Authors: Steve Hayes
Gabriel carried the still-unconscious woman into the cabin, put her on his cot and slipped a pillow under her head. Then, after dipping a towel in the bucket of water he kept by the stove, he bathed her grimy face and parched lips and placed the cool wet cloth on her
forehead
.
‘How long you been eatin’ dust?’ he asked Escalero.
‘Six – maybe eight days, I think,
señor
.’
‘From where?’
‘North of the border,
señor
. Las Cruces.’ Sombrero in hand, he looked at the woman he’d befriended two years ago with admiration. ‘It is the miracle of miracles that Sis – the
señorita
did not collapse long before this.’
Gabriel had wondered the same thing about the old man but, after a second look at him, changed his mind. Though small, and at least seventy, he looked tough as goat meat. Yet there was an air of dignity about him. Below his large, drooping white mustache his mouth had an honest set to it; and under bristly white eyebrows his brown eyes were bright with compassion.
Taking a half-full bottle of J. H. Cutter from a cupboard, Gabriel removed the cork and wiped the only glass he owned clean on his sleeve before pouring some
whiskey into it. He then gently pried open Ellen’s lips and dribbled a few drops into her mouth.
She choked, coughing and sputtering as the alcohol burned her throat, and stared vacantly about her.
‘Easy, lady,’ he said quietly. ‘Take it slow.’
It took a few minutes but eventually Ellen recovered enough to sit up. Gabriel filled a tin basin from the water barrel out back and set it on the table so she could wash the trail dirt from her face and hands.
Having not seen a white woman since he’d fled across the border almost two years ago, he watched her out the corner of his eye as he stoked the embers and heated the coffee and biscuits atop the stove. Eggshells lay scattered around the old greasy skillet. He hadn’t noticed them at breakfast, or if he had they hadn’t bothered him, but now because of the woman they did and he scraped them up with the spatula and dumped them into the flames. If she was still here tomorrow, he told himself, he must be more careful when he cracked his eggs into the spitting bacon grease.
Why it would bother him if Cally’s sister thought he was messy, he couldn’t explain. But it did and he accepted it with the same stoic resignation he accepted the stallion’s sour disposition or the mud that every year threatened to flood his cabin during rainy season.
As he continued to watch her something puzzled him; earlier, when she had prepared to wash, she’d rolled up her sleeves and opened her blouse at her throat, but never removed her hat. He wondered why. Years ago he’d worked as a hostler at a stagecoach stop and the first thing women did when they came inside to clean up was take off their hats.
He also noticed that the upper part of her forehead was
much paler than the rest of her face, as if it hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. He wondered what had made the mark. But feeling it would be impertinent to ask her, he pushed it from his mind. He brought the now-hot coffee and biscuits to the table and stood there, silently leaning against the door, while she ate and drank.
‘Aren’t you going to join me?’
‘I already ate, ma’am.’
‘Some coffee, then?’
Rather than tell her he only had one cup, he said: ‘Thanks. I’ve had my fill.’
Ellen continued eating for a few moments before saying: ‘These biscuits are … well, they’re wonderful. So soft and flaky. Far better than any I’ve ever made.’
He accepted her compliment in silence.
‘You … uh … live here by yourself, Mr Moonlight?’
He nodded.
‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’
He shook his head.
‘How extraordinary. I would never have thought that by looking at you.’
Curiosity aroused, he said: ‘What would you have thought?’
‘Well, of course I don’t know you but … you give me the impression that you haven’t always been a loner – that once you were full of fun and liked having a good time.’
‘You can tell all that just by lookin’ at me?’
She sensed he resented her prying, though she
couldn’t
imagine why, and shrugged. ‘Call it woman’s intuition.’
She waited for him to confirm or deny her impression of him, but he remained silent.
‘Personally, I enjoy having people around me. The more the merrier – which I’m afraid often conflicts with
my … uh … vocation.’ She noticed Escalero signaling to her with his eyes. As if reminded of something, she fell silent and finished her coffee. Its harsh bitterness, made worse by reheating, made her grimace. But she drank it without complaint, all the while watched over by the old Mexican.
His protectiveness of her was endearing; though equally parched and hungry, he refused to drink or eat until she assured him that she was all right. He then gulped down a full dipper of water, humbly accepted two of the remaining biscuits and went outside.
Gabriel watched him through the window. He expected Escalero to find some shade and eat; instead the old man wearily unhitched the mules from the wagon and led them down to the stream. There, while they drank, he removed his
huaraches
, dipped his bare feet into the water, closed his eyes and rocked with contentment. Then, and only then, did he start eating the biscuits.
‘That old Mex you’re travelin’ with, he’s got grit.’
Ellen Kincaide nodded. ‘I never would’ve made it here without Miguel. He’s been my guardian angel.’
‘You needed one, if you don’t mind me sayin’.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘The Sierras, ma’am. They’re a-crawl with
bandidos
, all just itchin’ to rob folks like you. It’s nigh on a miracle you made it through alive.’
‘If it is, it’s a wasted one.’ She yawned wearily. ‘After talking to the
Rurales
in San Dimas, I was certain you were the man I was looking for.’
Gabriel felt the hair prickling on the back of his neck.
‘You talked to the
Rurales
about me?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not about you. About Mesquite Jennings. To Captain Morales, I believe his name was.’
‘Mind tellin’ me what you said?’
She yawned again, politely trying to conceal it behind her hand.
‘I don’t recall my exact words, but basically I told him I was trying to find an American named Mesquite Jennings—’
‘What’d he say?’
‘That he didn’t know any men by that name – actually he used the word gringo, which I found offensive – and asked me if I knew what he looked like.’ She paused and yawned behind her hand again. ‘I described Jennings the way Cally told me he looked – tall, lean, lots of dark hair and very light blue eyes – and Captain Morales
immediately
suggested you might be the man I’m looking for.’
‘That description fits a lot of men besides me.’
‘I know. But how many of them are holed up near San Dimas?’
‘Cally tell you that, too?’
‘Yes – in strict confidence, of course.’
‘So you didn’t mention it to Captain Morales?’
‘No—’
‘Or let it drop that Jennings was a gunfighter with a rope waitin’ for him across the border?’
‘My God, no! Give me credit for some brains, Mr Moonlight.’
He realized he’d pushed her too far.
‘Sorry … I meant no offense.’
‘I’m not offended. I’m just surprised.’
‘ ’Bout what?’
‘That since you’re not Mesquite Jennings, you’d be upset that I might have given Captain Morales the
impression
he’s a wanted man.’
Feeling he was being baited, Gabriel kept silent.
‘Is he a friend of yours, by chance?’
He shook his head.
‘Do you happen to know where he is?’
‘Nope.’
She studied him, thinking he had the palest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She also detected a trace of uneasiness in them, prompting her to say:
‘I don’t mean to suggest you’re a liar, Mr Moonlight, but are you positive you’re not Mesquite Jennings? I’ve ridden an awful long way and God only knows where I’ll look next.’
‘Maybe it’s time you stopped lookin’,’ he said. ‘Gave up this wild-goose chase an’ went back to Las Cruces.’
‘Never,’ Ellen replied. ‘I’ve sacrificed too much to turn back now.’ Fighting to stay awake, she took another sip of coffee.
Gabriel scuffed the toe of his boot on the floor, a nervous habit he betrayed unconsciously.
‘It’s none of my business, I know, but what’s so all-fired important about Jennings that makes you willin’ to risk your life?’
‘I’m afraid that’s personal,’ she said. She yawned again, too tired now to cover her mouth. Her eyelids drooped. She struggled to keep them open, but it was a losing battle. And within moments, her head fell forward and she drifted off.
Gabriel studied her, trying to decide what to do next. He was tempted to wake her up and send her and the old Mexican on their way. But she looked so exhausted he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Besides, she was the sister of a woman he’d once loved and for that reason, if no other, she deserved to be treated kindly.
So, against his better judgment, he carried her to his
cot, gently laid her down and covered her with a blanket. In the process her hat came off. He set it on the table, careful not to crease the brim or snag the dust-caked veil. Then he pulled the chair up beside her, fired a match, lit a cigar and smoked while she slept.
As he sat there idling puffing out smoke rings, he
studied
the young woman more closely. Without her hat, the first thing that jumped out at him was her hair – or lack of it. The color of winter honey, it was closely cropped all over her head. Almost, he thought, as if it had once been shaved and was now growing back.
He’d never seen such an odd, unattractive hairstyle on a woman. He wondered what could have possibly induced her to cut all her hair off. He had never known a man who wasn’t attracted to long hair on a woman or a woman who didn’t use her seductive tresses to her advantage. Yet this one seemed too cultured, too intelligent to have
deliberately
shorn her locks without good reason. He racked his brains and finally decided that she must have thought there were still Apaches lurking in the Sierra Madres and hoped that her hairless scalp wouldn’t appeal to them.
He also noticed that without dust and sweat caking her face, she was prettier than he’d first realized. No, she was more than pretty, he thought. There was something else about her that until now he had missed, something that transcended any physical beauty. He studied her carefully, wondering what it was. For a while nothing came to him. But after he’d smoked his cigar down to the ash, it hit him at last: there was an aura of pureness about her, a shining innocence that radiated from her face – even in sleep.
His thoughts were interrupted by the stallion’s sharp whinny. Almost at once came the sound of horses. Gabriel rose, looked out the window and saw three riders
approaching from the direction of San Dimas.
They were large men, armed with rifles and tied-down six-guns, their grimy hats pulled low over their bearded faces.
Border trash, Gabriel thought disgustedly. Maybe even bounty hunters. Either way, they were unwelcome. He grabbed his Winchester and went outside to meet them.
The three riders reined up in front of Gabriel but made no attempt to dismount. The eldest, a slump-shouldered, gray-haired gringo of about fifty wearing a patch over one eye, spat tobacco juice at a nearby chicken. He hit it squarely on the head, sending it clucking into the barn. He then grinned, showing a mouthful of broken brown teeth, and tipped his hat at Gabriel.
‘Afternoon to ya, mister….’
Gabriel nodded but said nothing. His keen gaze noticed bulges under the shirts of all three men,
indicating
they were carrying belly-guns.
‘My boys’n me, we was wonderin’ if you might spare some water for our horses?’
‘Help yourselves.’
‘Some of that coffee I smell would be welcome, too,’ said the youngest of the three. His red mustache and the bearded corners of his mouth were stained yellow with snuff and Gabriel could smell him from where he stood.
‘Sorry. Coffee’s all used up.’
‘Biscuits too, I bet?’ said the other man. He was the smallest of the three but there was a rabid meanness to his squinted eyes that told Gabriel to shoot him first.
‘Down to the last crumb,’ he said mildly.
Their smiles hardened and their hands inched toward their belly guns. For a moment Gabriel thought they might make their play. But then the older man grinned, easing the tension.
‘Seems like that’s the way our luck’s been runnin’ lately,’ he said and nudged his horse downhill toward the stream.
As they descended the slope all of them looked long and hard at the stallion grazing nearby. Their presence disturbed the Morgan, and with an angry flick of its tail it moved away and didn’t stop until it was safely out of reach of their lariats.
From where he sat by the stream Escalero had been watching the riders since their arrival. As they drew close, his right hand slipped inside his loose shirt and gripped the pistol hidden there.
But the riders ignored him. Dismounting, they turned their horses loose to drink and flopped down beside the stream. Immersing their faces in the water, they drank greedily, then straightened up and shook themselves like stray mongrels.
Gabriel leaned against the side of the cabin and watched them. Other than Ellen and Escalero he hadn’t seen a human being in over two months. To have these misfits appear right on their heels and from the same direction spelled trouble. San Dimas was close enough to the border to attract outlaws and riff-raff from both
countries
. These weasels may have even overheard Ellen telling someone that she was looking for Mesquite Jennings and followed her from New Mexico, in which case they were definitely bounty hunters.
Gabriel wondered if he should awaken her and warn her to stay in the cabin until after the men left. But there
wasn’t time. Already the three of them were riding up the slope toward him.
Gabriel kept his finger on the rifle trigger, ready to burn powder at any hint of trouble. But either he was mistaken about the riders’ intentions or they weren’t ready to test him. Because after cresting the rise, they waved their thanks and rode off without stopping.
He watched them disappear into the distant heat waves and felt a sense of relief. Of course, he thought, they could be trying to fool him; intending to double back later and pick up their ‘dead or alive’ reward, but—
His thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind him. Turning, he saw Ellen watching him from the doorway.
‘Must be your day for visitors, Mr Moonlight.’
‘Must be,’ he said grimly. He brushed past her into the cabin and returned the Winchester to its antler cradle.
Troubled, Ellen joined him.
‘Am I responsible for those men showing up here?’
He shrugged his broad, hard-muscled shoulders.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘Not every question has a simple answer, ma’am.’
‘In other words, you don’t know?’
He didn’t answer. She could tell he didn’t like being pressed, but was too stubborn to back down.
‘You think I’m pushy, don’t you?’
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he thought. He liked her directness but hated being backed against a wall.
He said quietly: ‘When you were passin’ through San Dimas did you happen to see those three men – talk to them, maybe?’
‘Heavens, no.’
‘How ’bout the old man?’
‘Impossible. He never left my side.’
Gabriel shrugged, as if to say she had answered her own question.
Ellen felt relieved. She also found herself surprised that she cared whether he blamed her not. After all, she thought, what could he possibly mean to her? In a few hours she and Miguel would be on their way, and she would never see him again. Yet, she had to admit there was something appealing about him; appealing and at the same time quite deadly. And not just because of his uncanny light-blue eyes.
Now, watching him straighten the blanket on his cot, she remembered that earlier she had fallen asleep at the table.
‘I never thanked you for letting me use your bed.’
He shrugged indifferently. ‘I figured you’d be a sight more comfortable there.’
‘That was most thoughtful of you. As you can guess, I haven’t slept much lately. In fact, hardly at all since we left Las Cruces.’ She smiled, embarrassed. ‘I’m sure that sounds silly to you. You probably sleep just as well on the trail as …’ She caught him looking at her hair and
self-consciously
ran her fingers through the wispy mat of curls. ‘You’re wondering why, aren’t you?’
‘Thought did cross my mind, yes, ma’am. On account of Apaches, maybe?’
‘Apaches?’
He could see she had no idea what he was talking about and feeling foolish, said: ‘No matter. Thirsty, are you?’
‘Enough to drink that whole stream out there.’
She was so refreshingly honest he wasn’t sure how to deal with her. For months at a time his only outlet for conversation was the stallion. And the ill-tempered horse, like Gabriel, preferred silence.
‘I’m also famished. I know that’s not very ladylike. Ladies are required to be refined and to nibble daintily at their food. But to be perfectly honest, Mr Moonlight, after all I’ve been through recently I don’t feel very dainty or ladylike.’
She waited for him to reply. When he didn’t, she said: ‘You’re not very talkative, are you?’
He didn’t answer, feeling silence was the best way to answer her question.
‘Perhaps I should respect that and not talk so much myself.’
‘That ain’t necessary. I got no quarrel with talkin’. It’s just …’ He toed the floor awkwardly. ‘I’m not used to it on account of I don’t get much company.’
Ellen looked around, suddenly noticing the scarcity of furniture: all handmade, there was only one chair, a table, cot, clothes-chest and a standing cupboard that doubled as a pantry.
‘I never would have guessed that,’ she said impishly.
Gabriel smiled. He liked a woman with humor.
Outside, the stallion whinnied angrily. Gabriel glanced out the window, hoping the Morgan wasn’t trying to bite the old Mexican.
‘That’s a magnificent horse you have, Mr Moonlight.’
‘Gabe,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nobody calls me Moonlight or Gabriel. Just Gabe.’
‘Oh….’
‘Not that I’m ashamed of my name or anythin’. But when your surname’s as fancy as Moonlight, attachin’ a tag like Gabriel to it is like addin’ insult to injury.’
‘I suppose….’
‘You don’t agree?’
‘Well, Gabriel is very Biblical.’
‘Biblical don’t hold much salt in a cantina.’
‘Gabriel was supposed to be God’s messenger.’
‘Try tellin’ that to a fella who’s pie-eyed. Only message he’s got is a fist to your face.’
‘Really?’ She hadn’t thought of it that way. ‘Well, your face doesn’t look like it’s known too many fists.’ She paused, suddenly embarrassed by her forwardness, then said: ‘Very well. Gabe it is. But if we’re going to be on a first-name basis, I insist you call me Ellen or Ellie, whichever you prefer.’
‘Ellie,’ he said without hesitation. ‘It rolls easier off the tongue.’
They lapsed into a silence that became awkward.
‘It’s a Morgan,’ Gabriel added, not wanting the
conversation
to die. ‘My horse, I mean.’
‘Yes, I know. You can always tell by the proud arch of their necks and how compact and muscular the body is. Goes fourteen and a half hands, I’d say.’
He realized his mouth was open and quickly closed it.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ she laughed. ‘Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t know about horses.’
‘I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘I learned about Morgans from my Grampa Tate. For years he made a living rounding up broomtails and selling them to the Army. But in ’89, when wild horses got scarce, he started a riding stable for the Las Cruces gentry. All his horses are fine animals but his favorites are two Morgans, Duke and King. He treats them like sons. Says other than Arabs, Morgans are the finest horses alive.’
And the goddamn meanest, Gabriel thought.
‘They’re all supposed to be descended from one
stallion
: Justice Morgan, wasn’t it?’
‘Justin.’
‘Ah. And how did you come by such a fine animal?’
‘Well, I didn’t steal him,’ he said bluntly.
‘That thought never occurred to me, Mr Moonlight.’
‘Gabe.’
Now it was her turn to be silent.
‘I won Brandy in a poker game. Aces an’ eights. Dead man’s hand. Unlucky for Hickok, lucky for me.’
The idea of gambling didn’t seem to please her.
‘If you’re still hungry, I got a mess of stew I could heat up,’ he offered. ‘An’ there’s smoked venison hangin’ in the pantry. Or I could fry you up some eggs an’ ham—’
‘Stew sounds perfect,’ Ellen said. She stood up, swayed on wobbly legs and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her.
‘Careful, ma’am.’ He helped her walk to the table and gently lowered her into the chair.
‘Thank you, Mr – Gabe. I’m afraid I’m not as strong as I thought. By the way,’ she said looking around, ‘where’s Miguel?’
‘At the creek, waterin’ the mules.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course, the mules. Poor things. The drive was very hard on them. We ran out of water a day’s ride from San Dimas and all the natural water holes Miguel had counted on were either dried up or poisoned by alkali, and undrinkable.’ She yawned and stretched the stiffness from her muscles. ‘Can you believe it, I’m still worn out.’
‘The old man said you’ve been movin’ steady for over a week.’
‘Yes, though it felt more like a month.’ She gingerly shifted positions on the chair, wincing as her blisters chafed. ‘I never realized a wagon could be so bumpy or a seat so hard.’
Gabriel busied himself at the stove. After raking the embers with a poker he clattered pots and pans around, making room over the heat for a heavy blackened kettle of stew.
Too tired to offer to help, Ellen watched him stirring the stew. Occasionally he tasted it on a wooden ladle, adding either a pinch of salt, pepper or herbs, and once he thickened it with a handful of flour. His skill as a cook impressed and surprised her. It made her realize he was a strange mix of a man. He had the rugged, lean body of a range rider and his Levis and denim shirt were worn and faded from endless hours in the saddle, yet his familiarity with cooking suggested he’d been living alone for a long time.
Though his back was to the woman, Gabriel could feel her stare. He felt obliged to say: ‘Won’t be too long now. An’ if you’ve a mind, I still got two biscuits left.’
‘Gabe,’ she said sleepily, ‘you’re nothing short of a Godsend.’ Yawning, she rested her cheek on her folded arms and drifted off to sleep.