Ben forded the slow-flowing Cat Claw Creek, crossed through a hay field of redtop clover, and came onto the southern end of Main Street in Abilene, Texas. He was dusty, sweaty, and stank. He had thirteen horses and eight saddles to sell. None of it rightfully belong to him.
He tilted his head down so that the wide brim of his hat threw his scarred face into shadow and thus made it less visible. He wanted no gawking stares, no expressions of revulsion.
People on the street stopped to look at the long line of horses moving past tied one behind the other with lengths of rope. The horses stretched for nearly half a block behind Ben. He heard a man comment to another on the high quality of the animals.
On a cross street, nearly a dozen boys, all shirtless and shoeless, played ball with a stick bat and a wrapped twine ball. Ben heard their happy laughter as they ran the bases, merely circles drawn in the dust. Four little girls about the same age were on the wooden sidewalk watching the boys. Ben noted that the drivers of the vehicles coming and going on the street pulled to the side so as not to much bother the game.
Three cowboys in leather chaps and big, wide-brimmed hats came racing their horses along the street where the boys played. The pounding hooves of the horses sent geysers of dust pluming into the air. The man in front, wearing a dirty blue shirt, reined his mount to ride directly through the gathering of boys.
"Get off the street, you little bastards," the blue-shirted man shouted.
The boys scattered like a covey of frightened quail to escape the iron-shod feet of the horses. Ben growled under his breath. Had the lads not been so nimble, if one had tripped and fallen, he could have been stepped upon by the horses and seriously hurt, or killed.
Four blocks farther along, Ben halted at a business with a huge sign declaring it to be Thatcher's Livery And Horse Trading. An entire block was taken up by Thatcher's. The front half contained the office building facing the street and more than a score of vehicles of various types and sizes, both new and used. The remaining half block was a log corral holding a few horses. Ben saw the low number of horses. That could mean a scarcity and therefore a high value for the ones he possessed. He dismounted and went toward the office.
A tall, stoop-shouldered man with a handlebar mustache came out from the office as Ben approached. "Howdy, Hawkins," he said, not looking at Ben.
"Howdy, Thatcher. I've got horses and saddles for sale. Are you interested?"
Thatcher sighted along the horses and eyed the saddles. "Did the horses grow those saddles, or were there men sitting them?"
"So you don't get the wrong idea, I'll tell you. Some of the saddles belonged to Mexicans who decided to ride double with someone else. The others belonged to men who killed some friends of mine. They won't be needing the saddles."
Thatcher fingered his mustache. "I'll take your word for that. I wouldn't want to buy any animals stole in Texas."
He walked along the horses, examining all of them and the saddles carried by eight of them. He returned to Ben.
"Some Valdes horses, I see. That's okay by me. That saddle with all the silver, you going to keep that one for yourself?"
"Nope. My ass fits the one I've got. I'll take the cash."
"I'll buy the lot, saddles and horses, if we can agree on a price. I'd buy that one you're sitting on too."
"Could never sell Brutus. He'd stomp me in the ground for that. But let's get to dickering for the others."
The two men worked their way along the string of horses and discussed the qualities of the animals and value of the saddles. Agreeing on a price, Thatcher jotted the amount down on a notepad. Finishing with the last horse, Thatcher tallied the figures.
"Come into the office and I'll write you a draft on the bank," he said.
* * *
"Yes, Señor Hawkins, your clothes are ready," said the Mexican woman. She kept her eyes on the ground at Ben's feet.
"That's good Señora Lopez. Would you have Pedro fill the tub with water so that I can bathe?" Pedro was the señora's son. Her husband Jesus worked for Thatcher.
"He is already doing that. I started him at the task when I saw you coming."
"You are very thoughtful," Ben said. He placed several silver dollars in her hand. He had arranged with the Lopez family to provide him with a place to stay in their aged adobe casa when he was in Abilene. He slept there in a corner bedroom where the cool breeze blew through, and ate most of his meals in the woman's pleasant kitchen. She kept his clothing clean and ironed. He stabled his horse in a lean-to at the rear of the house.
For the privilege he paid them twice what would have been a fair price.
"Thank you for your generosity," said the woman as she counted the coins in her hand without looking at them. "Will you want something to eat?"
"Yes, in about an hour."
"It shall be ready."
Pedro came out from behind the house. He glanced at Ben and then away. "Your water is ready, Señor Hawkins," he said.
"Thank you, Pedro."
Ben bathed in the tub of water in the small bathhouse at the rear of the casa. The water was warm, and he knew it had come from the rain barrel that sat in the sun undder the south eave of the house. He shaved with a straight-edged razor that he kept among his possessions at the Lopez home. The chore was a difficult one because of the deep crevices and raised scars of his face. Finally finishing and feeling totally clean for the first time in many days, he donned his town clothing—gray trousers, a soft, white shirt, a broad-brimmed hat, and polished boots. How grand it was to feel the fresh clothing against his skin. He knew that within hours, his soiled riding clothing would be in the same condition as the clothing he had just put on.
He buckled his pistol around his waist. It was out of place with the town clothes, for few townsmen carried weapons. However, Ben could not bring himself to leave it behind for he felt only partially dressed without it.
He sat in the kitchen of the casa and ate his meal of mutton stew, bean soup, soft cheese, a stack of blue-corn tortillas, and sweet custard. He asked the señora for a cup of coffee and a second custard. She brought them promptly.
"Will you want anything else, Señor Hawkins?" she said.
"No, thank you, señora." The woman left the kitchen as Ben leaned back to finish his meal leisurely.
Ben left the Lopez casa and walked toward the center of the town. He had his hat pulled low; still, he received stares. He would put up with the expression in the eyes of the people for he wasn't going to be a prisoner in the Lopez house. At a tobacconist's shop on the main street, Ben entered and ordered a half-dozen cigars. He hadn't had a smoke in more than two weeks and felt a craving for one. While he waited for the proprietor to roll the fresh smokes, he moved about the small shop, looking at the boxes of cigars and breathing the pungent, delightful aroma of tobacco.
Immediately upon coming out of the shop and onto the sidewalk, Ben halted and lit his first cigar. Then he moved down the sidewalk, not looking at the people he encountered. He came to a little park with a handful of big trees. A Comanche Indian sat on the ground under the tree nearest the sidewalk. He was ancient, with gray hair and his brown face full of wrinkles so deep that they looked like scars. He was stone still with his eyes closed, seemingly only listening to time pass. He wore buckskin pants and jumper, and moccasins with the soles wore through and dirty, brown feet showing. The clothes were frayed, and stained, and hung loosely on his body like a layer of reptilian skin being shed.
The wind was from Ben to the Comanche, and some of the cigar smoke wafted to the man. He lifted his head and smelled the wind. Like some hunting animal that had caught the scent of its prey, he opened his eyes and twisted around to Ben.
The Comanche smiled, his toothless mouth gaping in a pink-lined pit. He looked Ben straight in the face. He did not turn away from the ugliness, but rather held out his hand as if ready to accept something.
"Old man, if you can stand to look at me, then you deserve a cigar," Ben said, knowing the Indian wanted a smoke.
He squatted beside the old Indian and handed him a cigar. The man put the smoke into his mouth, and then looked inquiringly at Ben.
"No fire, eh?" Ben said. He struck a match against the sole of his shoe and lit the end of the cigar for the man.
The Indian drew a huge breath of cigar smoke deep into his lungs. He smiled, his old cheeks crinkling into a hundred folds of pleasure. He held the smoke locked within his lungs for seconds, then slowly, very slowly, let it out, savoring every curl of it.
"Good, eh?" Ben said.
"Good!" replied the Indian, his black eyes still fastened on Ben.
Ben, smiling at the obvious enjoyment the cigar gave the old Comanche, stood erect and went off on the street.