Marathon Cowboys

Marathon Cowboys |
Sarah Black

2

Chapter One

HE WAS way too pretty to be drinking beer in a shit-kicking

West Texas bar on Friday night. I eased up out of my seat,

leaned up against the bar so I could hear what was

happening. A pair of cowboys was crowding him on either

side, mean-looking boys with small eyes and dirty jeans. He

looked city—San Francisco, maybe—with hair the color of

pale honey down in his eyes. He looked like Heath Ledger’s

little blue-eyed brother. He looked at me, trying to see if I

was more trouble heading his way. He was still smiling, but

his eyes had gone real serious. Stormy-sky blue, smart, and

he eased away from the bar, nodded to the two shit-kickers.

“Where you going, boy?” The one with the belly and the

Tony Lama boots reached out, grabbed a handful of his

sleeve, and pulled him back against the bar. The second one

leaned in, shoved a knee in between his thighs.

“You look like you’re up for a party.” He turned to his

friend. “Don’t he look up for a party?”

I put my beer down. He crossed his arms across his

chest, smile gone. “Back off, dickheads. I don’t party with

your sort. And don’t put your fucking hands on my jacket

again.”

“Oh, the boy don’t want to get his pretty clothes dirty!

You hear that, Mike? We ain’t the right sort!”

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Sarah Black

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“You two better clear out of here.” I leaned an elbow on

the bar, moved a little closer, into their space. Let them

notice how big I was.

Tony Lama Boots tipped his Bud up to his mouth and

took a long pull. He stared at me, his eyes hard. “You talking

to me? I’m not inclined to go anywhere. I’m just talking to my

little friend here.”

“Yeah, well, he’s my friend, not yours, and you’re close

enough you could shove your dick in his mouth. That the

kind of fun you’re looking for? Better take it out to the alley.”

That got me three dirty looks. I could see the one called

Mike measure up my size, my USMC haircut, decide he’d

best cut on out of whatever was about to happen. But Tony

Lama Boots had been at the Bud just a little bit too long.

“What you saying there, Chief? I thought we didn’t let

Indians in Texas. Run you all off to Oklahoma, right?”

“They let us back into Texas when they need a war

fought.”

The city boy clapped his hands. “Okay, everyone? Let’s

start again. I’m Jesse.” He pushed that pretty corn-silk hair

back behind his ear. “Can we all just take a step back? I

don’t like all this hostility I’m feeling, and I’ve got to be

hitting the road.”

Tony Lama Boots reached out, shoved him hard in the

chest with the flat of his hand. “I don’t think you’re going

nowhere, boy, and I don’t think this big Indian standing here

is gonna do dick about it. Am I right?”

Jesse looked pissed now. “It’s not Indian, you redneck

pig. It’s Native American. And I told you to keep your hands

off my jacket. Jesus, look at your fingernails! They have soap

in the bathroom of the Greyhound Bus station.”

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Sarah Black

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Uh-oh. I reached out, jerked him up against my chest,

leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Would you shut up and

let me handle this?”

Too late. Tony Lama Boots decided it was time for some

action, and that action was a beer bottle across my head. I

could feel the sticky beer mixed with blood flowing over my

collar. Then he cracked the bottle against the bar, took the

jagged cut edge, and tried to rake it across my face. He

missed my eyes, but I could feel my cheek open up

underneath the bottle’s sharp glass. Jesse screamed and

leapt on the man’s back, knocked his hat off, and pulled his

hair with both hands.

Then Tony Lama Boots was spinning around, trying to

dislodge Jesse like he was a rabid monkey on his neck, and

Mike threw a chair in my direction. It was a pussy throw,

and he kept a table between me and him. The boys playing

pool joined in the fun. Then a retired marine with a devil dog

on his forearm decided to come to the service of a brother

marine. By the time the cops were on the way, the bar was

nearly empty, littered with spilled beer and blood and broken

glass. Tony Lama Boots was splayed out on his back,

unconscious, though I suspected some of that was put on to

keep Jesse from kicking him again.

Jesse was wearing red sneakers with round white

rubber toes. “Oh, yeah, you’re doing him some real damage

with those. Were you pulling his hair? What the hell kind of

bar fighting was that? You fight like a little girl.”

“Why don’t you lay down right here, and I’ll kick your

ribs. Then you can tell me if it hurts or not.”

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Sarah Black

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“Don’t get pissed off at me. I was just trying to keep

those boys from beating the shit out of you and leaving you

in some alley, with your clothes unfortunately missing.”

That stopped him for a moment, and he looked carefully

around at the wrecked bar. “Okay, well. You may have a

point.” He spread his arms, gesturing to the mess we’d

made. “And this is just so much better! I am going to get my

ass kicked.”

I thought about the old man waiting for me down in

Marathon, thought about how to explain to him I was calling

from a jail up in Alpine, nothing to worry about, just a Friday

night bar brawl. Not a very good first impression. “Shit.” No

good deed goes unpunished.

Jesse handed me some napkins. “Better hold these

against your face. You’re gonna need some stitches, I think.”

He looked down at his pants—spattered cream-colored silk

and linen, the hems rolled up, and no socks with his red

sneakers. “Can you believe this? I’ll never get the blood out.”

“What I can’t believe is that you wore that into a bar in

Alpine on a Friday night. Why didn’t you just wear your

rainbow T-shirt?”

That got me a sour look. “I don’t need a T-shirt. I’ve got

a rainbow tattooed on my ass.”

My face was throbbing like an abscessed tooth. “I’m

looking forward to seeing that,” I said, “but hopefully not in

the jail showers.” He gave a shiver and wrapped his arms

around himself, but further conversation was impossible,

once the bar filled with the flashing red and blue lights of the

Alpine police.

The cops started sorting people into groups, and it

didn’t take Jesse long to figure out he wanted to be with the

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Sarah Black

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group going to the hospital. I suspected Tony Lama Boots

figured that out too, and he was going to remain

unconscious just long enough to get him a soft hospital bed

overnight. Jesse was holding his right hand.

“I think you need an X-ray, don’t you? I hope it isn’t

broken.”

He picked up his cue. “I can’t move my fingers!”

He sat next to me in the waiting room at the Big Bend

ER, his hand resting up against his chest. The cop that was

supposed to be guarding us gave me a stern look, told me

not to move, and went off looking for coffee. As soon as he

was around the corner, Jesse was up and talking to the girl

at reception. She slid a cell phone under the glass, and he

came back to the seat next to me, punching buttons with his

injured hand. “Second cousin,” he said, looking up and

winking at her. “Hey, Granddad! It’s Jesse. Yeah, I’m…. No.

No, I mean, yes, I’m at the hospital but I’m fine. Listen, can

you mosey on up to Alpine and get me? Bring some bail

money?” He listened for a moment. “No, I… listen, Granddad,

can I explain it all when you get here? I’m sorry to make you

come all the way. Yeah. Okay. Love you too.”

Jesse held the phone toward me. “You need to call

somebody to come riding to the rescue?”

I took the phone, pulled the number out of my wallet. “I

need to let somebody know I’ll be late. I was supposed to go

down to Marathon tomorrow.” I dialed the number, listened

to the gruff old man pick up the phone on the first ring.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Um, sir, this is Lorenzo Maryboy.”

“Maryboy, you calling from the hospital?”

“Uh, yes, sir, I am. Nothing serious.”

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Sarah Black

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“Are you sitting next to my grandson? Jesse Clayton?”

I turned to Jesse. “Are you Jesse Clayton?”

“The third,” he admitted.

I closed my eyes. I wasn’t sure there was anything to

say.

“Maryboy, you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You need bail money too?”

The cop was coming back around the corner, and he

frowned and reached a hand down to his nightstick when he

saw me with the cell phone.

“Yes, sir, I believe I will.”

“Is there a cop there with you? Let me talk to him.”

I handed the cell to the cop. “Mr. Clayton wants to talk

to you. Jesse Clayton from Marathon.”

He took the phone gingerly, and Jesse turned and

looked at me, frowning. “Why did you call my grandfather?

How’d you know who he was?”

“I didn’t. I was supposed to go see a Mr. Clayton

tomorrow. He’s giving me some studio space. I’m a

cartoonist. He’s offered to mentor me while I get set up in the

business. I just mustered out of the Marine Corps. My CO

knew him, arranged for us to meet.” We looked at each other

carefully, reassessing. “So, who are you again?”

“I’m Jesse Clayton the third. JC3 to my friends. I’m a

painter. I was coming down to Marathon for the winter. I

thought I could talk him into letting me use the studio he’s

got out back for a new project. I wonder if that’s the studio

he promised you. I didn’t tell him I was coming.”

“How many studios does he have?”

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Sarah Black

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“Far as I know, just one.”

The cop shut the cell. “Who does this belong to?” Jesse

gestured toward the reception desk, and the cop walked over

and shoved it under the glass. He came back over and

looked down at both of us. “I got to check with the duty

officer first, but I think we can send you both home with

your granddad tonight. Jesse Clayton, wow.
Jarhead.
I’ve

always admired him. We’ve got one of his cartoons hung up

at the station.”

A nurse came out from the back, a pretty dark-haired

woman with a Spanish accent. “Ready for some stitches?”

“What are the alternatives?” I stood up to follow her to

an exam room.

“Well, if you don’t care about how you look, we could