he’d taught me to keep beans in the pot and coffee on the fire. I’d read every book he had stacked in a corner of his shack, and we’d spent many a long evening talking about the ideas and beliefs they held. He’d taught me all the mathematics I needed to know for surveying and for using the stars to navigate across the desert. That meant he’d taught me some geometry, trigonometry, and algebra.

  The stars were beginning to fade when I realized I wasn’t alone. I jumped in surprise and started to get up, but Yellow Boy, standing behind me, put a firm hand on my shoulder and asked, “What happen, Hombrecito?”

  I had to bite my lip to keep from crying again. I choked on my words as I told Yellow Boy the whole story. When I finished, he flopped down beside me, exhausted. He sighed as he stared off into the dark shadows along the canyon walls. After a long while, he said, “So, at last Rufus goes to grandfathers. He goes with strong arm and courage in his heart. He is welcome there. We lose friend and brother. We smoke and fast to remember him when sun comes. Tonight, we go to his rancho. I know place there for his bones.”

  I nodded and turned my face away from him. Yellow Boy touched my shoulder and said, “Don’t be sad for Rufus, little brother. Rufus has trouble no more. He goes to land of the grandfathers, the Happy Land. You must be strong for yourself. Rufus wants you strong.”

  We sat together with Rufus’s body and watched the morning light find high, puffy clouds and slip through the shadows in our canyon. Birds began singing in the mesquite and creosote bushes. I could hear the trickle of water in the little stream just below us, and the mules and horses beginning to stamp around. I looked over at Yellow Boy, who was gaunt and dirty. Salt sparkled in the light where rivulets of sweat had run down his shoulders and belly. Then I looked up the canyon and saw the horse Tally had taken tied with our mules and horses.