Haxan (13 page)

M
y eyes fluttered open. Magra sat beside my bed. Her braided hair fell across one shoulder as she bent forward and laid a hand against my forehead.

“You’re in Doc’s surgery,” she whispered. “It’s been three days since you were shot. You had a fever.”

“Jake?” I rasped. Last I saw, he was reeling backward with a lot of blood on his back.

“The bullet skinned under his left arm and went through the muscle of his back. He hit his head against the windowsill and got a concussion, but he’s going to be all right. No, John, you must lie still.”

I tried to sit up. Big mistake. My head felt like it was full of jelly. Waves of leaden fatigue sloshed through my limbs, deadening my hands and feet.

“You had two bullets in you,” Magra said. “You got an infection and almost died. But you’re out of it now.” She squeezed my hand, hard.

Someone drummed on the window and eaves with muffled sticks. “What’s that noise?” I asked, confused.

“Rain.”

I stared at the ceiling and tried to count the vigas. My brain was too tired. I closed my eyes.

“Magra.”

Her voice drifted out of the darkness. “I’ll be here when you wake. You sleep now.”

Ten days later I could hobble around pretty good. I could even stand for an hour without my knees wobbling.

Magra took me for walks up and down Front Street like I was a crippled dog. I sat on the bench in the plaza to show the badge while Jake made his rounds and read the territorial newspapers. There was other news besides the normal political shenanigans. A businessman named Levi Strauss had filed a patent for blue pants with copper rivets. He wanted to sell them for $13.50 a dozen, which sounded expensive to me.

All in all, the exercise, sun, and fresh air went a long way to bringing me back to the land of the living.

One morning, after loading my gun, Magra and I sat in the sun before breakfast. I had slept the entire night without too much pain and felt almost human. The morning sky was burnt orange. The San Andres Mountains were blue and stark. The long black shadows under the mesquite trees were filled with mystery. Mourning doves cooed to one another across the
acequia
, their voices carrying like soft music.

Sitting here was beneficial to me in many other ways. Magra explained who the people were when they walked or rode past on business. It was good information for a new lawman to know.

“That’s Mr. Slattery. He owns the sawmill. Widow Fowler has four children. She fries tortillas for the cowhands. Moses Spielman is the editor of
The Iron Cauldron
, our local newspaper. He said the issue describing your gunfight with Ben Tack sold more copies than all the other newspapers in the territory put together. Charlie Kizzle lost his foot in a hunting accident five years ago. His wife ran off with a whiskey drummer. That’s our undertaker, Ezekiel March. He’s nice, but doesn’t smile often.”

“Goes with the job,” I observed.

“Like a certain lawman I know,” Magra said.

“Who’s that pretty blonde girl drawing water? The one on the piebald mare.”

“You can’t make me jealous. That’s Phaedra Finch. She lives with her husband and stepson up in the mountains. She comes to Haxan to buy sugar and flour and whatnot. They’re not very prosperous. They keep to themselves.”

An undercurrent in her voice alerted me. “Who blames them for doing that?”

Magra shrugged. “People say it’s a sinful family. No one speaks about it openly in public. They only whisper.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Finch beats Phaedra. And word is she’s more in love with the stepson than the father. I don’t know about that part. People in Haxan gossip.” She eyed me with speculation. “Like they do about us.”

“I have told you what I think of the good people of Haxan and their damnable gossip.”

“Doesn’t stop it from happening, John.”

“I don’t care to argue about it. This is a nice day and I like sitting here with you. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your father. How did he come to America?”

“He was born in Stockholm on All Hallows’ Eve. There was a famine when he took ship to America. He came with my Aunt Tea. She found a husband in Chicago, but Papa kept moving west. Papa was like that. He let the wind blow him.”

“That’s not true.” I nodded at the town around us. “He settled here. How did he meet your mother?”

“Black Sky was the daughter of a Navajo war chief. She believed the things my father said about hidden voices in the rocks and sky and grass. You see, at first everyone lived in Coldwater off to the east. It was even voted the county seat. But when silver was found Haxan took off. The silver didn’t last but by then people had moved here because there was more money to be made. Many of the rich businessmen who made money in the sliver strike promoted the Santa Fe railroad to lay down a spur. The train didn’t come every day, but the population exploded. When that happened Papa moved us farther into the desert. He never liked crowds and he liked the people of Haxan less. He said the clamour of their voices drowned out the real voices of the desert. Plus, he didn’t like their obsession with money.”

“What was it like growing up?” I asked. “Were you bored?”

Magra hugged her knees and rocked back and forth. “Mother taught me everything I needed to know. She showed me how to use the stars and sun so I would never get lost, and how to tell time by them. I can find water by watching which way a bird flies in the morning. I could trap and track any animal as well as a man by the time I was five. Mother taught me how to skin and tan hides, dry meat on a sun rack, and cook bread in a beehive oven. I had a pet rattlesnake. Don’t laugh—it’s true. One night he slithered through a knothole in the floor and coiled in the corner of my room. I fed him desert mice. Papa said that wasn’t a proper pet and bought me a puppy for my birthday. That made the snake sad.”

“How so?” I couldn’t tell if she was greening me or not.

“He crawled away and I never saw him again. Maybe he thought I didn’t love him because I had the puppy. I had lots of pets like that, though. Mother taught me how to tame most animals. Any animal can be tamed, John, except man.”

“Thank goodness, or I would be out of a job. You said something about Pennsylvania once, if I recall.”

“I hated it there.” She made a face as the old memories came flooding back. “Everything revolved around a clock. They ate by the clock and slept by the clock. For all I know they made babies by a clock. I know Papa came from that world, but he didn’t live that way.”

“It doesn’t sound like you were a good student.”

She laughed at this and said with a bit of pride, “I was often in trouble. The nuns used to whomp me good and make me kneel on rice and say prayers of contrition. That made me hate them all the more. I learned how to read and write, though. They had a lot of history books.”

“When did your mother die?”

She became quiet. “It was on the Long Walk. That was in 1864 when the Army forced the Navajo onto reservation. Mother was married to a European, so legally she didn’t have to go. But she wanted to stay with her people. Papa said he understood.”

“How did she die?”

“Mescalero raid. She was protecting two women who were with child. Later, an official from the agency said Mother died of consumption. We will never know the truth. Mother never said.”

“You mean when she night-walked you.”

“That’s right. I was back east, remember? She came to me in my dreams and told me she had crossed over. That’s when I decided to run away and come home to Papa. But he sent for me before I could do that. Later, I asked him why. He said Mother told him that same night it was time for me to come home. Papa always listened to what Mother said. He respected her spirit magic and he put great store in her intuition.”

I recalled my past—what little of it I could remember.

“Magra, do you really believe in spirit magic? Rattles and beads and such not.”

She was indifferent to my scepticism. “I don’t know how else you can explain the mysteries of the world. I’m not talking about things like how big the moon is or why people grow old and die. I mean what is inside the human heart. No one can ever measure that. At least, not yet they can’t. But it does exist.”

She looked around with furtive eyes to make sure no one was watching and put both her hands on mine. “You’re proof of that, John Marwood.”

“Me? I’m afraid you caught me short.”

She leaned back and cocked an eyebrow.

“Papa called you here, didn’t he?”

Thing was, I couldn’t gainsay what she said. I had memories, sure. There were aspects of my life I knew to be true, like I had explained the first night we met. But there were also gaps in my past I couldn’t explain to anyone. Even to myself.

Sometimes, late at night, I dreamed of towering cities that had long ago vanished under blood and dust and time.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that one day those memories would come flooding back in a monstrous wave.

And when that happened it would be time for me to leave Haxan.

A week later I was well enough to head for the jailhouse. I had little choice. The biggest news around town was that a day or so ago Navajo braves had started jumping reservation. No one knew why.

“They’re mostly peaceful and don’t have much call to fight,” I said, reading an army telegram from Fort Providence. “Something’s got them stirred up.”

“Bad news if true.” Jake unbuttoned his shirt pocket. “I’ve been keeping this on ice for you, Marshal. Thought you would like to read it once you got back on the job full time.”

“What is it?”

“A wire from the town marshal in Dallas. He heard you were on the prod for Silas Foote. He said Foote and two other men came through town and camped on the Trinity River. By the time the sheriff rode out they had moved on. One of the men matched the description of Connie Rand.”

“This is the best news I’ve had in weeks.” I tapped the telegram with a fingernail. “He thinks Rand and his gang pulled west. Mayhap they’re returning to Haxan.”

“Thought that would interest you, sir.”

I felt my blood rise. I was getting stronger every day. With luck I’d run these
comancheros
to ground and be shed of them.

Jake poured himself a cup of strong coffee. “If they accepted money to kill Shiner Larsen then it stands they took money to kill Miss Magra, too. Otherwise, there’s no reason they would burn her place down or try and kidnap her.”

“That’s how I’ve got it figured, too,” I admitted. “She hasn’t gone back to her father’s place since I’ve been sick, has she, Jake?”

“Oh, no, sir. I’ve seen to that. She wanted to put a tent out there and move out, but I wouldn’t let her. She kicked about it, but you know how she is. She was more concerned about your health. We all were.”

“What about you, Jake? How are you holding up?”

“My back creaks me at the end of the day. Doc gave me some liniment. It helps a tad.”

“Magra has a mind of her own about many things, Jake. But I don’t want her where we can’t protect her. If Rand is headed this way mayhap he’s decided to tie up loose ends and earn the money he was paid.”

“I agree, Mr. Marwood. Rand will like as not try for Miss Magra next. As far as I can tell, she has taken up residence in Haxan. If truth be told, she’s been a help while you were down.”