his smile held little warmth. It felt like he had issued me a warning.
“That’s certain,” Mr. Shankin added. “Half the time, I don’t think New Mexico’s any place to be. I’m just glad the Army ran off Nana and his Red Paint Apaches.”
“Yeah,” the cold-eyed man said, still staring at me.
In July and August, Nana and a small party of Apaches had cut across southern New Mexico, attacking the Army, ranches, even towns, although they stayed clear of Shakespeare. By the middle of August, Nana’s raiders had crossed into Sonora and disappeared. Peace, always tenuous, had come again to New Mexico.
Dismissing me, the stranger pointed at the boots and told the mercantile owner: “Reckon I’ll take these.”
Doubtful Cañon was no place to be. I felt certain of that. I didn’t need to look up old John Eversen, for I had practically made up my mind that I would not be joining Whitey Grey. A disappointment, certainly, shattering my dreams of escape. Yet the man couldn’t be trusted, and I doubted his story, doubted everything he had told us. At that moment, he probably sat in some bucket of blood on Avon Avenue laughing at the stretcher he had told three children. He’d be sniggering, if sober, come ten o’clock that night, wondering how many fool children had returned to an empty mine.
A shout across the street drew my attention, and I turned and froze, watching the bouncer at Falstaff’s Tavern wipe his meaty paws on his apron before pointing a thick finger at the drunk he had just pitched into the street. “I told you to stay out of this place. Show your mug again, and I’ll break more than that nose.” Someone inside the saloon handed him a plug hat, which he tossed nonchalantly into the street before returning to his post.
The drunk picked himself up, grabbed the hat, and pulled it on his head, then swayed, cursing the swinging batwing doors. “I don’t need you,” he said, pivoted, and leaned against a hitching rail, shaking his head and testing his busted nose. His eyes caught me and held, or so I thought, and then he wobbled across the street, dodging a buckboard with an oath, and drew nearer.
“Mister,” he said in a thick slur, “could you loan an old hand enough money for a drink or two. I got me a powerful thirst.”
My face reddened, and I trembled again. My father, my wretched father stood there so in his cups, he didn’t even recognize his own son. Blood trickled from both nostrils into his thick scruff of beard, unkempt, unwashed. “I can do you some turn,” he said. “Water your horse. Shine them new boots.”
A snort sounded behind me, and I realized my mistake. My father had directed his conversation at the two men now standing behind me, Curly Bill Brocious, still working on the peppermint, and the second man, rolling a cigar in his mouth.
“Pay the cur.” The gunman called Dutch struck a match and lit his cigar. “It’ll keep him off the street. Out of our sight.”
With a rough laugh, Brocious fished a coin from his trouser pocket and tossed it into the dirt. “Whatever you say, Dutch. Whatever you say.”
The chimes of Brocious’s spurs faded as the two gunmen walked down the sun-warped boardwalk, and I stared, sickened by the sight of my father, on his knees, digging through the dirt in search of the two-bit piece Curly Bill Brocious had thrown at him.
I left him there, ashamed, hurrying to find the home of old John Eversen. Not that I needed to hear anything the old stagecoach man had to say about Doubtful Cañon, Apache attacks, and a strange man called Whitey Grey. Overruling doubts and distrust, the sight of my father had all but changed my mind, yet again, reconfirmed my desire, my need, to get away from this place. I didn’t care if Whitey Grey lied or not, and, even if he didn’t plan on showing up that night at the Lady Macbeth, I’d be on my way.
I was leaving.
Chapter Six
Candlelight flickered, casting a low, warm glow on my friends’ faces
“That’s certain,” Mr. Shankin added. “Half the time, I don’t think New Mexico’s any place to be. I’m just glad the Army ran off Nana and his Red Paint Apaches.”
“Yeah,” the cold-eyed man said, still staring at me.
In July and August, Nana and a small party of Apaches had cut across southern New Mexico, attacking the Army, ranches, even towns, although they stayed clear of Shakespeare. By the middle of August, Nana’s raiders had crossed into Sonora and disappeared. Peace, always tenuous, had come again to New Mexico.
Dismissing me, the stranger pointed at the boots and told the mercantile owner: “Reckon I’ll take these.”
Doubtful Cañon was no place to be. I felt certain of that. I didn’t need to look up old John Eversen, for I had practically made up my mind that I would not be joining Whitey Grey. A disappointment, certainly, shattering my dreams of escape. Yet the man couldn’t be trusted, and I doubted his story, doubted everything he had told us. At that moment, he probably sat in some bucket of blood on Avon Avenue laughing at the stretcher he had told three children. He’d be sniggering, if sober, come ten o’clock that night, wondering how many fool children had returned to an empty mine.
A shout across the street drew my attention, and I turned and froze, watching the bouncer at Falstaff’s Tavern wipe his meaty paws on his apron before pointing a thick finger at the drunk he had just pitched into the street. “I told you to stay out of this place. Show your mug again, and I’ll break more than that nose.” Someone inside the saloon handed him a plug hat, which he tossed nonchalantly into the street before returning to his post.
The drunk picked himself up, grabbed the hat, and pulled it on his head, then swayed, cursing the swinging batwing doors. “I don’t need you,” he said, pivoted, and leaned against a hitching rail, shaking his head and testing his busted nose. His eyes caught me and held, or so I thought, and then he wobbled across the street, dodging a buckboard with an oath, and drew nearer.
“Mister,” he said in a thick slur, “could you loan an old hand enough money for a drink or two. I got me a powerful thirst.”
My face reddened, and I trembled again. My father, my wretched father stood there so in his cups, he didn’t even recognize his own son. Blood trickled from both nostrils into his thick scruff of beard, unkempt, unwashed. “I can do you some turn,” he said. “Water your horse. Shine them new boots.”
A snort sounded behind me, and I realized my mistake. My father had directed his conversation at the two men now standing behind me, Curly Bill Brocious, still working on the peppermint, and the second man, rolling a cigar in his mouth.
“Pay the cur.” The gunman called Dutch struck a match and lit his cigar. “It’ll keep him off the street. Out of our sight.”
With a rough laugh, Brocious fished a coin from his trouser pocket and tossed it into the dirt. “Whatever you say, Dutch. Whatever you say.”
The chimes of Brocious’s spurs faded as the two gunmen walked down the sun-warped boardwalk, and I stared, sickened by the sight of my father, on his knees, digging through the dirt in search of the two-bit piece Curly Bill Brocious had thrown at him.
I left him there, ashamed, hurrying to find the home of old John Eversen. Not that I needed to hear anything the old stagecoach man had to say about Doubtful Cañon, Apache attacks, and a strange man called Whitey Grey. Overruling doubts and distrust, the sight of my father had all but changed my mind, yet again, reconfirmed my desire, my need, to get away from this place. I didn’t care if Whitey Grey lied or not, and, even if he didn’t plan on showing up that night at the Lady Macbeth, I’d be on my way.
I was leaving.
Chapter Six
Candlelight flickered, casting a low, warm glow on my friends’ faces
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