Ten

 

Bond Rogers was surprised to find her son already up and heating a coffeepot on her woodstove when she appeared in the kitchen early next morning.

“My, you’re serious about finding a job today.”

Gillom wore new Levis and dark brown cowboy boots; his long gray undershirt was rolled down to his waist as he pumped water into the kitchen sink to wash. Probably should shave, he thought, but no time for that now. He toweled off as she poured their coffees.

“Ma, I am going to find a good job, but not in El Paso. Have to leave today. For a while.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, I got into a … shoot-out … last night. Late. In San Jacinto Plaza. Shot a couple of young Mexicans, Serrano’s kin, who’ve been followin’ me.”

His mother paled. “My God. You’ve turned into a mankiller … just like Books.” Suddenly out of breath, she sat down hard.

“Ma, they trailed me on the street outside here, to church yesterday, then down near the river when I was practicin’.”

“Practicing? With those guns?”

“My gosh! I have to be able to defend myself!” He paced as he wormed back into his undershirt. “Those two vaqueros stalked me! Mister Books killed their uncle in the Constantinople. A rustler named Serrano, a real bandido. I delivered Books’s saloon invite to him, across the border. So his young relatives decided they had to kill me! It’s their blood honor or some crazy Mexican vendetta. It would have gone on and on, so I had to end it last night. Pronto.”

“My son. A shootist.” She was dazed, not quite comprehending his wild story or his reasoning.

“It was them or me. Younger one shot first.”

“You just left them wounded, lying there in the dark?”

“No. They were next to the alligator pond. I think their bodies have been disposed of. Nothing left to connect to me.” He wrung the towel in his hands, fretting. “But their relatives will come looking for them. And if they talk to Thibido, and he puts two and two together, he’ll come right to our front door. You know the marshal wants those fine revolvers, or me in jail.”

His mother stared at him, unhappy and dismayed.

“Why can’t you just give Marshal Thibido those guns? Buy him off this … this endless trouble.”

“No, I’ve got to vamoose. I have those Mexicans’ horses and pistols. I’ll sell ’em, out of town. Then take the train to Santa Fe. Always wanted to see that old trading post. I’ll find a job, bank or train guard, something honorable, where my gun skills are useful.” Gillom reached for her hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll come back in a year or so, after these shootings are forgotten. Thibido may even be out of a job by then, and leave you and me and my guns alone.”

His mother started to cry, gulping air in and out as the finality of all this bloodshed washed over her. “How can … our stars … have gotten so crossed? What did we do … so awful … to deserve John Bernard Books … showing up at our front door? Cursing us!”

*   *   *

Gillom had the Mexicans’ horses saddled in an hour. He ground-reined them in his mom’s grassy backyard, away from the nearby street’s prying eyes. These horses were stolen and he was taking a risk, but he didn’t intend to keep them long.

His mother cooked him a hurried breakfast of oatmeal and bacon, then loaded her only child up with half the foodstuffs in her pantry in a canvas bag. She was filling his bulging warbag with a small frying pan, while he tightened one hemp cinch underneath the big saddle and hopped onto the black horse, the friskier of these caballos.

“Got your wool mittens?”

“I’ve got new leather gloves in my bags, Ma. Weather’s mild, won’t even need ’em.”

“Nights get cold in the desert. You’ll catch a chill.” She couldn’t look at him.

“I’ll be fine. Sell these horses and tack when I get into New Mexico, catch a train for Santa Fe.”

“Write me often. So I know where to reach you when it’s safe to come home.”

“I will, Ma. I promise.” He leaned down to buss her cheek. That set her tears flowing again. “I won’t rest in jail again, either.”

“Couldn’t bear to lose you, Gillom. Not after Ray. I’d grow old. Alone.”

“Year or two at the most, Ma. When this all blows over, I’ll come back.”

She clutched his arm. “Promise you’ll stop this pistol-fighting. Please! Don’t shoot anybody else!”

He jerked the black horse’s head sideways, turning the gelding out from behind the house toward their front yard, led the smaller bay filly along behind by its mecate reins. He’d buried his choice revolvers in his saddlebags until he got out of town or she’d be trying to grab those, too.

She was crying, semihysterical. “Gillom! Please! No more killings! It’s not right! It’s not our way!”

He didn’t favor his distraught mother with a wave, or even a look back.

*   *   *

Gillom surprised Mose Tarrant in his stable so early, feeding his paying guests. Mose asked where he’d found these two nags, if the kid had gotten a good deal? Gillom lied and resisted the horse wrangler’s entreaties to buy Books’s overpriced horse, Dollar, instead. But he did swap the worst of the Mexicans’ saddles for Books’s custom saddle and open reins, a snaffle bit with a high port and several ornate cheek pieces on a split-ear, leather headstall, plus one hundred and fifty dollars. Books’s saddle was a Myres double rig with a low wooden horn, bow fork, and a square leather skirt. Mose had found a brown leather breast collar that sort of matched, which he’d tied onto the front of the saddle to prevent slippage. Double cinches made the big saddle more secure, with less movement on the horse’s back during jarring movements like sudden stops. Gillom wanted something more comfortable to ride on, for he was going a long ways, and it was why he’d decided to trail two horses instead of one. Old Mose wet-thumbed his money, hiding it in his leather snap-top purse, pleased to get monetarily even with this snaky kid, as Gillom rode away. Neither bid the other farewell.

*   *   *

He avoided the downtown’s center around San Jacinto Plaza, the scene of last night’s hellish confrontation. God knows what body parts might have floated up today, he mused. But Gillom did stop at his favorite haunt, the Acme Saloon, Wes Hardin’s infamous headquarters. A bleary bartender didn’t blink at selling a pint of whiskey to a minor, since there were no Laws about that early to catch him doin’ it.

“Long as you don’t drink it in here, kid.”

Gillom was stuffing the bottle into a saddlebag when Dan Dobkins spotted him as he strolled out of a nearby breakfast parlor. Dobkins had on another loud, checked suit that didn’t match the yellow-and-black shoes he danced across the street in.

“Young Rogers!”

Gillom winced as the newspaper reporter sped over.

“A packhorse? Going somewheres distant?”

“Visiting some relatives. You made it too hot for me here, Dan, writing that stuff in the Herald.”

Dobkins cleaned what was left of breakfast from his teeth with a matchstick.

“Power of the press. Promised I’d make you famous.”

“Notorious is more like it. Now I can’t find a job here, can’t go back to Central School. And Thibido’s tryin’ to steal J. B.’s guns, even after Mister Books promised ’em to me.”

The newsman shook his head, feigning empathy. “Price of infamy, kid. You get collared as a killer, it’ll haunt you.”

“You done?” Gillom mounted up. “What did John Wesley Hardin say? ‘My enemies are many, but my sword of retribution is my six-shooter.’”

The newshound eyed him speculatively. “You’re a real cocked pistol, kid. You get over into New Mexico, stop in Tularosa, ask directions to Gene Rhodes’s ranch, west across the white sands up in the San Andes Mountains. Eugene’s a tough bird. He’s that aspiring fictionist I mentioned. He’s got a weakness for desperados ridin’ the Owl Hoot Trail, so it’s reported.”

Gillom had the black gelding moving, but he just nodded, leading the dark brown packhorse away.

Dan watched him go. “Owe you one! You come back to the Pass, Gillom, I’ll buy the drinks and you tell me your adventures!”

Gillom turned in his saddle to give Dobkins a hard smile, but he didn’t wave goodbye.