Savagery of The Mountain Man

“No trouble?” the dispatcher asked.

“Not a bit.”

After putting his two weapons in the gun rack, Pearlie started toward the door.

“You going down to the cantina, are you?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yeah, I thought I might.”

Under the soft, golden light of three gleaming chandeliers, the atmosphere in the Casa de la Suerte Cantina was quite congenial. Half a dozen men—Mexican and American—stood at one end of the bar, engaged in friendly conversation, while at the other end, the barkeep stayed busy cleaning glasses. Most of the tables were filled with vaqueros or cowboys, laborers, and storekeepers laughing over stories they exchanged, or flirting with the ninas del bar whose presence added to the agreeable atmosphere.

“Senor Pearlie, do you want a tequila?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, you may as well give me one, Manuel.”

The bartender laughed. “I remember when only beer you would drink.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve ruined me,” Pearlie said.

Pearlie was standing at the end of the bar, nursing a tequila, when one of the girls sidled up to him. She had long black hair and was wearing a low-cut red dress that showed a generous amount of cleavage.

“Tu vas a beber a solas, Senor Pearlie?” she asked.

“Come on, Rosita. You know I don’t comprehend your lingo that well,” Pearlie replied.

“I asked if you were going to drink alone.”

Pearlie smiled. “Not if I can get a pretty girl like you to drink with me,” he said. He looked toward the bartender. “Manuel, tequila for the beautiful Rosita, por favor.”

As she waited for the drink, Rosita reached up to remove Pearlie’s hat. She touched the band, which gleamed brightly in the soft light of the cantina.

“Plata,” she said.

“What?”

“The hatband. It is silver.”

“Yes.”

“It is beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“It isn’t mine,” Pearlie said. “It belongs to a friend. I borrowed it.”

“He must be a very good friend to let you borrow such a beautiful thing.”

“Yeah,” Pearlie said as he looked at the hatband for a moment. “He is a very good friend.”

“It is a good thing to have buenos amigos.”

“Si, it is very good to have friends.”

Rosita smiled. “I am your friend, am I not?”

The tequila was delivered, and Pearlie picked it up and handed to her. “Si,” he said. “You are my friend.”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“The one who gave me the hatband is Cal. But I have two more very good friends. Smoke and Sally.”

“Humo?” Rosita asked, her face registering confusion at the name. “You have a friend who is named Humo?” She made the motion as if smoking. “Smoke?”

“His real name is Kirby, but everyone calls him Smoke.”

“That is a funny name. Does he smoke mucho?”

“No. I don’t know why everyone calls him Smoke.”

“And Sally? She is your woman?”

“No, she is Smoke’s wife.”

“I am glad she is Smoke’s wife. You do not have a wife, no?”

The smile left Pearlie’s face, to be replaced by an expression of great sadness. He tossed down the rest of his drink.

“No,” he said. “I do not have a wife.”

Whether it was a byproduct of her profession, or inherent in Rosita’s personality, she was a very perceptive young woman, and she saw immediately that her question had caused Pearlie some pain. She put her hand on his arm.

“You had a wife but something bad happened, yes?”

“Yes,” Pearlie said. “She—she died.” He did not go into the details of how Lucy died, but whether it was to spare Rosita or himself, he wasn’t sure.

“I am very sorry, Senor Pearlie,” Rosita said. “I did not wish to cause you sorrow.”