Crack in the Sky

“For the first time I liked the lonesome. And for the most part I been alone ever since I kill’t that medicine man. ’And the soul that turneth after such as have familiar spirits, and after wizards, to go a whoring after them, I will even set my face against that soul, and will cut him off from among his people.’”

McAfferty was quiet for a long time as they pushed on, expectant of the sun’s appearance on the mountain peaks above them. Finally he sighed when they came to a clattering halt on the rim of the prairie looking down at the canyon where Workman had erected his distillery. “Ever since that winter, seems most white fellers I run onto don’t take to traveling with a man what speaks the Bible, a nigger like me what begs the Lord for forgiveness ever’ day and night. I s’pose such folks just don’t care to be with a man who listens real hard to the voices of them spirits what be all round us.”

“Your Bible talking ain’t bothered me none,” Bass admitted. “And I figger a fella gets lonely enough for real company … he’s bound to start talking to any damn hoo-doo and spirit what’ll listen to him.”

“Listen to you now, Mr. Bass,” Asa snorted, then chuckled as he pressed his heels into the pony’s ribs and started down the side of the canyon toward Workman’s stone house. “’The Lord bringeth the counsel of the heathen to nought.’”

“So you figger me for a heathen, Asa McAfferty?”

“No, I don’t,” he answered after a pause. “I figger you for the sort of friend what puts up with a very, very troubled man. A tormented man like me. An inflicted man what the Lord has set adrift in a world of woe and despair.”

“But you ain’t alone, Asa.”

Ahead of Titus on the trail descending into that dark canyon where the sun’s first rays still refused to shine off the icy granite flecked with snow, a somber McAfferty replied, “That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Bass. In the end, no matter what … every one of us is alone.”

They’d limped into Taos with little more than it would take to outfit a band of Diggers. But they had their hide and hair. And—by damned—it was Nativity time in ol’ Taos town!

A holiday when every Mexican male appeared to turn and give the long-haired gringo a second look, when every cherry-cheeked, black-eyed senorita seemed to smile and flutter those long, dark eyelashes at him and him alone.

This second winter among the Mexicans was proving all the more joyous than the first, perhaps because there weren’t all that many Americans around. From what Workman reported, most of the gringo trappers had spent only a few days here earlier in the month, then moseyed on down the road to Santa Fe. Those who remained behind were the quiet sort—not at all like Hatcher’s bunch, not the sort given to stirring up a ruckus among the Taosenos. A few here and there even remembered Scratch, remembered how he had been one of those daring Americanos who had risked his life to bring back the Comanche captives.

A few of the hard-eyed soldiers glared at him whenever he came to town. Bass figured they were just the sort to remember the faces of those gringos who’d stood their ground at last year’s grand baile. Scratch didn’t figure he could blame them—not since he had himself been the sort to nurse his thirst for revenge for some two years until he ran across the Arapaho buck what took his hair. Just the same, he never put the soldados at his back and always made sure there were folks around, along with an escape down a side street, or up a set of outside stairs, or was always near a likely runner of a horse. A man always needed him a way out of a tight spot when he found the odds stacking against him.

One thing for sure, no handful of soldiers was going to jump him anywhere near the Taos square. Not while Ol’ Bill Williams was around to help.

That morning of his third day out at Workman’s, Titus decided he would give the village a try, figuring he would stroll about the tiny plaza where he could mingle with Mexican folks, maybe buy himself a sugar-sweetened treat or two. After knotting his horse’s reins to one of the iron rings sunk deep along the walls of adobe lining the treeless square, Scratch turned at the strong fragrance greeting his nose on the cold, chilling air. There, near the center of the plaza, he spotted several of the vendors gathered around their communal fire, each of them roasting coffee beans and brewing a thick, heady concoction.

His pouch a peso emptier and his fingers wrapped around a clay mug he peered over to take in the holiday scene, Titus sipped at his coffee and began to wander. He hadn’t taken but a few steps toward the north side of the square, when he suddenly stopped and turned at the cry of a familiar voice.

Unsure at first, Bass squinted through the fingers of thick smoke curling from every one of the many fires where vendors warmed themselves or prepared kettles of frijoles, baked their crepelike tortillas, or offered customers freshly slaughtered chicken and lamb, each selection hanging from the rafters of their huge-wheeled carts. It was then he heard that voice call out again in greeting to someone across the square, and laugh.

Sure enough. The smoke danced aside, and there stood Bill Williams his own self, slapping a vaquero on the shoulder, sharing a lusty story between them.

How good to see an old face!

Immediately Scratch cried, “Ho! Bill!”

Williams turned, finding Bass headed his way. He quickly said something to the Mexican before beginning his long-legged way across that corner of the square.

“You remember me, Bill?”

“Scratch, ain’t it?” he asked as he came to a halt and held out his bony paw. “We run onto one ’Nother up to the Bayou, didn’t we?”

“Right on both counts,” he replied, shaking the offered hand vigorously.

“Down to Taos for the winter, are ye?”

Bass said, “Me and a partner come in three nights back.” Then he whispered. “Laying up out at Workman’s.”

With a nod Williams rocked back and roared, “Sometimes it’s best to stay low around these here pelados. But as for me—I damn well let ’em all know I’m in town for a spree!”

“You’re here for the winter too?”

“Been here for more’n a month now,” Williams answered.

Gesturing toward the canvas-draped stall filled with bright, gaudy, eye-catching trade goods, Scratch said, “This here fella appears to have him quite the geegaws and hangy-downs, that’s for sure, Bill!”

Williams started them toward his sales stall. “Ye see anything catch yer fancy?”

“You don’t need my help trading off your plews now,” Scratch snorted as he glanced at the way a couple of Mexican men looked him over, figuring the pair for the shop’s keepers. “How’s this here feller’s prices?”

Williams grinned as if it were going out of style and brushed some of the long fur on his wolf-hide hat back from an eye. “This here nigger’s prices is allays low as they can be and him still make a decent living. Lookee here, Scratch.” He stuffed his hand into a wooden tray and brought up strings of huge varicolored glass beads, each one bigger than his thumbnail. “Won’t those make some senorita’s eyes shine just to look at ’em?”

“You got your sights on a likely gal, have you?”

“Hell, no, Scratch! I thort ye might get yer wiping stick polished yer own self, seeing how ye’re here to winter up.” Then Williams slung an arm over Bass’s shoulder. “And we both know winterin’ is a time for a man to get hisself a hull passel of polishing!”

Scratch hooted, “Better polish it enough to last him through till next year!”

“Lookee here too. The man’s got tin cups and American blankets. Brass wire for them ear hangy-downs of yer’n, child. You could string ye a big bead or two on them wires ye got awready—it’d purty ye up real good.”

Scratch’s eyes bounced over some of the rest of the trade goods displayed against the stall’s three sides as the cold breeze tugged at the canvas walls and roof. “Almost sounds to me like you’re wanting me to buy something from this here trader, Bill.”

Williams dug at his chin whiskers with a dirty fingernail. “Sure as hell am! How ye ’spect a man to make him an honest living?”

“You know the trader?”

“Know him!” Williams snorted. “The god-blame-med trader’s me!”

“You?”

“This here’s my plunder!”

Wagging his head in disbelief, Bass sputtered, “W-why the hell you selling your own plunder?”