Wraiths of the Broken Land (11 page)

“My sympathies are with you,” said the dandy, apparently out of equivocating remarks. He placed his left hand upon the cowboy’s right shoulder and squeezed.

The sun disappeared behind a mountain that was John Lawrence Plugford.

Brent swatted Nathaniel’s hand from his shoulder. “You don’t need to go and touch me.”

The dandy was perplexed by the admonition.

“Where’re my angels?” asked the patriarch. His voice sounded as if it traveled across a far greater distance than three yards.

“A place called Catacumbas,” replied Brent. “The dandy’s goin’ there tonight.”

Ashes fell from his father’s wild beard. “We’ll follow.”

“Yeah.” Brent hoped that his father would not ask the dandy to repeat the purported details. “We’ll follow.”

The huge man strode away, but the sun, smothered by thick clouds, did not return.

Brent looked over at the dandy. “You better get some sleep for tonight. It’s cooler ‘neath the wagon.”

The tall gentleman yawned enormously and nodded.

“But let me grab out some supplies first.”

Brent and his dizzy brother removed the black trunk from the wagon, took it to the other side of a high creosote barbican and set it upon its end. Inside the prison, something thudded.

The cowboy went to the edge of the bushes, removed his phallus (which already smelled overripe from the long day in the saddle), dampened triangular leaves and said over his shoulder, “Pull the stopper.”

“I’ll be sick if I do—I’ve got dizziness and some sour tastes.”

“Confound you and that whisky.” Brent tucked away his extrusion, buttoned his pants and walked toward his brother. “I see you in the flask again, and I’m givin’ you bruises.”

“You can’t lick me.”

“I done it every time.”

“When we was younger, okay, sure, before you became a drover boss. But I’m big now—a adult—and I see how things are. I know what kind of man I am, and I know what kind you are.” Stevie smirked.

Brent did not at all like the look upon his brother’s face. “And what kind of man am I?”

“Why don’t you go an’ ask that fiancé you used to have? Why don’t you ask Janie Dill what—”

Brent slammed his fist into his brother’s stomach.

Stevie doubled over, fell against the trunk and took it to the ground. Within the prison, the captive groaned.

The red-faced young man clutched at stalks of purple three awn, convulsed twice and heaved his breakfast. Pale detritus spattered flora. “Go roast.” Stevie coughed. “Roast in Hell.” He spat bits.

Brent was mortified that his little brother had goaded him so successfully. “You okay?”

“You’re a sneak,” Stevie griped, “gettin’ at me…like that.”

“I was right there in front of you and came at you straight.”

“Well…”

Brent knelt beside the prone young man. “You didn’t deserve that treatment.”

“I didn’t,” confirmed Stevie.

“I’m sorry.”

The younger sibling neither accepted nor refused the apology, which was as amenable a reaction as the cowboy could expect at that time. “C’mon.” Brent helped Stevie to his feet, swatted the dust from his back and wiped detritus from his face. “Let’s take care of this.”

The siblings righted the trunk. Holding his breath, the cowboy slid a stick into the loop of twine that depended from the stopper and jerked his arm. The rubber plug popped out of the wood. Urine and darker substances drained through the aperture and colored the dirt.

Shielding his nose and mouth, Brent asked, “See any blood?”

Stevie rapidly shook his head.

A dismal moan sounded within the trunk and was muted by the reinsertion of the stopper.

The hidden sun climbed. The black, gray and silver clouds took on the texture of sharp volcanic rock.

Patch Up cooked a stew with turnips, carrots and potatoes (all of which had been in the wagon since Texas) and the game that Deep Lakes had recently slain.

Shortly before the crew ate supper, Long Clay returned to the site, dust covering his black garments. He walked over to the patriarch and said, “His real name is Humberto Calles.”

Brent knew that the gunfighter had just identified Ojos.

John Lawrence Plugford sat upon a stone, removed the steel-tipped fountain pen from his gray overalls, unscrewed the cap and wrote upon his left pant leg.

Umbeartoe Cayez

Long Clay walked toward the dinged stew pot that Patch Up tended beside the fire.

To the gunfighter, Brent said, “Ojos dealt with us fair.”

“If a posse of vengeful Mexicans rides into Texas, we need to know whom to look for.” Long Clay raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth and blew the steam west.

“Okay.” The cowboy was relieved that the gunfighter did not plan to execute the contact, who had seemed honest.

Long Clay swallowed a spoonful of stew. “J.L.”

John Lawrence Plugford looked at his old partner.

“You need your strength for tonight.”

The huge man stood from his rock and strode toward the pot.

Patch Up grabbed the largest wooden bowl that he possessed, filled it with stew and pulled an aluminum spoon from his shirt pocket. “It’s hot.”

John Lawrence Plugford ignored the spoon, took the bowl, opened his mouth and drank the stew, chewing half as often as he swallowed. Rivulets of broth wound through his wild beard, and steam rose.

“He’s really relishing the flavor,” remarked Patch Up.

The patriarch set the empty bowl upon the ground.

“Give him another,” Long Clay said to the negro.

Patch Up refilled the bowl and handed it to the patriarch.

The huge man gulped the contents and set down the empty vessel. “Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you eat,” replied Patch Up. “And thanks for not swallowing the bowl.”

Brent and Stevie patted their father’s back, as if he were an enormous infant waiting to be burped.

The patriarch pointed to the silver, black and gray clouds that hung in the vault. “Looks like a photograph.”

“It does,” confirmed his sons.

The huge man reached into his left pocket and withdrew a small wooden frame that contained a photograph of the Plugford clan. He looked at it for a moment and tucked it away. “Brent?”

“Yes?”

“Would you shave off these whiskers?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“I don’t think my angels would recognize me like this.”

Chapter III
Towards the Fire

Employing Patch Up’s steel scissors, Brent Plugford sheared away the outermost inches of his father’s wild beard. Oily and hard clumps fell in-between the huge man’s work boots and were swept into the fire by an erratic northeast wind. The cowboy brushed leaves, seeds, fleas and agglutinated bits from the huge man’s prickly face, received a bowl of lather, took a sable-haired brush and applied white foam as if it were plaster.

The dandy, roused from his five-hour nap, walked to the campfire and handed Brent a straight razor that had a mother-of-pearl handle, which was embossed with the initials ‘N.J.S.’ “I sharpened it yesterday morning.”

The cowboy accepted the blade and opened it; the action of the hinge was smooth and silent. “This’s real nice. Was it a gift?”

“Yes. From my fiancé.”

“Thanks for the loan.”

“You are welcome.”

The lumpy clouds were cracked by tenacious rays of twilight. With a steady hand, Brent set the razor to his father’s lathered neck and authored a clear swath.

The dandy adjusted his royal blue trousers, sat beside the fire, served himself a bowl of stew and ingested a spoonful. “This is very flavorful.”

“I hoped I’d get an accolade from you.” Patch Up looked over at Stevie. “The dandy appreciates it.”

“I’m thrilled what he thinks.” The sullen young man was still nauseated. “Jubilacious.”

“You should try some,” Patch Up said, “though I should warn you—this is a South Stew.”

“What’s that?”

“Only tastes good going down.”

The jibe was not well received. “Go roast, nigger.”

“Have a recipe for that? Roasted nigger?”

Stevie spit into the fire. “Always got somethin’ clever to say, don’t you?”

“I have retorts.”

Brent withdrew the luminous razor from his father’s face and said, “It’s done.”

John Lawrence Plugford’s neck, chin and cheeks were pale and soft compared to the remainder of his tough bronze hide. “They’ll recognize me now.” The patriarch felt his exhumed skin with a broad palm.

“They will.”

After Brent had finished his meal, he walked around the fire and returned the straight razor to its owner, who was wearing fresh green drawers and busy with his toilet.

“Thanks ‘gain.”

“You are welcome.” The dandy swirled a washcloth in a wooden water bucket, raised the soapy fabric to his face and scrubbed.

Brent surveyed the man’s garments. “You don’t have a revolver, do you?”

“My ambition is to become a hotelier rather than a gunfighter.” The washcloth squeaked upon Nathaniel’s chin.

“You should be able to pertect yourself.”

“I will not carry a weapon.” The statement was a definitive proclamation.

“You should make a exception tonight.”

“Would you shoot an unarmed man?” The dandy applied suds to his armpits and scoured.

“Not unless it were a necessity.”

“Would your brother or your father or Patch Up shoot an unarmed man?” The dandy dunked the washcloth and brought suds to his nape.

“Same with them.”

“A door opens whenever a man wears a gun, and I choose to keep that door shut.”

“There’s some wisdom in that,” Brent admitted, “but we ain’t dealin’ with no honorable men here. These fellows…well, you know what the hell they done.”

The dandy rubbed the washcloth across his hairless chest. “Many men—good and bad—have qualms about gunning down an unarmed opponent.”

“Then take a little two-shot—somethin’ you can hide. You don’t want to be in no Mex’can catacombs without no way to protect yourself but your bowtie.”

“I shall consider it.” The dandy’s tone was dismissive.

“I rode with some drovers who think like you, and I buried one of them. Take a little bullet-flinger.”

“I shall consider it.”

While the dandy dressed himself in his black tuxedo, the Plugfords, Patch Up and Long Clay gathered their possessions, put out the fire, buried the coals and saddled their horses. Presently, the family and the gunfighter mounted their steeds, and the negro clambered onto his wagon bench.

Brent guided his horse toward the dandy, who was cleaning grit from his tan mare’s left eye, and reined beside him. “You get in that crimson stagecoach like Bonito said to. Deep Lakes will trail you and get us whenever you throw him a signal. You remember the meaningful gesture?”

“Drop my hat, lean over and scratch my nose.”

“That’s it—precise exact. Here.” Brent leaned over and proffered the handle of a two-shot lady’s gun.

The dandy eyed the weapon, and the tan mare took one step backward, as if proffering an opinion.

“Take it,” insisted Brent. “Put it in your pocket or in your drawers.”

The dandy shook his head. “No.”

“Why the hell not?” The cowboy wanted to slap the tall Yank idiot.

“If a weapon of this variety is discovered on my person,” the dandy said as he climbed atop his tan mare, “my character would be called into question.”

“I’m questionin’ it right now.”

The mounted gentleman eyed the cowboy from a superior altitude. “I will not fire a gun upon a human being.”

Brent heard the sound of crackling tinder that was Long Clay’s ugly laugh. Stevie muttered something derisive and inaudible.

“You’re a wooden fool.” The cowboy coaxed his horse forward and placed the lady’s gun inside the dandy’s saddle pack. “In case you get a epiphany.”

“I will not employ that device.”

“Maybe his horse will use it to save him,” remarked Stevie. “Come to his resc—”

“Be quiet,” said Patch Up.

Brent looked at Nathaniel. “Try to fix in your brain what you can of the layout of them catacombs.”

“I have a superior memory and will try to learn as much as possible.”

“Okay.” The cowboy nodded at the tall gentleman. “Good luck.”

“And to you as well.”

“Say a prayer if you believe in that stuff.”

Long Clay said, “Let’s go.”

Brent pulled his horse around.

Reins snapped, and hooves rumbled. The Plugfords, Patch Up and Long Clay rode through the coppice and out onto the plain, where they began their wide circumnavigation of the town.

Atop his brindled mustang, Brent conceived a simple prayer that he would say to Jesus Christ. (The cowboy had twenty pounds of doubt for every ounce of faith, but he was not too proud to ask for help from the most popular omnipotent power.) Tightly gripping the horn for no reason that he apprehended, Brent fixed the faces of Yvette and his twin sister Dolores in his mind and said, “Please keep them from any more harm and let them know we’re comin’ to rescue them. Amen.”

The cowboy relaxed his grip and looked up at the horizon. The sun had disappeared behind the western mountain range, and the remaining clouds were an endless wall of thick blue plaster.

He doubted that his words would transcend.

Chapter IV
Muchacho Tracks

Trailing a shroud of dust, Nathaniel Stromler rode directly toward the ochre wound in the azure gloaming that was Nueva Vida. On this dangerous night, the tall gentleman from Michigan was saddened by the fact that he and Kathleen had not yet been married, although if the reconnoiter went terribly, at least she would not become a widow.

“Enough of that line of thinking.” The chastening voice (even though it was his own) calmed him.

The blue clouds that filled the horizon looked like ocean waves as seen from the deck of a steamship bound for Europe, and they beckoned Nathaniel eerily, asking him to leap overboard and fall into the sky. He returned his gaze to the ochre town.

Effulgent and squat, Nueva Vida grew and consumed the gentleman. He sped past the eastern barbacao shacks that Juan Bonito had told him to avoid, reached the main avenue, rode due west for fifteen minutes and guided his cantering mare onto the lone paved road. Shod hooves clacked noisily upon the stone and garnered unfriendly glances from people holding the hands of children or carrying bundles.

Nathaniel retarded his horse’s gait.

At the end of the avenue stood Castillo Elegante, brightly illuminated by mirror lanterns. The gentleman looked at his pocket watch, saw that its little hand was just below the number nine, replaced the timepiece, dusted his black tuxedo, coaxed his horse toward a gate to which two burros were tied, swung himself from his saddle, landed upon his loafers and pulled the mare’s reins around the wooden crossbar.

Nathaniel turned toward the gambling house and saw a dark figure standing directly in front of him.

“Good evening, Mr. Stromler.”

Presently, the gentleman recognized the silhouetted individual. “Good evening, Deep Lakes.”

A spyglass hung from the native’s neck, and the two severed muskrat heads that depended from his denim vest dripped. “I’m going to trail your stagecoach. If you enter a different vehicle or mount a horse, cast one or two of these upon the ground after the transition has been made.” The native handed a small silk pouch to the gentleman.

The fabric tickled Nathaniel’s palms, and he started. “What is in here?”

“Fireflies.”