7
Barefoot and his pants rolled up, Slocum shoveled the last spadeful of muck on the side of the ditch. With a great sigh of relief, he tossed the shovel aside with a metallic clang and started up the bank. Next he had to refit the wooden weir back in place. The killers had tossed their lariats on it cowboy fashion and pulled it out. One of their reatas had broken. The noose and and hondo were still on the post when he found it. It was evidence he jammed into his hip pocket. If he could match it to someone’s reata, he would have the killers dead to rights. The notion of Ted’s murder had niggled him all morning as he worked on replacing the gate arrangement that forced water into the alfalfa field ditch.
He looked up at the sound of a buckboard. Marty was returning with the nails, he hoped. She had left for Rio Rita earlier that morning to get the supplies and boards they needed. Hands on his hips, he stretched the tired muscles of his back. The second day of hard work on replacing this weir was telling on him. It would be better if it were made out of masonry, but they didn’t have time. Besides, as meager as the water flow was coming down the stream, it would take several days just to lightly spread the water across the alfalfa.
“I must have gotten here in time,” she said, jumping off the spring seat.
“You were right on the mark. Have any trouble?” he asked, looking over the stack of boards and material in the rig.
“No, but they say that raiders struck at Francisco Springs last night. They killed two of the Mexican men and raped some of the women.”
“What happened?” He frowned, recalling his stopover there for a meal with the woman Elena. Was she all right?
“Besides that? They drove everyone off, of course. Burned their huts. It must have been very bad.”
“Who did they say did it?”
She shrugged and drew a deep breath. “They’re saying Coyote and his bunch did it. Won’t anyone stop him?”
“Sounds like someone needs to, and soon.” He considered the mountains to the west, the peaks towering above them. Someone needed to permanently stop them. Men like that didn’t usually last very long. Citizens’ impatience usually took over such matters and settled them with a noose. Maybe this Coyote had led a charmed life so far.
“You ready to finish this weir?” she asked, breaking his thoughts.
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at her.
Marty was a slender whip of a woman to look at. He could see some of the worry on her smooth face. She probably regretted more than anything that her children were off in Las Cruces. So far she’d kept her personal feelings to herself. She sat and began to remove her boots.
“Hey, I’ll do the wading,” he said, busy unloading the first board he would need from the back of the rig.
“The way you gimp around on these rocks?” She laughed aloud, pulling her boots back on. “I figured you needed some help down there.”
He winched at something sharp under his sole as he went into the creek to set the board in place. Then with a sledge, he drove it down to dam the stream at the base. His juniper posts set in the bottom of the creek held it, and he took the hammer and nails she offered him from the bank. Soon he’d secured it on the posts and felt satisfied it would hold the water; then he waded back to the bank. She brought the second board from the wagon despite his protest.
It needed to be cut to fit. So he waded out with it and she fetched the bow saw for him. He was slicing through on his mark when some riders came down the road. Instinctively he reached for his Colt in the holster and shifted it around to be handy.
“It’s Sheriff Monahan from Arido and some men from there,” she said, looking warily up the road at their approach.
“Howdy, Mrs. Davis,” the lawman said removing his hat. “Afternoon,” he said to Slocum, giving him a beady-eyed look.
“Afternoon.”
“John Slocum,” she announced. “This is Sheriff Monahan.”
Slocum wiped his hand on his pants, then offered it to the man.
“Guess you’re working for her?” he asked pointedly, leaning over to shake his hand.
Slocum nodded, stepping back to better view the men who were with him. They were everything from storekeepers to cowboys. None of them looked very tough, and Slocum could tell that Monahan had not given up trying to place him.
“Ma’am, we’re sure sorry about your husband,” the lawman said, and then turned back to Slocum. “Weren’t you up in Arido a week ago in a scrape with a bounty hunter?”
“Not me.”
“I never saw the shooter,” Monahan said. “But he was close to your description.”
“Reckon lots of men fit that bill.”
“I guess. If Mrs. Davis vouches for you, it’s good enough for me.” His cold-steel blue eyes never left Slocum.
“I will do that,” she said quickly. “Ted and I have known him for years. You have the wrong man.”
“Maybe. Thanks, ma’am. We need to find some killers.” At last he turned to her before leaving. “I’m sorry we still have no evidence against anyone for your man’s death.”
“Maybe you will find a witness among those poor people they hurt at Francisco Springs.”
“Most of them’s Mexicans. A jury wouldn’t put much stock in what they’d say.” He shook his head in disgust and reined his big horse around to leave.
“How many good people do Coyote and his killers have to kill to get you to do your job?” she demanded after him.
“I’ll do my job, Mrs. Davis. It’s the damn law that demands proof.”
“And big John Chisum owns all of you anyway!” She made a big wave of her arm to include the others too.
“I resent that.”
“I resent your shabby way of keeping the law. Maybe this new governor will change all that.”
“You’re entitled to your thoughts, Mrs. Davis.” He made a sign with his hand for the others to follow him, and left in a high lope to escape her sharp tongue. They all glanced at her as they rode by her.
“Bastards,” she said under her breath as Slocum resumed his sawing. He called a bunch like that a “ride-around-posse.” They never found a criminal and aside from wearing out their horses, they did little else for law enforcement. But the flattered posse members all made happy voters come election.
By the time Slocum had the second board nailed in place, water was already spilling over his first one. The flow impressed him. He’d have sworn there was nowhere near that much water coming down the streambed. Good, they would be irrigating in a short while. When the fourth board was in, he made the slots for the boards above it that would raise or lower the amount flowing into the fields.
The weir constructed, they hauled rocks in, then packed them and dirt behind the lower side of the dam to help hold it. His back muscles protested the activity as the structure grew. She went down in the field, and returned to tell him the water was halfway down the first set. Some noisy killdeer returned with her.
Satisfied his dam would hold, he washed off his sore bare feet, dried them, and put on his socks and boots. Grateful to be shod again, he loaded the tools up in the buckboard.
“I forgot, I have a lunch,” she said, digging out a wicker basket and blanket. “We need to wait until the water is down to the end of the set anyway; then we can change the flow to the next borders.”
“You offering me lunch?” he asked, checking the midafternoon sky through the canopy of rustling cottonwood leaves.
“I sure am. I’m so pleased you have the gate fixed. No way I could have ever done that.”
“Where are we eating at?” he asked.
“Cross that log downstream, there is perfect place on the other side.” She indicated the direction.
He noted how the dam had shut off all but a trickle of the stream’s flow. Good, they were getting what there was of the water. Balancing himself, he followed her as she hurried across the gnarled cottonwood-trunk bridge to the other side.
At last, behind a screen of willows, she spread out the blanket, set the basket on it, and nodded for him to take a place. Busy unpacking her food, she seemed engrossed.
Hat on the ground, he stretched out on his back opposite her and cradled his hands behind his head. It felt good to rest. The building project had been harder work than he was used to of late. Somewhere in the distance a hawk screamed, and he managed to see it making lazy circles in the sparkling sky.
“I have some cold sliced beef and bread,” she said, handing him a sandwich.
He sat up cross-legged, then thanked her. She poured him some water from a jar.
“Sorry, no coffee.”
“Hey, it’s great to have such nice company.” He held up the sandwich. “And such good food.”
She smiled at him and leaned back on her hands. She shook her auburn-highlighted hair back from her face.
“This is a good place, Slocum. A few bad neighbors but ...” She looked off in the distance. “There’s no getting you to stay here, is there.”
He slowly shook his head with his mouth full. Thoughtfully he chewed on the flavorful meat and sourdough bread. A man could do worse. Maybe a little shoveling in the ditch, some hay tossing, run some mother cows outside, break a few horses. He turned his ear and listened to the wind in the cottonwoods. A fine woman was offering him a place to take root.
“No, sorry, but in a day, maybe a week, a year, some bounty hunter would ride up this river road, see me, and imagine all those dollars in his jeans.”
“I understand. And I appreciate your coming by to help me. I intend to stay here. This fall I will have the children back here. They understand....”
“Understand what?” he asked.
“They know why they are down there. When the danger passes, then I want them home.”
“You miss them?”
“Any mother misses her children. I don’t know what I’ll do when they grow up, now that Ted is gone.” Tears began to well up, and he rose on his knees to offer her his arms. She accepted, and soon nestled against him.
“Oh, Slocum, what will I do?”
“Go on being brave. You know how, and in the end with your family here and all, it will work.”
“I hope so.” She dried her eyes on a kerchief and sat up. The tears were gone again and she looked relieved. Obviously it was something she had held inside for too long.
“Will you be safe alone tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, why?”
“I need to ride up and see about someone that was at Francisco Springs.”
“Someone you know?”
“Someone I owe.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll check on the water’s progress and then we can head back for the ranch. You can go up there anytime.” She looked at him with a question on her face.
“Someone did me a favor,” he said. “I hoped they weren’t hurt in the raid.” He tried to make as little as possible out of it.
“I understand. You’ve spent your life helping others like me.”
He pulled her up to her feet. They gathered up the blanket and picnic things. Loaded down with the basket and blanket, he started back for the buckboard. A dozen noisy killdeer ran ahead of her in the irrigated border of wilted alfalfa. The birds were busy chasing bugs driven out by the irrigation. In a few days, the wilted legume plants would spring back to life after this drink.
Water was spilling over the weir when he stopped to check on it. There would be ditch water again flowing, with what escaped his dam for the livestock downstream. Not as much as before, but there would be some. The diverted water filled the small ditch and went across the head of the field. She waved at him. It was time to change sets.
They finished opening the ditch to the next two borders, and closed the first ones. Shovel on his shoulder, they went for the rig.
“I could sure use you,” she said, and then pursed her lips together.
“All you need is a good Mexican who can use a shovel.” He stuck it in the back of the buckboard.
“No, I mean all the time,” she said softly.
He nodded. No way, Marty—they won’t ever let me.