‘You have my gratitude for helping, my friend,’ Don Jose Fernando de Armijo y Cordoba stated, as he and his daughter entered the room allocated to the man she had brought home injured.
‘I’m right pleased I could help out, sir,’ the Texan replied, placing a tray holding used crockery on the floor of the balcony and stepping through the open glass paneled doors. ‘Like I said, you folks’ve treated me real good and I figured something had to be done about those yahoos. Which I reckoned I was pretty well placed to do it.’
Almost half an hour had passed since the hard-cases with Javier Fuentes had ascertained Asa Coltrane was suffering from nothing worse than a scalp wound which rendered him unconscious. Presented with a strip of white cloth by Juanita, who refused to employ her well known medical skills by giving further assistance, one of them had used it as a bandage. While the first aid was being carried out, much to their relief, their leader had not responded verbally to the curt dismissal he had received from the owner of Rancho Mariposa. Instead, he had spent the time glowering silently from the Cordobas to the Texan—who had continued to line the Winchester Model of 1876 rifle downwards from the balcony—and back. With Coltrane made ready for departure, Fuentes had given the order to ride and led the rest towards the gate still without addressing any comment to the cause of his discomfiture.
Having kept the men from Rancho Miraflores under observation as long as they were in sight, the rancher had taken the precaution of sending one of the youngsters who were in the vicinity of the house to fetch back Tom Halcón Gris Grey and some of the hands. Then he and his daughter had gone upstairs to thank their guest for coming so competently to their assistance. They had found him sitting on the balcony, his rifle close at hand. However, although he too had clearly been keeping watch, he had finished the meal which Juanita had fetched for him.
‘If you are too tired to talk just now—?’ Cordoba hinted.
‘Shucks, no,’ the Texan answered. ‘Happen you’ve a mind, sit down and we’ll visit for a spell.’
‘That was quite a shot, creasing Coltrane the way you did,’ Ransome Cordoba praised, having said she would prefer to remain standing, and waiting until her father had transferred the rest of the young man’s clothing from the chair to the bed and sat down. ‘Most fellers would have killed him.’
‘Could be likely he’s lucky I didn’t,’ the Texan declared. ‘I was figuring on stopping him, no matter how it was done. But I can’t say’s how I’m sorry things turned out the way they did, it’s no easy thing to take a life.’
‘Have you killed many men?’ the girl inquired, but from a—to her—puzzling need to know more about this man she had rescued and not out of idle or morbid curiosity.
‘That’s not a question you should ask, Ransome!’ the rancher asserted, his manner stern and showing he disapproved of such a breach of range country etiquette as the question had been. ‘You must excuse my daught—’
‘No harm’s done, nor offense taken, sir,’ the Texan replied. Then he turned his gaze to the girl and his face was troubled as he went on, ‘I reckon I could have killed a man, or even more than just the one. Hell, you’d think a feller would remember a thing like that, wouldn’t you? But it’s like everything else, I can’t bring to mind whether I have or not.’
‘Going by what I have heard of him, you would have had no cause for regret if you had killed Coltrane,’ Cordoba said reassuringly, having noticed the note of tension and concern which came into the younger man’s voice and sympathizing with how he must feel about the continued refusal of any recollection of his identity or past life to break through. ‘He is a killer, hired for that and nothing else.’
‘It seems I’ve heard of such,’ the Texan admitted. Then a look of frustration close to anger came to his face and, clenching his hands into hard fists, he went on heatedly, ‘God damn it, seeing’s how I know how to do things like handling a gun, why can’t I remember who I am?’
‘My daughter told me you had such a problem,’ the rancher admitted. ‘While I don’t wish you to think I am interfering in your private affairs, haven’t you anything in your war bag which might tell you who you are?’
‘Not a single thing,’ the Texan replied, after having crossed to the wardrobe and carried out a closer examination of the warbag’s contents than had been possible when seeking ammunition for his rifle. ‘You’d reckon a man’d have something with his name on it.’
‘You had on a money belt and a wallet in your pocket,’ Cordoba remarked, giving his injured thigh a slap expressive of annoyance at having been so remiss in failing to mention the matter earlier. ‘It was not that we were prying when we found them. Your jacket was in need of repairs and the wallet was soaking. The belt had to be removed so Juanita could attend to your injuries. I took the liberty of locking them in my safe until you recovered, without looking in either.’
‘That was real good of you, sir,’ the Texan declared, remembering the girl had claimed neither he nor his property had been searched and, despite the removal of two items which could have solved the mystery of his identity, feeling sure she had spoken the truth.
‘Perhaps they have something in them to tell us who you are,’ Ransome suggested, intrigued by the visitor and hoping to be able to satisfy her curiosity in a way which would not arouse his resentment.
‘I surely hope so, ma’am!’ the Texan asserted miserably.