Waltzing With Tumbleweeds (17 page)

“I thought all Apaches dreaded the night?”

“Only dying during the night disturbs them,” his employer said. Then he went over and spoke to his Apaches in guttural words and they went for their ponies. The five of them rode out on the grease wood flats and in the distance they could make out the yellow lights of the Clanton House. He could even turn his good ear and hear music and laughter.

Fandango going on. They must have scored a big one. The Apaches dismounted and squatted. In the starlight, he was uncertain if they were a few yards from him or if they were ghosts. Somewhere a coyote called and another answered.

The one in charge drew out a brass telescope and looked across the plains. He handed it to him to use. Through the eye piece, he could see a half naked woman being pursued by two men on the porch. One wore no
pants.

Their party must be wild. Then he turned at the soft shuffle of more horses coming.

“No worry. They are with us.”

He could see they were armed with new Winchesters when they drew up, staying apart from him, the stranger and the Apaches. Their faces hidden in night by the shade of their hats. No one smoked. No one talked. Only sounds were the creaks of their saddle leather, or an occasional snort of a horse.

He did not dwell long on who they were. They were his backup, he decided. If the charges failed to eliminate any of the clan, then they would do the job.

He kept time by the big dipper. Past midnight, the sounds from the far away party grew muted. The man waved his Apaches toward the house. Each one was armed with a gunnysack, full of charges; they soon evaporated into the silvery night.

Then the organizer gave instructions for the gun bearers to surround the place and sent them off in pairs. The two of them were alone with the horses.

“Him and his kind deserve no mercy,” he said and handed a bottle to him.

He shook his head. He had no need for a drink. He might never drink again. The dipper stopped its movement. Perhaps the earth too had stopped spinning on its axis. Only the night bugs buzzed. No Apaches, no riflemen.

If a great bear had vomited up fire, then that would best describe the multi explosions that send shock waves across the open ground at them. High in the sky projectiles shot in an eerie red-orange light. The night held fearsome screams. Then a few rifle shots. Not many, but they reverberated across the flats and echoes answered.

“
Mia amigo, gracia
for your time and expert work. If I ever need you again. I
will
send word. The gray horse is your bonus for a job well done.”

Alone, he rode back to Azipe. By mid morning, when he reined up before the cantina, his eyes felt like sand pits and his spine
seemed deformed from the long hours in the saddle. He spotted the boy of ten.

“Take my grand
caballo
. Water him slowly, rub him down and feed him soft hay.”

“
Ah, si, Señor Gringo
. I am good with horses.”

“I know that is why I chose you.” He dismounted slowly and let his sea legs take form before he released the saddle horn. Then his gaze
stopped on the faded green bat wing doors; he hobbled for the cantina’s sanctuary. Anxious to see her again.

She rushed from behind the bar. Her arms flew around him.

“You’re all right. You’re fine.”

“Sure.” He set the bag on the table and the bottles clunked.

She frowned. “You never drank the mescal?”

He looked up at the dusty buffalo head above the bar and shook his head. “I may never drink again,” he said aloud.

What was a stuffed bison head doing in Mexico anyway? What was he doing there? He rocked her in his arms to savor her ripe body against his.

“Have you ever been to Texas?” he asked her, kissing her sweet smelling hair and ear.

“No. Why?”

“Let’s sell this place. Get a casa along the Guadalupe River. I can catch catfish. You can grow a garden.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I belong there. With you.”

“If you say so, my darling, we will go there.”

“Good, now I must sleep.”

Twenty years later, he sat in the warm sun before the jackal. The rays felt good. The young reporter from the San Antonio Herald was asking questions and taking notes.

“Ah, Señor Kelly, did you ever know any big bandits on the border in those days?”

“I heard of one.”

“Who was that, señor?”

“Old Man Clanton.”

“You saw him?”

“Yes, I saw him go to hell one night.”

“That must have been something exciting, señor. Can you tell me more.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s my siesta time. But believe me, he really went there.”

Q Q Q

Author’s note: Historical legend blamed Old Man Clanton and his gang for the brutal robbery of a Mexican gold mule train in Skeleton Canyon. The story goes that a single survivor of that massacre, a boy, grew up, became wealthy and led a well planned raid on Clanton’s Hacienda, which leveled the place to the ground. Neither the old man nor any of his gang members present survived the raid.

Luckily, Ike Clanton and some his siblings were in Tombstone that evening harassing the Earps and Doc Holiday. Later on, after trying all day to pick a fight with the Earps, Ike chickened out at the OK Corral gunfight—he fled into Fly’s Studio, screaming, “Don’t shoot me! I’m unarmed.”

Ike and the others killed in the famous incident were held up as model citizens by Tombstone’s Anti-Earp forces in the stormy days after the shootout. Six months later, Ike was shot and killed by a guard while he attempted to hold up a stagecoach, being the good citizen he was.

Dusty Richards

Dusty is a professional rodeo announcer, auctioneer, and cattleman. He serves on the local rodeo board, rural electric coop board, several writers organizations, including the Ozark Creative Writers Conference in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. He is a past board member of the Western Writers of America and headed their constitutional changes. He also co-announces the National Chuckwagon Races and the Texas National Chuckwagon Races.