Shortgrass Song (54 page)

At twenty-one, her stepmother had decided she ate more than she earned, so, stealing Tess's egg money, which she had saved over five years, she paid a stranger to marry her and take her to Texas. The stranger happened to be Angus Mackland, who had come to the Ozarks to sell stolen horses, claiming he was a prosperous Texas rancher.

Tess's older brothers and sisters had pitched in to buy the Cincinnati house. They felt honor bound to see that she had something more than a dirt roof over her head but were just as happy as their stepmother to see her out of the state, as Tess was considered the ruination of the family name due to her loose ways with young men. When they wired Cincinnati for the house—a three-room frame affair costing $350—they ordered it shipped over the shortest route to Texas, which had brought the house, Angus Mackland, and Tess to Denison.

For two weeks Angus had cussed her when sober, beaten her when drunk, and forced himself on her as often as he pleased. One night outside of Fort Smith, she took her dowry money from his pockets as he lay in camp sleeping off a drunk and turned back toward the Ozarks. He caught her the next morning, slapped her around until she hit the ground, and told her he would kill her the next time.

It was late in the day when Tess finished telling her life's story, and Caleb had escorted her to a café for a meal.

“I was thinkin' about killin' him,” Tess whispered, her mouth full of mashed potatoes. “He's lucky you and that marshal run him into Indian Territory, or I would have sure done it.”

Caleb sipped his coffee and watched her feed. “Well, you're free of him now. You're better off forgettin' you ever knew him. And for God's sake, don't ever call yourself by his name. Just make out like you were never married.”

He had bought her a bath, a new dress, a comb, and a leather handbag to carry her things in. Now people in the café were looking at them as if they were a couple. Her hair, with the grease and dirt washed out, was lighter than he had suspected, almost golden. She was not hard to look at cleaned up, except for one bad tooth in the top row.

After supper he turned his room over to her and told her it was paid up for two more days. “You can keep the money,” he added. “All I ask is enough to pay my livery bill and get train fare for me and my horse to San Antonio.”

She dropped her eyes to the floor. “Angus only had about two hundred dollars left when he went gamblin'. I guess that's all I got comin'.”

“I'd say you've got more than that comin'. Take the whole roll, and the house, too.”

“No, you have the house. I ain't got nowhere to build it anyhow. Or nobody to build it for me.”

“You could always sell it.”

“Angus tried to sell it for two days. Nobody wants it. You can have it. Take as much money as you need to ship it anywhere you want.”

Caleb snorted. “That's generous of you.”

She pursed her lips and glared at him with her coal-black eyes. But she had broken down and cried in front of him, and she knew she had little power over him. Her eyes cut away from him and flitted across the room. “Did you win that in a poker game, too?” she asked, pointing at the guitar.

“No,” he said, peeling a few bills from the roll and putting them into his pocket. “It's mine.”

“I can sing,” she said. “My singin' used to be the pride of the family when my mania was still alive.”

“Then you ought to join the church choir.”

She pointed at his left hand. “It's a wonder you can play with them two cut-off fingers.”

Caleb shoved the hand in his pocket. “It's a wonder you can sing through that rotten tooth.” He regretted saying it immediately.

Tess pressed her lips together and looked away.

“Oh, I didn't mean nothin',” he said. “Just don't start in cryin' again.”

“I ain't,” she said.

He gathered his things and went to the door. “And don't let on to nobody that you've got that money, or you'll get robbed.”

She nodded.

“Well, good luck,” he said, opening the door.

“Good-bye, Caleb.”

As he walked down the hall, he wished she hadn't said his name. For some reason it made him feel as if he was the one turning his back on her instead of Angus Mackland or her stepmother or her brothers and sisters. She must have known that speaking his name would make him feel that way, he reasoned, and had done it on purpose.

“Is there a relief society in town?” he asked the hotel clerk.

“The Baptists have got one,” the clerk said.

Caleb found the parsonage near the chapel and told the preacher there about Tess. “She's a good girl, but she's had a rough time,” he said, as if he had known her for years. “She needs a start, that's all.”

Having taken care of Tess the best way he knew how, he went to the depot and paid to have the Cincinnati house shipped to Buster Thompson at the Holcomb Station on the Denver and Rio Grande. He figured if Pete wouldn't let Captain Dubois build him and Amelia a house, he wouldn't take one from his no-'count brother either. Buster, on the other hand, would surely jump at the chance to get out of his little cabin with the burlap carpet. He sent a message with the bill of lading:

Dear Buster,

Won it for you in a poker game in Texas. See you in spring.

Caleb

It was after dark when he and Powder River boarded a stock car for the trip to San Antonio. The gelding was fat and rested, and that gave Caleb a great deal of comfort. He would have to cover some ground fast to get from San Antonio to the Sacramento Mountains before winter set in.

SIXTY-THREE

Marisol always waited for Javier to pass by before she went into her adobe for siesta. She always brushed her hair as she waited—a task that could keep her busy for half an hour or more, as her hair grew thick and luxurious, hanging in shiny waves and coils to her waist.

She was sure that she was in love with Javier. It didn't matter that he was old enough to be her father. She had never known her own father and recognized no particular age beyond which a man became a generation too old for her. Any man with black hair and good teeth was worth consideration, though Marisol was very discriminating in regard to the men she wasted her flirtations on.

She had always been fascinated with boys older than she was, but ever since Javier came to Peñascosa, her interests had gravitated more toward grown men. She was thirteen then. Now she was seventeen, and she had moved out of her grandmother's house, into her own room in the adobe-walled fortress-village that was Peñascosa. The room had been left vacant by the death of an old man. It was located in a perfect place in the compound, between the corrals and the alcalde's house, where Javier walked every day on his way home to eat his midday meal and take his siesta. He could not fail to see her sitting in front of her room, brushing her hair.

Many young vaqueros passed by her room, too, whether it was on their way or not. Some stopped to flirt. She didn't pretend to resent their advances, for she relished their attention. But it was Javier she wanted more than any other. He looked good on a horse, he wore his sombrero well, he sang with the voice of a wolf, and he had the most remarkable crease in the middle of his chin. He rode as well as any vaquero and was above them all in terms of social standing, held in higher regard than any other man in Peñascosa.

There was only one problem. Javier liked his women older and plump. Marisol had eaten tortillas and honey until she thought she would burst, but her figure remained like that of a busy wasp. Javier liked bumblebees. When he passed by her room on his way to the alcalde's mansion, he would nod and occasionally say “
Buenos días,
Señorita Marisol,” but never did he look at her with any evidence of desire in his eyes.

He fascinated her. He told stories of Mexico, Texas, Colorado. He had survived fights with bad men, killed an old white devil in a sawmill somewhere to the north, and skirmished often with Indians: Comanche, Apache, Cheyenne. He led war parties against the Mescalero when they came down from the Sacramento Mountains to steal cattle, and even commanded the respect of the Texans who wanted the ranges flanking the Rio Peñasco. He was top man, and she desired him more than anything in life. She would let nothing come between her desires and Javier, not even his fat wife, Sylvia.

Marisol pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as a cold wind whipped down the street. She drew her brush through the tresses running over her shoulder and in front of her waspish figure. Inside her room she had a fire crackling and, warming over some coals, a bowl of chicken mole, plus a stack of tortillas and a jar of honey. She wished Javier would hurry up and pass by so she could go inside, enjoy the hot meal, and take her siesta.

Finally, she heard his spurs jingling above the whisper of wind and the rush of the Rio Peñasco, which ran cold and clear through the compound. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, sat up straight on her stool, and pulled the corners of her shawl in front of her to hide the severe curves of her waist and hips.

In a moment Javier came strutting up the dirt lane, wearing a leather riding coat, pulling at the fingers of his deerskin gloves. He tucked the gloves under his belt and breathed into his cupped hands to warm his fingers. He saw Marisol holding strangely to the corners of her shawl and stopped in his tracks. It was not unusual to see her there. She was always there when he passed by. But today was the coldest day Peñascosa had felt since the girl moved into the room vacated by the old man, and Javier hadn't expected to see anyone sitting out in the wind.

“
Buenos días,
Señorita Marisol,” he said.

Her eyes came alive with hope. “
Buenos días,
Alcalde Maldonado,” she replied with playful formality.

He took a few steps toward her and smiled. “Why are you sitting out here in the cold wind? Don't you know a skinny thing like you could catch a cold?”

She looked down and adjusted her shawl. “I was just brushing my hair,” she said, pulling her tresses over her shoulder for Javier to admire.

“You can brush your hair inside your room, can't you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But…”

Javier chuckled. “But what?”

She felt a tremor of nervousness flutter through her tiny stomach. Finally she had her chance to tell him. “If I brush my hair inside,” she began, “I cannot see who passes by on the street. I might miss seeing someone who passes by on the street every day and…”

Javier was still standing there, but he wasn't listening. He had turned toward the sound of a galloping horse. As alcalde, he had made a rule against riding horses through the village compound. They only made dust and left dung. But someone was breaking his rules.

“Alcalde Maldonado!” a young man shouted as he rode to Javier. “A
Tejano
is coming up the river!”

“Just one?”

“Yes.”

“How near is he?”

“About a mile away.”

“What is he doing?”

“He is just riding up the river toward the village.”

“Just one damned
Tejano
does not give you the liberty of galloping your horse up the street!” the alcalde shouted. “Look at the people coming out of their homes! Now you have frightened the devil out of them.”

“I'm sorry,” the young man said, removing his hat in a gesture of apology.

Javier regained his composure, shook his head, and smiled at the guard to make up for his outburst. “Don't apologize. You did your job well. Take that horse back to the corral. I am coming to see about this
Tejano.
” He followed the horseman, neglecting to excuse himself from the conversation he had started with the skinny señorita.

Marisol stomped her foot and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. It was just like a Texan to come around and ruin her finest chance of winning Javier's affection. She stalked into her room and slammed the pine door behind her.

*   *   *

Caleb reined in his gelding when he saw the guards posted behind the low wall running around the village. It was not the kind of place he had expected. He had envisioned Javier's ranch as a collection of ramshackle sheds, bunkhouses, and corrals. What he saw instead was an orderly and well-fortified village between sheltering foot-hills of the Sacramento Mountains. Plenty of grass grew in the valleys, and forests of straight pines spilled down from the mountains to the very outskirts of the village.

The Rio Peñasco, though it was narrow enough for a horse to jump without wetting a hoof, brought a constant flow of fresh water down from the high country. Just outside of the adobe walls the villagers had channeled the river into irrigation ditches that ran through fields, orchards, and vineyards. Wood smoke streamed from the chimneys, and the brown adobe walls of the houses invited him to enter. He was hoping the guards would do likewise.

“Buenos días,”
he shouted, raising one open hand in the air. “Is this Javier Maldonado's rancho?”

The guard at the main gate of the corrals looked back for orders, then waved the stranger in. The guns of the guards followed Caleb all the way into the compound where he found Javier poised indifferently with a heel and an elbow resting on the rails of the corral. He got down from Powder River and took off his hat. “Howdy, Javier,” he said. “Recognize me?”

The stern look melted from the alcalde's face as he glanced from the man to the speckled horse to the guitar sticking out of the saddle wallet. He took a step toward the stranger and squinted. “Wait a goddamn minute,” he said. “Is that you, Caleb Holcomb?”

“It's me, all right.”

Javier laughed as he shook Caleb's hand.
“¡Un abrazo!”
he said, squeezing the new arrival in a hug. “We thought you were a goddamn Texan. You're grown up as big as your father.”