of mine named after her. Done took to callin’ this here first-rate weapon Ezmerelda, these days. After Ezmerelda Wingfield, you see.”
I let a twisted grimace creak across my face. “That one-eyed, wooden-legged witch from Fort Stockton? One who’s rumored to carry an Arkansas toothpick strapped to her fake leg.”
“You betcha. But you’ve got ’er all wrong, Lucius. Ezmerelda’s a fine ole gal. Somewhat amputated like that ’ere Greener of mine. Yessir, she’s a mighty fine piece of womanhood. Tougher’n a boiled boot heel I’ll admit, but fine stuff nonetheless. Why, just thinkin’ ’bout Ezmerelda, lack of genuine leg and all, gives me a case of the walkin’ willies. Yessiree. You pack that gal into a split-front, leather ridin’ skirt, and she’s got a caboose on her that’s so tight you could bounce buckshot pellets off’n it.”
Glorious Johnson shook his head, cast rolling eyes heavenward, and mumbled, “Lord, Lord.”
“Trust me now. Ole gal’s one hell of a fine ride, fellers. An evenin’ in her bed is close on to the same as passin’ time in one of them hundred-dollar, handmade rockin’ chairs from back East. Gal likes to laugh whilst she’s doin’ her business. Cackles like a thing possessed at times. As you are both well aware, I’ve always liked a laughin’ woman. Yessir, surely have. ’Sides, that stumpy leg of hers sends shivers up and down my spine every time I think about it.”
Glo appeared to have finally come fully awake. Never one to waste time with discussions of one-legged wayward women, he lowered his cup and said, “You gennamans done spent way too many years chasin’ iniquitous white folk, bloodthirsty Injuns, and thieving Messicans. Swear to Jesus, you’re the only two fellers I ever knowed what wore a Colt’s hip pistol, a cross-draw gun, and a third shooter nestled agin’ yore backs. And here you are, all armed up and standin’ around talkin’ ’bout one-legged whores whilst there’s all kinds of promiscuous shootin’ goin’ on within hearin’ distance not five miles up the river.”
Boz chuckled. “Well, as usual, Glorious is absolutely right. We do have more important fish to fry right now, I suppose. No point standin’ around jawin’ ’bout the dirty-legged women I keep company with on occassion. Or them as don’t have a particular leg for that matter.” He paused a second, then sliced a saucy grin Johnson’s direction. “Did I just hear you say ‘promiscuous shootin’,’ Glo? Now where’n hell did you happen across a two-dollar word like ‘promiscuous’?”
Johnson tossed the remains of his cup aside, then gazed into the distance as though distracted. “Don’t matter, Mistuh Tatum. Don’t matter where I done heard the word. They’s an evil wind blowin’. Can feel it in my bones. Evil, evil wind.”
“Evil. I heard you.”
“Got this here feelin’, you know. A twistin’ in my guts. Somethin’ real bad’s a-waitin’ for us out there, I’d wager. Yessir, somethin’ real bad.”
Gritted my teeth, for I knew when Glorious “got the feelin,” a reasonable body had best pay attention. Pulled one of the three hand cannons hanging from my waist. Flipped the loading gate open and checked all the rounds. Slapped the gate closed and snugged the pistol down inside a well-aged, oiled holster looped over a broad, double- row, military-issue cartridge belt. Then I made a show of singlemindedly examining all my other weapons as well.
Me and Boz both supplemented our three handguns with a bone-handled bowie knife that sported a heavy, ten-inch, razor-sharp blade. This nigh-on foot-long piece of Damascus steel hanging from my belt was honed to the point of being fully capable of lopping a man’s hand off with the expenditure of a minimal amount of effort.
As Boz once said, when in one of his more philosophical moods, “Always better to have some kind of weapon and not need one than to need some kind of weapon and not have one. An extra two or three is even better still. ’Sides, I’m pert sure most of the badmen out there are a damn sight more afraid of gettin’ gutted once than bein’ shot multiple times with all three of these pistols I carry put together. Just ain’t nothin’ as gets a man’s attention quicker’n havin’ to hold his guts in with his own hands.”
Born from much rehearsed habit and the full realization that hollow-eyed Death might well lay in stealthy wait for every unprepared man, we not only took the time to make sure each handgun was fully loaded but to carefully check them for fluid and unrestricted action. We always re-inspected all our munitions as well. Then, last but not least, we double-checked all our food and water supplies.
And so, as well-prepared as possible for what should have proven to be little more than a pleasant morning’s excursion, we stepped into waiting stirrups, whistled for ole Bear, then urged our animals down the gentle slope to the trail headed north alongside Devils River—a broad dusty path that led inexorably into the hazy, unknowable, and possibly dangerous future.
We’d gone little more than a hundred yards when another cold shiver darted up my back on talon-tipped feet. I shook off the feeling of dread and tried, as best I could, to focus my total attention on the winding track ahead.
Bear, his massive head raised, sniffed the air and charged into the gathering daylight out front of our abbreviated hunting party like an angry, bush-raised, longhorn steer on the prod.
With the polished walnut stock of the long-barreled Greener propped against one thigh, Glo protected our small party’s rear. In spite of the rapidly increasing heat, I heard him say as how an unexpected feeling of chill had crawled up his broad, muscular back. Made me a mite froggy, when I glanced back and watched as he twisted from side to side in his well-worn saddle. Then flicked a nervous gaze back and forth in an effort to penetrate the retreating darkness and searched each creeping shadow for the unexpected.
The man had a habit of talking to himself. So it came as no surprise when, as though to no one in particular, I heard him mumble, “They’s somethin’ awful out there, Glo baby. Somethin’ awful and waiting. Gots to be careful, Glo. Gots to be real careful.”
Glanced over one shoulder again, about the time we got to the river. Spotted Paco still standing on the porch. He was munching on a flour taco I knew was wrapped around
Pretty sure I spotted a troubled look on the peon’s dark brow. Just before I lost sight of the man, he appeared to pause in mid-chew. He rubbed a hairless chin against the back of the hand holding the taco and crossed himself with his half-eaten breakfast. Then he turned and ambled back to the safety and familiarity of his waiting, oven-like
A quick, edgy, 180-degree glance around the viewable heavens revealed no inauspicious signs or threatening portents, as I could see. No huge, winged, cawing, black birds perched on every viewable flat surface. No shower of wart-covered toads dropped from the sky. No horned owls or other such precursors of a questionable and perhaps grisly future silently swept across the heavens. Nothing like that. Still and all, would have sworn someone had poured a bucket of slime-spiked ice water down my knotted spine.
8
“. . . THESE POOR FOLKS BEEN SHOT SLAP TO PIECES.”
THE TREK NORTH, along the easternmost bank of Devils River to Three Mile Creek, leisurely advanced along a broad, well-traveled trail of powdered silt. A route that a one-eyed man could have followed. Carved into the rugged, hilly landscape by eons of migrating animals, herded livestock, and the wooden-wheeled carts of men, the rutted path gently rose and fell before us like a spacious ribbon of meandering, chalky dust.
In the passage of less than an hour, Boz, Glorious Johnson, and me sat our tail-flicking animals atop a low, barren knoll. Boz draped a bony leg over his saddle horn and shoved a thin, rum-soaked cheroot into the corner of his mouth. Several hundred yards below, a patch of Eden-like greenery sprang from a shallow, bowl-shaped depression in the earth that bordered the two-foot-deep, slow-moving waterway coursing south for the Rio Grande.
A fiery, bubbling, coin-shaped sphere of molten-iron perched on the eastern horizon—a burning ball atop a vast, brown table. Cast by the rising sun, eerie, slithering shadows squirmed and wriggled through the lush stand of trees. With silent stealth, they darted amongst the weeds, crawling like snakes as the hot sunlight crept across the warming earth.
Off a bit to my left, Bear rested on hairy haunches atop a flattened, slablike piece of rock. The animal’s lips
