Widowmaker Jones (11 page)

C
ome morning, Newt woke with a crick in his neck and a sour taste in his mouth. The plank porch was too hard to sleep on, and the bare-beaten ground he had chosen for his bed was little softer. He rose and dusted himself off as best he could with his hands shackled and the chain rattling around his knees.

It was the sound of a crowbar punching the earth and grating on the gritty sand and rock that woke him. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes and tried to make out the fellow digging a hole on the edge of the street in front of the saloon. He was a young, wiry lad with a black mustache and sweat already soaking through his shirt. A skinny cow pony stood three-legged nearby, with its head sagging and one rein draped on the ground. Tied to its saddle horn on the end of a rope was a heavy cedar post about fifteen feet long.

The young cowboy continued to beat out his hole, without consideration for those who still might be sleeping so early in the morning. No matter the racket, the bear was curled up asleep and didn't stir.

Newt barely had time to take a seat on the end of the porch before the four Rangers trooped out of the saloon carrying their bedrolls on their shoulders. Last he remembered before he gave in to fitful sleep was the Rangers' voices coming through the walls, still telling stories and swapping jokes until the wee hours. Every one of them looked sour and hungover after their long night of the judge's hospitality and cheap whiskey.

Three of the Rangers went around the corner toward the horse corral in back, but the sergeant took the time to set a graniteware plate containing some chili and beans and a soggy corn tortilla on the porch beside Newt.

“Much obliged,” Newt said.

“Don't thank me until you've tried it. The judge claims he makes his chili con carne out of goat meat, but from the taste of it I suspect he isn't above slipping a little rattlesnake or armadillo in the pot when goat prices get too high to suit him.”

“I've eaten snake. Wouldn't recommend it, but a man can live on it in a pinch.”

“You and the judge ought to make a pair then, if you're so open-minded and tolerant of culinary deficiencies.”

“Where is that highbinder of a judge?”

The sergeant ignored him and went after his comrades, leaving Newt to sample the judge's cooking. The first bite confirmed the Ranger sergeant's opinion of the judge's cooking skills, but Newt was too hungry to be picky and made do with what was offered.

No less than the judge himself finally came out the front door, rubbing his jowls with one hand and scratching at the seat of his pants with the other. He was wearing a sugarloaf sombrero, which was the third hat Newt had seen him in. Obviously, the judge was a man of many hats: one for bartending, one for court, and one for whatever the morning held in store.

On stiff knees the judge stumbled over to the end of the porch and handed Newt a tin dipper of water. “I imagine this prisoner bit has left you thirsty.”

“Where are those Rangers going?” Newt asked.

“Back on patrol.” The judge waved a hand in several vague directions at once, as if that accurately identified their heading. “They've promised to check into your story once they make it up to Fort Stockton.”

“And how long will that be? I don't relish the thought of being chained to your porch for much longer.”

“Could be a week or two.”

Newt set down his plate and looked the judge in the eye. “I'm about to decide I don't care for you.”

The judge grunted like a straining old bull. “They're leaving you in my custody. Got a chore you might help me with.”

“You've got a lot of gall to suggest I help you with anything.”

The judge pointed at the cowboy digging the hole. “That's my boy, Sam. See that post there he drug up? Know what I'm going to do with that post?”

“You tell me.”

“Sam is a slow worker, but he'll have that tall post set in the ground by the time we're back.”

“What do you mean when
we're
back?”

“He's going to nail a good stout cross member to that post before he raises it, and I'm going to hang Cortina from it, or I ain't a Bean from Mason County. A Bean always means what he says and says what he means.”

“You still haven't said what you meant by ‘we.'”

“You're going to ride down into Mexico and help me catch that saucy Mexican bandit. I'd send the Rangers, but they don't have jurisdiction down there. Law don't go far in Mexico, anyway.”

“I don't need any partners.”

“You can rot here chained to this post while I'm gone or go with me. I'm doing you a favor. You're under suspicion of committing murder and have already refused to pay your bar bill. I'm giving you a chance at a suspended sentence and something to work off your debt.”

“Are you still trying to get me to pay for beer I didn't drink?”

“Needless to say, your record in my town doesn't put you in a good light so far, and a less likely man for the mercy of the court I probably couldn't find if I searched for a long while.”

“Yet you would trust me to go after Cortina with you?”

“I didn't say I trusted you.”

“You ought not. I'm building a pretty good grudge.”

“You've got to promise me one thing if you want me to turn you loose.”

“What's that?”

“Promise you won't kill Cortina when we catch him, no matter what he did to you.”

“You're asking a lot.”

“I don't want Cortina shot down below the border by any old fellow like yourself. I want him brought here and hung by yours truly. If I let him get off with my jaguar hide folks are going to start saying old Judge Roy has lost his mettle, and just any fool bandit with some guts can ride in here and take from him,” the judge said with the gravel and the crankiness coming back into his voice. “I won't have anyone laughing at me and my court.”

“Say I went with you. How do you know I won't waylay you or run off the first chance I get?”

The judge pointed to the four Rangers riding around the corner leading the Circle Dot horse and another saddled spare. “Those boys yonder might not look like much, but they're tougher than whang leather and would as soon quit a criminal's trail as would a bloodhound with six legs and three noses. They owe me a few favors. Might be I've kept my mouth shut when they delivered a little vigilante justice without the court's blessing and wrote them up some papers to make things look legal for them.”

“What are you getting at? Quit beating around the bush.”

“You run off on me, or cross me in any way, and you won't come back to Texas without them after you. I'll write up all kinds of charges against you. Might be if they caught you they might be tempted to be a little prompt and enthusiastic in their duties.”

“Thought this all out, have you?”

“Your choice. You do what you think is best, but I don't have time to wait around. I won't be the laughingstock of the border. No, sir, I'm going to have the last laugh when I stretch Cortina's neck. Make an example out of him.”

Newt calculated the head start Cortina had on him—one that was growing by the second—and weighed that against the bad feeling he had about any deal with the judge. In the end, he held up his shackled hands. “Let me loose.”

The judge pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs. He didn't wait around but stepped off the porch and went to the horse the Rangers held for him. For a man who appeared well past his prime, he put a boot in the stirrup and stepped up easily enough, although he sat a saddle slumped over like a sagging sack of grain.

Newt went to the Circle Dot horse, checked his rig, and then mounted. The sergeant held out his Smith pistol, and he took it from him and shoved it into his holster.

“Don't you disappoint the judge,” the sergeant said. “He's a friend of ours.”

The Rangers spurred off before Newt could say a word to them. He was left alone with the judge.

The same red rooster from the day before flew up and landed on the back of the judge's saddle skirt. The judge held out something to it, and the rooster pecked it from his hand.

“You going to haul that bird with you?” Newt asked.

“Old Shanghai is a good friend of mine,” the judge said. “Won me many a peso fighting him when he was younger. He can go where he pleases.”

“Just thought it was odd, that's all.”

“Daylight's a-wasting.” The judge started his horse off with the red rooster riding calmly on the back of the saddle.

Newt pulled in behind him and they followed the railroad tracks out of town at a slow walk with the rising sun in their eyes. The judge rode a pencil-necked gray gelding with its mane rubbed out and weeds tangled in its tail. Other than a long-barreled Colt shoved behind his belt buckle, the judge had no other firearm, despite their intention to go manhunting.

“Where are we headed?” Newt asked. “You know something I don't?”

“I know that Cortina's got himself a sweetheart,” the judge said, filling one cheek with a wad of chewing tobacco. “Young, pretty little thing. Her daddy's got a fine rancho and hacienda a day's ride west of Piedras Negras. A hacendado like him don't have any use for the likes of Cortina, but that girl don't have his judgment. She's been meeting that thief on the sly when he's in the country. Like I said, she's unusually pretty, and he'll go to her like a fly to sugar. You can bet your last dollar on that.”

“You can't be sure he's headed that way.”

The judge pulled up his gray nag and twisted his head away from the sun and squinted at Newt. “I brought you along for muscle and not your wits. We're going down below the border. You ever been down there?”

“No, I never.”

“Then you'll do well to listen to me. It's a whole nother world. Hard country. Easy to lose your bearings. Many a gringo goes over the line and can't find his way back. Been down there several times myself, and I like to have not got back every time.”

“What's that Jersey Lily bit back there on your porch?”

“You're a slow reader of signs. It's taken you two days to get a handle on them all.”

“You have a lot of signs.”

“You've never heard of the Jersey Lily? Miss Lillie Langtry?”

Newt shook his head.

“Finest-looking woman on God's green earth. Saw her in person once, but an angel like her don't even recognize the likes of me or you in a crowd. She had a voice like you never heard. Named my saloon in her honor, and then the town.”

“She must have made quite an impression on you.”

“Don't speak slightingly about her. You ain't worthy to lick the dust from her dainty little high-button shoes. If I close my eyes and listen close, I can still hear her sing. Makes me feel kind of floaty when I do, and makes me want to sing myself.” The judge cleared the phlegm from his throat, hacking and spitting, and then began to sing loudly and mostly off key. “Oh, do you remember sweet Betsy from Pike? She crossed the high mountains with her lover Ike. With two yoke of oxen and a big yellow dog. And a tall Shanghai rooster and one spotted hog. Too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-oo-ra-li-ay.”

Newt hoped the song didn't have many verses.

“You feel free to sing along if you have the voice for it. I find that a good bass goes well with my fine Irish tenor,” the judge said, and cleared his throat again in preparation for another verse.

Newt resisted the urge to reach out and knock the old highbinder out of his saddle, feeling the irritation crawl up his spine and settle like a heavy weight on his chest. The devil on one shoulder argued with the angel on his other. Behind him, the sound of the cowboy digging the posthole for Cortina's hanging post rang like a church bell in his head. Hard country, indeed. Hell and Texas.

I
t took Kizzy and Fonzo the better part of the afternoon to bury the dog and to wrestle and roll the dead horse out of its harness. And it took them even longer to capture the wily mule and to get their equipment wagon off the road and to cover it with cut brush. They were still two miles out from Piedras Negras, and it was near dark when they met the southbound stagecoach.

It was traveling at a high clip, and Kizzy felt in danger of being run down and barely managed to pull the living quarters wagon to the side of the road before the stagecoach came flying past with the driver up in the seat and hauling on his ribbons in a unsuccessful attempt to slow his runaway team. Through the cloud of choking dust both of them noticed that the stage was pulled mostly by the mules formerly belonging to them.

“Those mules never did mind well,” Fonzo said. “I'm almost glad the rurales stole them.”

“Knotheads or not, they were our knotheads,” Kizzy said. “We'd have to rob a bank to buy more mules.”

“Those rurales must have sold them to the stage company as soon as they hit town.”

Kizzy nodded.

“They won't suspect that we will do anything about it,” Fonzo added.

“There's nothing we can do about it. Best thing is for us to keep a low profile and take a look around for Cortina and your horses.”

“It wasn't right, what those rurales did.”

“No, but if you get us in trouble with them we won't ever get the horses back. Who's going to believe us? Those rurales are the law. It's our word against theirs.”

“I don't want to let it lie. I can't.”

“Do you want to end up like Father? Listen to me.”

Fonzo looked at her, his jaw trembling with passion and his eyes wet with tears and anger. “Are you scared, sister?”

“Yes, but we will see this thing through and have your horses back. Promise me you will not try to make trouble with the rurales if we meet them again.”

He hesitated long before he nodded agreement. “It's going to get worse. This thing we do will not be easy.”

“I know. That's what scares me.”

* * *

They recognized some of the rurales' horses tied in front of a seedy cantina on the southern outskirts of town. It was already dark enough that lamplight was spilling out of the open door into the street, and from the raucous laughter and banter coming from inside Kizzy guessed that the rurales had chosen their bivouac for the night.

Kizzy made sure they camped on the opposite side of town, fearing what Fonzo might do. Fonzo woke her up the next morning, knocking loudly on the side of the wagon. It was a little past sunup, but there he was, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and an impatient set to his face. He looked wide awake and as if he had been up for a long time.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and gathered her sleeping gown and went down the steps and took a seat on a campstool beside the smoking ashes of the night's fire.

“I found the
alcalde
this morning, and then the local judge,” he said in a quick spurt.

“At this hour?”

“I woke them.”

“I bet they appreciated that.”

“They won't do anything. The rurales already let it be known that they captured our mules in a raid on an Indian village.”

She took a deep breath. “You're going to make trouble for us that we can't afford. The horses are our priority.”

“I think the judge is somehow kin to the rurale captain.”

“Things often work like that. We can file a grievance with the court if you want to, but it sounds like that wouldn't work. I think we had best find out if Cortina came through here with the horses and where he was headed if he did.”

“I talked to a Mexican lawyer, too. He wants fifty pesos to take our case.”

“You've been busy this morning.”

He began to pace back and forth. “Is there no justice in this country?”

“This is our reality.”

He stopped abruptly several steps from her and arched one eyebrow. “It seems I'm not the only one who got up early.”

She only then noticed Vlad lying beneath the wagon, wagging his tail and avoiding her gaze. The dead chicken clamped in his jaws didn't hide the shameful grin behind his revealed teeth.

“Why didn't you tie him up last night?” Fonzo asked. “You know he is bad to kill chickens. He's gotten us in trouble for that more than once.”

She rose and went to the dog and took the chicken from him. It was a nice, fat young hen. “That was the very reason I didn't tie him up. We were short of anything for breakfast.”

“And you tell me not to take chances.”

“Good Vlad.” She patted the dog and held the chicken up by its legs. “Will you refuse some hot chicken and dumplings this morning? Should he come around, I doubt the hen's owner will recognize his bird in a bowl.”

He took the dead hen from her. “I will pluck it.”

“Maybe the hen belonged to one of the rurales. Think positive.”

“I'll keep that in mind, but it still doesn't make up for the fact that it's wrong. We are circus people and artists, not chicken thieves.”

“The dog stole the chicken. We are only keeping it from going to waste.”

He cast a glance at the dog, unable to hide the growing grin on his face. “At the bare minimum we are conspirators.”

“We are hungry. Troubled times call for difficult measures.”

She rolled out some dumplings from the last of their flour while he plucked the chicken and cut it up. Later, with an empty bowl and a full belly, he said, “That's twice in one week that we've had chicken. I must say that it's better than our usual fare.”

She smiled. “Things must be looking up. How many people do you think are sitting down right now to such fine dining?”