It was a dead pinyon pine with withered branches jutting out from its trunk. Randy reined his buckskin up sharply and took another deep breath. “You aren’t going to be impressed,” he said. “Not given the horrible way I feel.”
“Just see if you can hit the tree.”
Randy drew and fired in one smooth motion. It wasn’t as fast as Longarm’s draw, but given the kid’s pathetic condition, Randy did remarkably well, and managed to get three bullets into the tree before the buckskin lowered its head and went to bucking. Randy’s gun spilled from his hand and he grabbed for leather. It was all he could do to hang on as the buckskin kicked its heels at the rising sun and almost pitched Randy into the sage.
“Dammit!” Randy hollered, finally dragging the gelding’s head up and getting the animal under control. “I’m in no mood for this kind of shit! Not in my half-dead condition!”
Longarm had to laugh at the poor kid’s misery even though it hurt his own bandaged ribs. He dismounted and retrieved Randy’s six-gun, and then he walked over to the pinyon and studied the bullet holes.
“Damn good shooting by anyone, drunk or sober,” was his pronouncement. “You’ve practiced a lot, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” Randy confessed. “I knew right from the start that I’d never be as big or as strong as my brother and that he’d always kick my butt. There came a time when I learned that Mister Colt would have to be my equalizer.”
“As it is for a lot of men,” Longarm said. “And I suspect that’s what finally kept you from getting your head beat in by Clyde.”
“Maybe.”
Longarm gave the kid back his gun. “I just hope that Lupe Sanchez is still alive. She sounds like the kind of woman I’d like to meet.”
“You won’t charm her,” Randy warned. “She’s too Christian a woman to fall for the likes of you.”
“She fell for your father.”
“And has regretted it ever since,” Randy said, his eyes on the distant mountains.
They arrived at Arturo Sanchez’s little farm late that afternoon, and it was just as Randy had described. Arturo raised a few head of cattle, traded horses, and had a truck garden and a big chicken pen. Randy had said that Arturo also worked for some of the neighboring ranches during haying season, and did odd jobs in town when someone was sick, injured, or just needed an extra hand.
Arturo was a handsome man in his early twenties, with a soft, round wife named Monica who giggled a lot and two of the cutest little daughters a man could ever hope to love.
“Come inside,” Arturo said, leaving the wagon wheel he had been repairing. “The wind, she is cold and I have some tequila.”
Even the mere mention of a drink caused Randy to blanch and shake his head vigorously.
“The hair of the dog,” Longarm told the kid from Helldorado. “A few nips will perk you up.”
“No, thanks. You’ve never tasted Arturo’s tequila, but I have.”
Randy’s remark was made only partially in jest, and it caused Arturo to laugh and his wife to giggle. They went inside a small two-room cabin, and there was a fire burning in the hearth and Monica Sanchez had a pot of beans and beef bubbling.
“You’re gonna love her cooking,” Randy promised.
Randy’s prediction was right on the mark, and Longarm ate until he was ready to burst. Besides the beans and beef, there were hot corn bread muffins with honey, and then later, coffee and even a delicious spice cake.
The meal and the company should have resulted in a happy occasion, but it did not. Arturo and Randy tried to sound as if they were having fun, but Longarm could sense that there was a tension between them and that the two young men were eager to talk about Lupe Sanchez.
“Let me show you the new mule that I bought to pull the plow for Monica’s garden next spring,” Arturo suggested a short time later.
Longarm allowed as how that would be interesting, and he tagged along behind the two men as they walked to the barn. It was a small barn and the mule was in poor condition and unsound.
“What is wrong with him?” Randy asked.
“He was beaten too much and starved,” Arturo said. “He went lame after being forced to pull too big a load up the mountain too often, eh?”
“Will he recover?”
The Mexican shrugged. “I paid only five dollars for him. With rest this winter, and with lots of food and even the prayers of my family, who knows? It is up to God, eh?”
“Yes,” Randy said, “it is up to him. I hope that he makes your mule well, Arturo.”
“Me too,” the Mexican said. He toed the earth. “Have you come to ask about Mother?”
“I have.”
“After all these months? Why?”
Randy shifted his weight and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I longed to know about her from the moment she disappeared. I agonized to come here, but I was afraid it would cause you trouble. And I thought that, if I didn’t come, maybe Lupe would be better off and so would you.”
Arturo accepted this. “And what do you want to know?”
“Is she alive?” His voice held a desperate note that no one could have failed to miss.
