The Man from Misery Page 2

  “Put these on my tab,” he yelled back to Clarkson.

  The girl’s mother rushed over and snatched the candy out of her hand. “We need to put these back, dear,” she said.

  “Aw, Momma, can’t I have just one?” the girl pleaded.

  “Okay,” the mother said, “but I’ll buy it for you.”

  Emmet stared at the woman and asked, “Do I know you?”

  She wrapped her arm around her daughter and rubbed the girl’s shoulder. “No, but I know you. Well, at least, I know who you are.”

  Emmet dropped his head, popped the stick in his mouth, sucked on it for a few seconds, removed it, and pointed the wet end at the door. “I’ve enjoyed talking with you too, ma’am, but right now you’ll have to excuse me because I need to go fetch me a telegram.”

  What served as the telegraph office was just one long shelf along a wall of the stagecoach depot. Five people lounged in the waiting room. A well-dressed middle-aged couple sat on a bench with their teenage son. The woman held a closed, pink parasol in one hand, a red purse in the other. Across the room, Tug Roberts and Bobby Lee McIver sprawled across another bench. When Bobby Lee saw Emmet enter, he jumped up and strutted over.

  “Well, if it isn’t our famous citizen paying us a visit,” McIver said.

  “What are you boys doing here?” Emmet asked. “Somebody handing out free food?”

  “We’re waiting on a friend coming in on the next stage from Sweetwater. Damn, Honeycut, you look like the hindquarters of bad luck.”

  “I ain’t here for your guff, Bobby Lee. I’m here for a telegram.”

  “So we’ve heard. You intending on going somewhere?”

  “Would you like that?”

  “Actually, Honeycut, I wouldn’t. I’m hoping that you’ll stick around a bit longer so you and me can settle some business.”

  “You and me got no business together.”

  “You shoot an innocent kid and give our town a bad name, you make it all our business,” Bobby Lee said, throwing out his chest. “What do you say we step out in the street and take care of things?”

  “That’s not a question that needs an answer right now,” Emmet said, and he walked over to Sam Toomey, who was perched on the edge of a chair beside the telegraph transcribing a message.

  Sam, who’d been operating the telegraph office for the past three years, had a strong, square jaw and a thick shock of black hair. He dangled the telegram reception form out to Emmet without looking up.

  Emmet unfolded the paper, read it: Emmet. Meet me in Santa Sabino. Need help. Bring Betty. Ammo. Friends. Soapy on way. Big pay. Major K. He studied the telegram for a few seconds to let the message soak in.

  “Who’s Major K?” Bobby Lee shouted from across the room so everybody could hear.

  “Yeah, and what’s Betty look like?” Tug chimed in. “We ain’t seen you with a woman the whole time you’ve been in Dixville.” He roared the throaty laugh of a heavy smoker.

  “You boys best hobble your mouths and stop tormenting the air,” Emmet said. Then he turned back to Sam, who was tapping out another message on the machine. Emmet pressed his hand down on Sam’s hand and the telegraph so that the knob couldn’t click.

  “What are you doing?” Sam yelled. “You’re ruining the message.”

  Emmet clenched his teeth and asked, “Do you usually share personal messages with anybody who happens to be around?” He pressed his hand down as hard as he could and then released it.

  Sam rubbed the red circle the knob had impressed on his palm. “I work in a telegraph office,” he said. “It’s hard to keep a secret in this town.”

  Emmet shoved the telegram into his pocket and shrugged. “How do you think Tug over there’s gonna react when I tell him you’ve been entertaining his wife? I hear that you’re real fond of one of her desserts. Peach pie, ain’t it?”

  Sam’s eyes went wide as poker chips, and his sore hand began to shake. “How do you know about that?”

  “I work in a saloon—well, at least I used to—so I know you’re exactly right. It’s hard to keep a secret in this town.”

  “Please don’t,” Sam begged.

  Emmet went over to the woman waiting for the stage and asked if he could borrow her parasol for a moment. When she obliged, he took it, flumped it open, closed it tight, and began twirling the curved handle around his right index finger as he walked over to Tug and Bobby Lee.

  “Please don’t,” Sam yelled louder.

  “Gentlemen, you’ve asked me a couple of good questions, even though it’s none of your damned business,” Emmet said, “but I’m gonna give you a couple of good answers anyway. First off, Major K is Major Arthur Kingston. The ‘King’ saved my life at Chickamauga—couple of minié balls struck my leg, put me back-flat, and a Yank’s blade was perched at my throat when he appeared like an avenging angel and cut off that blue dog’s head with his saber. So I truly owe him a debt I can’t repay.”

  Emmet stopped twirling the parasol, gripped it with two hands, pretended it was a rifle. He swung his arms from right to left as he sighted lengthwise at an imaginary target on the far wall.

  “Second, Betty is Big Betty—the name I gave my favorite long gun, a four-foot-long breech-loading Sharps. See, I was a marksman during the war. I can take down a man a thousand yards away. Imagine that? A thousand yards away.” He feigned getting a shot off and recoiled his arms for effect.

  “Third”—now Emmet was gripping the parasol like a club—“I’m pretty good up close, too, and I love the element of surprise, so don’t ever taunt me again,” and he swung it as hard as he could across Bobby Lee’s skull, knocking him to the floor, senseless. Tug made a move, but Emmet was quicker. He jammed the parasol in Tug’s face, freezing him. With steady hands, Emmet pushed its metal tip into Tug’s right nostril.

  “If I had me a bayonet on the end of this bumbershoot,” Emmet said, “I could pierce your skull and pin your brains against the back wall.”

  “Calm down, Honeycut,” Tug whispered.

  Emmet danced Tug backwards a couple of steps before withdrawing the tip from the man’s nose.

  “Fourth and final, instead of giving me a hard time, you should be taking Sam over yonder to task.”

  “Why?” Tug asked, wiping his nostrils with two curled fingers.

  “Do you know where your wife was two Saturday nights ago? My guess is that she told you she was going to the church social. I bet she baked one of her famous peach pies to bring along.”

  “That’s right,” Tug said.

  “The Widow Riley told me she loves peach pie and was looking forward to what your missus was bringing, except your wife left the social early and didn’t leave the pie. Even more curious, somehow your wife and that pie ended up at Sam’s house that Saturday night.”

  Tug grimaced, and his nose holes flared like a bull about to charge. “What are you saying?” he said with a snort.

  “Ask Sam.” Emmet took several steps backward, turned, and handed the parasol back to the woman with a “much obliged, ma’am,” as Tug stormed across the room towards Sam.

  “Is what he just told me true?” Tug screamed, jamming a finger in Sam’s chest.

  “I can explain,” Sam said, his words coming out weak and wobbly.

  Emmet left the telegraph office. Even outside, he could hear Tug shouting, and then came the muffled but unmistakable sound of furniture breaking apart. The waiting room door sprang open with such force that it sounded like a gunshot as the bottom rail slammed against the siding. Out staggered Bobby Lee, his body weaving side to side like a soused sailor.

  “Honeycut, if you ever come back to Dixville,” Bobby Lee screamed, “you’ll find your cabin a pile of cinders and ash. You hear me?”

  Emmet never looked back, never broke stride. He lifted his hand, flicked Bobby Lee a quick wave, and headed home to pack.

  Emmet’s cabin was a half mile outside Dixville. It was a humble two-room structure constructed with hand-hewn logs, the gap
s stuffed with mud and moss chinking. The cabin had no foundation, no windows, and a hole in the roof for smoke to escape. Dozens of empty rusted cans that once contained beans, fruits, and vegetables littered the side yard, damning evidence that a bachelor lived on the premises.

  Emmet entered the dark cabin and lit a kerosene lamp, which did little to cut the musty smell. The place had two rooms: a larger one that served as a kitchen and sitting area, and a small bedroom in the back. Furnishings were sparse: a wooden table with two chairs, a large pine chest that was nicked and weathered, and a wall of shelving. A stack of unwashed tin plates squatted in the sink.

  He set the lamp down, knelt next to the chest, opened the lid. With both arms, he pulled out an oilskin blanket, unwrapped it, and let the long gun slip into his palms. Hello, old girl, he thought as he rested Big Betty on the table, looks like our business ain’t quite finished. He reached into the chest again and removed four boxes of cartridges, taking time to shake each one, the bullets rattling like beans inside a maraca.

  The fact that the King had reached out to him after so many years pleased Emmet. He wished his eagerness to assist his former commander was based on loyalty, but, in truth, he knew it was all about the money. A significant payday would afford him a fresh start. He also knew the only reason the King wanted him was for his sharpshooting, which struck Emmet as an honest enough swap.

  He groped around the bottom of the chest until he found an old coffee can containing a few coins, some stray matches, and a photograph. He removed the photograph, which showed him standing behind a woman and a young girl, all three of them smartly dressed and smiling; Emmet in his black frock coat, the woman in a lilac silk dress, the girl in a fawn checked dress with a bustle pinafore. After straightening the dog-eared edge, he gently traced the outline of the woman’s face with his thumb before slipping the picture into his shirt pocket.

  He continued to pack, pulling a dozen cans of food off the shelf, jamming them into a gunnysack, setting it on the table. From the bedroom, he grabbed his bedroll and a change of clothes and tossed them on the floor. His eyes swept through the cabin one last time, and the sight saddened him. The soft sift of his years was slipping by with nothing to show but an old model Sharps, a few tin cans, and some loose change, his future long since emptied of natural promise. He scooped up the items on the table and floor, went outside, and stuffed them inside Ruby Red’s saddlebags.

  Returning to the cabin, he grabbed the lantern and hurled it into the far corner. The fire spread faster than he expected, forcing him outside. He cradled Big Betty and watched as the flickering tongues of flame licked along the chinking. The fire let out a small roar as the roof blazed up. Soon, the square brown cabin was a ball of orange flame.

  You’re too late, Bobby Lee, Emmet thought, as he watched the charred ribs of the roof collapse, pulling down two walls with it. A jack rafter and a ridgepole stuck out of the flames at odd angles, like the broken masts of a shipwreck. I saved you the bother. Nothing left but a pile of cinders and ash, just like you said.

  A few hours of daylight remained, so Emmet checked the horse’s girth, mounted up, and sprinted south with two clear-cut destinations: Sabo Canyon to recruit the Thompson twins, and then on to Santa Sabino to rendezvous with the King.

  CHAPTER 4 THE HACIENDA

  Faith rode in the middle of her captors staring straight ahead, afraid, and aching with sorrow. She had watched her mother, a nurse, deliver dozens of babies, and she had always marveled at how totally helpless infants were. She felt that way now, newly born into a world of evil and depravity, totally helpless.

  The group rode for hours, stopping only to water the horses. Faith spoke Spanish and understood the crude comments and jokes the men were making at her expense but remained silent. Eventually they left the blazing hot flatlands and ascended the foothills, where tall white-pine trees provided welcome shade and relief. After an hour of upslope riding, the trail flattened out again.

  “Almost there,” the man in the yellow sash informed her.

  In the distance she saw the roof of a large house poking up from the tall adobe wall that surrounded it. The guard towers in the corners made the place look like a prison. Two vaqueros greeted the band of riders outside the giant archway to the hacienda.

  “Welcome home, Yago,” one said to the man in the red sombrero. “Open,” yelled the other.

  The large wooden gates swung in, and Faith saw the opulence of the estate. The main house was made of shimmering pink adobe with a white balustrade running across the top of the first floor. Birds splashed in a tall fountain in the front courtyard. In every corner and along every walkway, flowers spilled from pots and terra-cotta urns. In the distance, a bunkhouse and corral bustled with activity.

  Faith noticed an older man sitting on the veranda of the main house. He looked to be in his sixties, the corners of his almond-shaped eyes puckered with sun wrinkles, his bushy mustache graying at the edges. As she rode closer to the veranda, a brindle-colored mastiff sitting next to the man began to growl.

  “What did you bring us, Yago?” the older man asked.

  Yago Garza removed his red sombrero, hung it on the horn of his saddle, and led Faith’s horse still closer. “See for yourself, Enrique.”

  “White skin. Yellow hair. Blue eyes,” Enrique Salazar said. “Well done. Where did you find her?”

  “Heard about a preacher living in Diablo Canyon who had a pretty daughter. I checked it out. Figured she’d make a nice addition to our family.”

  “Let her sit for a minute,” Salazar said with a sweep of his hand.

  Garza dismounted and directed Faith to get down. As she slid off the horse, Salazar extended an open palm in front of the seat next to him. She eased into the chair, welcoming the soft comfort compared to the hard saddle she’d been riding in.

  ‘What’s your name, señorita?” Salazar asked softly.

  “Faith Wheeler.” His welcoming manner made her even more fearful and uneasy.

  Salazar angled his body in the chair and tilted his head back. “Armando, get Miss Wheeler a glass of lemonade.”

  The teenage attendant stationed next to the door disappeared inside the house.

  Now, Faith studied the dog. Its head was massive, its eyes as black as olives, its body thick and sinewy. The sight of the dog’s collar sickened her. She had seen a similar one when she was a young girl in Tennessee, except it encircled the neck of an escaped slave boy who was being returned to a plantation. Her parents never owned slaves, and it had troubled her greatly to see a human being restrained that way: two strands of iron linked to a sleeve and secured by a locking pin. The name of the person who had previously worn the collar had been scratched off and replaced with “La Vibora.” When she stared into the animal’s eyes, its growl grew louder.

  “Cálmese, Vibora,” Salazar said as he petted the dog behind one of its cropped ears. The animal quieted but kept its eyes riveted on Faith. “This is Viper, laVibora. He’s a ‘canary dog’—Spanish conquistadors brought them here from the Canary Islands. Great hunters.”

  Salazar scrunched down so he was at the dog’s eye level and pointed to Faith. The canine approached her, sniffed her shoes. When the beast looked up, Faith noted how powerful its jaws were.

  “These animals were bred to protect farms and cattle from wild dogs,” Salazar said.

  “I hate that animal,” Garza said to Faith. “How about you?”

  “You’re the animal I hate,” Faith said, and then she slowly extended her trembling hand and patted the dog’s back as if it were teeming with ticks. Its fur was thin, smooth.

  Armando returned and passed her the lemonade. Her mouth was dry as dust, and her tongue felt like a hot stone. She accepted the glass and guzzled its contents.

  “Vibora, ven,” Salazar commanded. The dog spun around and returned to his side. “These dogs are strong, fierce, and loyal,” he said. “What better traits could you ask for in a pet?”

  “Or in a woman,” Gar
za said with a smirk.

  Salazar grinned and then let his eyes drift back to Faith. “You’ll be staying with us for a while, señorita,” he said.

  Faith’s body went rigid. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “To you? Nothing,” Salazar said. “For you? Everything. We’re going to provide you a new life, a life of privilege and wealth.”

  “I loved the life I had.”

  “Really?” Salazar said. “You loved that hardscrabble life on that barren piece of rock, with nobody around for miles?”

  A dark mix of revulsion and rage sprang up in her. She pointed a censuring finger at Garza. “He murdered my parents. Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  “Yago is family,” he said. “We’re cousins. What would you have me do?”

  “He killed my family.”

  Garza spread his arms out, shrugged, and said, “I offered your parents money, but they refused.”

  “Blood money,” she snapped. Anger began to overtake her fear. “You’re murderers, kidnappers.” She perched her body on the edge of the seat like a bird of prey, and then dove at Garza, swinging at him with flailing arms. The dog lunged at her, clamping its teeth on the hem of her yellow sun dress and whipping its neck back and forth until it tore off a piece of the garment, exposing part of her leg. When she felt the hot breath of the dog on her leg, Faith scampered backwards and flung herself into the chair before the enraged beast could break her skin with its teeth.

  “Watch out, Enrique,” Garza said. “This little mustang has spunk. She spat in my face earlier today.”

  “Spat in your face?” Salazar said, feigning shock. “Such bad manners from the daughter of a man of the cloth. Is that how she got the bruise and the swollen cheek?”