The Rio Grande was no longer swollen as the two riders reached its bank. Tom Hardy dropped from his horse and held on to the reins as he tried to make out the tracks. The sun had set thirty minutes earlier, and it was getting darker with every passing second.
‘We better camp here for the night, Whit,’ the elder Hardy brother shouted at his sibling, over the noise of the river as it continued its never-ending flow.
Whit crawled down from his saddle and flopped on to the sandy ground.
‘Get some kindling for a fire,’ Tom ranted, as he tied up his horse to a tree-branch.
‘What for?’ Whit drawled.
‘For a fire so we don’t freeze to death,’ Tom said, as he then tied up his brother’s horse. He started to untie the horse’s belly-straps before dragging off the saddle.
‘I hurt.’ Whit rubbed his inner thighs with his rough hands.
‘So do I,’ Tom shouted, as he started upon the second saddle with tired hands.
‘Not as bad as me.’
Tom Hardy took great delight in kicking his brother until the man got back on to his feet and started to gather firewood from the sand around them.
Soon they had enough, and the fire was set.
Soon they had a roaring blaze to sit before, with their stinking horse blankets wrapped around their shoulders.
The two men watched the bacon frying in their pan. The smell was good.
A coffee-pot was hung over the flames that surrounded the cast-iron pan.
Neither man had eaten all day Now they were tired from riding and drinking. The stars above their heads were brighter than usual, and they could feel the frost gripping the edge of their blankets as they waited for their food to cook.
‘Reckon that varmint crossed here, Tom?’ drawled Whit, as his mouth drooled.
‘Couldn’t make out his tracks.’ Tom rattled the pan and added more wood. ‘Too damn dark when we got here. But I got a feeling in my guts that he wouldn’t have managed to cross that river.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, if he had tried to cross that I figure he done got himself drowned.’ Tom hoped that was the case.
‘I ain’t gonna cross this river here, Tom,’ Whit shrugged as the sound of the rolling waves filled his ears.
‘Why not, boy?’
Whit rubbed his nose upon his sleeve. ‘You know I can’t swim.’
‘All you gotta do is hang on to the saddle-horn, Whit.’
‘What if the horse drowns?’
‘Good point,’ Tom Hardy grinned. ‘That tequila must be doing your brain good.’
‘Reckon?’
‘Yep. You are usually a lot dumber than this.’
Whit Hardy swigged at his bottle and accepted a large slice of red-hot bacon on his tin plate. Both men ate and drank their fill.
Tom Hardy drank coffee whilst his young brother finished off his third bottle. Now Tom knew he would have to hand over his three tequila bottles to the youth. It always worked that way.
As the snoring filled his ears, Tom Hardy lay on the soft ground thinking about Iron Eyes. The thoughts kept him awake for a long time.