Many afternoons, long before McCabe came to San Lazaro, Charlie Cooper had roamed the Indian ruins with his .22 rifle in hand. In the summertime, he restricted himself to the shade of Medicine Rock, digging for Indian relics he could sell. Nothing so major he’d have to explain where it came from. Usually beads and bones he strung into necklaces and passed off as antiquities. This kept him in nachos and Dos Equis.
A few days after McCabe was shot, Charlie heard the putt-putt-putt noise of an old Ford pickup rambling toward the ruins. He wondered who’d come this late in the day. Couldn’t be McCabe—he was probably still down for the count.
Someone shouted “Hello up there!” and strolled toward the gate. It was that son of a bitch Bart Wolfe, a short seedy-looking guy who hung out at the Mine Shaft Tavern, a few miles up the road from Cerrillos. Bart schlepped around in boot-cut jeans, engineer boots and a dirty white Grateful Dead T-shirt. A crumpled pack of Camels stuck out of his pocket. Keys dangled from a chain fastened to his belt loop.
Charlie had caught Bart powwowing at the bar with an exotic dancer named Linda, no mean piece of meat. That was a month ago and shortly thereafter, Charlie staked his own claim on the juicy Miss Starlight.
Charlie glanced at his .22 and decided it was more of a toy than a threat. Under the circumstances, he intended to play it cool. “Hey old man, how they hanging?”
The sun was directly behind Charlie, forcing Bart to shield his eyes with his hand. “Who is it?” Bart ambled to within a few feet of Charlie. “Oh. You.”
Charlie poked a finger in Bart’s chest and what came out of his mouth was not so cool. “You asshole. What the hell are you doing out here? You’re trespassing on private property.”
Bart did not seem greatly perturbed. “Hell, I was making my way over to the ranch to see you. I’m looking for Linda. Ain’t seen her since that night in Madrid you carried her off.”
“Can’t help you, man.” Charlie laughed a dirty snort. “Woman’s like a Vegas poker chip going from hand to hand. Went from me to a guy in the parking lot the next time I took her out for a drink. Never even made him buy her a Coke.”
Bart was floating like a feather in a dust bunny. High on something, Charlie thought. Another good poke and the son-of-a-gun would go flat on the ground.
“Like to see for myself,” Bart said. “Mind if I go over to your house and check it out?”
“You calling me a liar? I told you Linda isn’t there. Besides, I’m busy. Get the fuck on back to your own place.”
“Ain’t no call to be so nasty.”
Charlie turned to walk away, but Bart grabbed his sleeve and pulled him off balance. “Come on, man. I gotta find her. She’s my woman.”
Charlie backed away. “Watch it, man. Don’t finger the merchandise.”
“Oh, you lookin’ to get into a little fracas?” Bart asked.
“I ain’t done nothing to you, but if you want to rumble, I’m always ready. He pulled out a knife and lunged at Charlie.
Without thinking, Charlie hefted his rifle to keep Bart away. Bart grabbed the bore, stumbled back, and tripped on his own boots. The gun went off. The first shot hit Bart and the second shot barely missed a cow that stood by the fence enjoying a salt lick.
Bart looked like he was about to throw up before he collapsed.
“Oh, shit,” Charlie said.
Thinking Bart was dead, Charlie gathered his stuff and headed lickety-split toward the ranch. He kept repeating to himself, “It was an accident. It was an accident.”
An hour later, Bart picked himself up and started up the road in his noisy truck. He made it about five miles and then pulled over to the side of the road. Bleeding profusely from his right arm, he crawled out of his truck, stood upright for a moment, then crawled back in and passed out over the steering wheel.
A rancher herding a couple of cows saw him slumped over, the horn blaring, and punched numbers in his cell for an ambulance.