The Last Ride

The bay fought them some, worrying about her youngster, tossing her head and dancing, until Baldwin put a half-hitch on her nose and tightened it down. She didn’t want any part of that and settled nervously into the familiar routine of shoeing. They had positioned her against the side of a stall and Mannito leaned into her with his shoulder, pushing her weight to the opposite foot, so he could easily lift the one he wanted. He was wiry and agile, and moved fast, scraping, cutting, and filing, removing excess hoof and shaping what remained, careful not to cut the frog. Then, taking the metal horseshoe blanks that they bought from a company in St Louis, he checked them against the bay’s hoof until he had a close fit. Satisfied, he grabbed the shoe with a long pair of tongs and buried it in the hot coals of the hearth, Baldwin pumping the bellows.

Soon the metal was glowing pink and Mannito pulled it out and began to hammer on it with his small sledge. Dot loved the rhythm of the clanging sound, the bouncing of the hammer off the anvil as Mannito worked. He checked the shoe on the hoof again, took another couple of strikes on the metal, then, satisfied, plunged it into a pail of water, the water spitting, steam hissing. Leaning into the horse again, he bent next to her, picked up her hoof, hammer in hand and nails sticking out from his mouth, and quickly hammered the shoe onto the hoof, clipping and filing the ends of the nails off. Baldwin steadied the mare, talking to her, rubbing her ears.

The rancher glanced at Mannito’s small back as the Mexican worked. ‘What does mucho mierda mean anyhow?’ he asked quietly.

The little man looked up and said, ‘Much shit, señor.’

‘Great,’ Baldwin said. ‘No more trouble. Okay?’

‘Okee, Señor Brake.’ Mannito grinned.

Baldwin was still holding the bay’s head and Mannito was just bending over and pulling the horse’s final hoof onto his aproned thigh, when the foal squealed. Not a normal nicker, either, but a shrill-pitched cry of pain and fear.

The bay exploded at the sound, cow-kicking and bucking, sending Mannito sprawling and dragging Baldwin across the barn as he held onto her halter. Dot scrambled up a stack of hay to safety. She looked for the old man. He had disappeared into his stall, returning moments later with his Sharps, and slipping into the night.

‘The light,’ he called back to Baldwin.

The rancher and Mannito followed him into the darkness. It was easy to spot – the grizzled fur standing out in the night against the darker shadows. The wolf had made a pass at the foal’s throat but missed, catching its shoulder instead.

‘Damn brazen beast,’ Baldwin said. The animal was disappearing into the shadows, Chaco hot after him. The old man whistled at the little dog and he slid to a halt and raised his leg on a post. Jones bent and put his Sharps through the fence rails, bringing the beaten old stock to his shoulder. Baldwin was squinting hard, trying to follow the light smudge of fur streaking away through the shadows of the pasture. He lost it. Thought he saw it again. No. It was too late.

If the old man had wanted a shot, he should have taken a quick one as soon as they walked out of the barn. But Baldwin figured his reflexes were too worn for that. At least he hadn’t got excited and shot the colt by mistake.

Jones continued to stand bent over, looking down the long, heavy barrel of the old rifle into the night. There was no doubt in Baldwin’s mind that the rifle could reach the distance, but there was nothing to see.

‘Too fast for us,’ Baldwin said, trying to ease the old man’s embarrassment at not taking a shot. Mannito nodded. Chaco barked pridefully. The old Mexican laughed at him.

‘You wouldn’t be so jo-fired brave if that wolf stopped running,’ Dot called to the little dog. She hadn’t cared much for him since he’d grabbed her pants leg.

Baldwin was walking toward the trembling foal and the bay, when the Sharps exploded in the blackness, flashing like lightning, the heavy concussion catching the rancher by surprise and causing him to step sideways.

‘Lord Almighty – Jones! What are you doing shooting into total dark—’

The single yelp in the far distance caused him to stop talking and turn and face the old man. At that moment, he looked at him differently – would always look at him differently. First the book, then this shot in the dark. He was a strange one, not to be dismissed. Not easily understood. Maybe the shot was pure luck, but something in the way the old man slowly stood and pulled the long, hot cartridge from the breech, slipping it carefully into his belt to be reloaded, said it wasn’t. The old giant could handle himself. In fact, at that instant Baldwin wondered whether, even near death, he could kill Jones if he had to. The thought seemed crazy and he wondered why it had come to his mind. But he knew one thing for certain, Jones was dangerous.

‘Madre de Dios!’ was all Mannito could manage. ‘Mother of God.’ He said it over and over.

‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ Dot muttered.

‘Dot,’ Baldwin said sternly.

‘Sorry.’

‘I thought you wore glasses,’ the rancher said to Jones, as the old man turned and started back toward the barn.

‘Close up. I see fair at a distance.’

‘I’d say.’

The door to the ranch house opened and Maggie stepped out on the porch carrying a shotgun. ‘Brake,’ she called, peering into the darkness.

‘Everything’s fine, Maggie. Mr Jones just shot a wolf.’

Maggie didn’t reply for a moment. Then she said, ‘He’s good at killing things,’ and went back inside.

Baldwin watched the side of the man’s face, but his expression didn’t change. Dot looked confused by her mother’s comment, and Baldwin put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

Carrying lanterns on horseback, Mannito and Baldwin found and finished the hip-shot wolf on the south slope. Twenty more yards and he would have made the tree line and safety. They calculated the shot at a thousand feet. In cracking blackness. Twenty yards to the trees. Studying on it, the rancher knew it hadn’t been a luck shot. The old man had waited until the wolf hit the slope and started the climb – knowing he would be winded and moving slower, and at some point would stop and look back at the danger. They always did. When they figured they were safe, they always stopped and looked back. That was the moment an experienced hunter waited for; and Jones had done just that. But at night – how had he seen him?

‘That old bastard doesn’t need a lot of room to dance,’ he said to Mannito.

‘Madre de Dios!’ was still all the Mexican could manage to say about the amazing shot.

TWO (#ulink_48637874-38fe-54b8-aa43-761ace959dbd)

The two days that Baldwin had said Jones could stay on the place had stretched to four. The rancher wasn’t certain why, unless it was that he felt sorry for the old man. He guessed he did. It was early morning on the fourth day, the air cold, mist rising off the watering tanks. Baldwin was leaning on a shovel in the pasture watching Maggie as she walked slowly from the house toward the western slope. He wondered anew who this old man was, and how he fit in her life. Or didn’t fit.

Samuel Jones appeared as good at doctoring as he was at shooting – the two Mexican kids were now darting over the yard as though they had never been sick. Their mother was still bedridden, but improved. Regardless, the old giant’s success hadn’t softened Maggie. Baldwin had never seen her behave the way she did to Samuel Jones. She was against him from the moment she saw him. It was crazy.

He could see the little picketed enclosure out of the corner of his eye. Maggie’s sister, Thelma, and Julia, Mannito’s wife, were buried there. And Maggie visited their graves whenever something was bothering her.

Baldwin tightened his grip on the shovel. The old man had walked out of the barn, moving in his careful strides in Maggie’s direction, the mule and the little dog trailing along behind. He was barechested and wearing a battered black cowboy hat, a Sioux hair pipe breastplate, breechcloth and deerskin boots – a crazy mix. His Indian tales and dress were a hodgepodge of tribes: Pawnee, Apache, Sioux, Navajo. Stiffly old-fashioned and out of touch, Jones might also be losing it a little in the head. And Baldwin knew he drank too much.

Maggie was standing by the picket fence, her head bowed, her Bible held in both hands. If she knew the old man was beside her, she didn’t let on. Jones took his hat off and looked down in the same manner. She didn’t acknowledge him for a long while. They just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, like a couple about to be hitched, the mule nibbling at the old man’s boots. Chaco sat beside Maggie, as if he might be giving her away at the make-believe wedding. The two Mexican kids lined up behind them, the boy with his toy bow and the little girl with the Tihus doll, seemingly sensing that this was a solemn event. Baldwin jumped the creek.

Maggie was talking to the old man now. Moments later, as if they were actors in some strange kind of play, she whirled and slapped his face, then the two of them were turning and marching away; Maggie to the house, the old man back to the barn.

That was it. Baldwin could accept a lot of things, but when Maggie took to slapping strangers who drank too much, who carried heavy hardware and shot the way the old man did, it was high time to end it.

Baldwin let his eyes adjust to the barn’s weak light. Mannito had ridden out with James and Dot to check the calving, turning the stock out before he left. The barn was quiet, shafts of sunlight slanting into the shadows from the open windows, a few flies buzzing lazily in the air. Baldwin glanced around for the man. Nowhere.

‘Jones?’

No response. He turned and walked a few paces down the row of stalls. The old man had been sleeping in the last one on fresh straw Mannito had pitched for him. The Mexican had a heart. Interestingly, the two ancient warriors seemed, Baldwin thought, to have struck some sort of truce. Not friends, but willing to co-exist in the barn. Baldwin stopped and listened. Chaco was whining.

The old man was sprawled face first in the stall, the dog lying on top of him and licking the back of his head. Chaco bared his teeth as Baldwin knelt beside the man.

‘I’m not going to hurt him, boy.’

The little dog growled but didn’t move when he felt for Jones’ heart. He rolled him over, and Chaco hopped out of the way, continuing to growl beside them. Blood trickled out of the side of Jones’ mouth. He still had a fair heartbeat and was breathing. Baldwin propped him against a bale of hay, spreading a blue Indian blanket over him, and waited. The little dog sat looking mournful by the old man’s side. Baldwin got the feeling that Chaco had witnessed this scene before, and didn’t like it.

Jones tossed and turned and mumbled for a while. Twice, Baldwin heard him call out, ‘Yopon.’ Lost in his own shadow world, Samuel Jones was struggling desperately against something Baldwin couldn’t see but sensed.

He was an odd character, Baldwin thought, as he glanced around. Beneath his brutal features there was a certain sensitivity and style. He had dressed the box stall into a home of sorts. There were sacred pahos – colorfully painted prayer sticks, decorated with feathers and kachina-like figures – hanging on the walls. Three southwest tribes made them: Pueblos, Apaches and Navajos, so he couldn’t be sure where these were from. A clutch of dried maize tied with red and blue beads hung next to the pahos. A large parfleche trunk of painted rawhide looked Apache.

He wondered again who this man was, this man Maggie hated. She had never mentioned any living kin. Looking around the stall, Baldwin felt as though he was sitting in the sacred hogan of a Zuni or Apache shaman. Was the old man a half-breed? His outfit was an odd collection from different tribes. Lined in a row on a bench sat six full bottles of mescal whiskey. He had arrived at the ranch fully illuminated and he hadn’t quit since. He had the habit. And Baldwin bet he could kick the lid off.

They just looked at each other for a while when Jones came to. The old man sat carefully picking straw from the blue blanket. When he had finished, he folded it neatly and stored it in the parfleche trunk. Baldwin watched. The blanket was obviously important to him.