The Man from Misery Page 5

  “Looking to put another notch on your pistol, are you?” Emmet said. “She’s too old for you.”

  “She’s too young for you.”

  “Time will tell, son,” Emmet said. “Time will tell.” He jerked his thumb twice towards the cottonwoods. “Go stow your gear.”

  “Let’s go, Abe,” Zack said, “I know when we ain’t wanted.”

  The twins stepped off the porch and ambled towards the horses. When Mariana returned, Emmet poured her a glass of wine. She smiled, hung a damp cloth over the railing to dry, and took a seat across from him.

  When she was bustling about the bungalow or tending to her guests, Mariana seemed as comfortable as a house cat on a rainy afternoon. But all that comfort disappeared as soon as she sat down. She stared at her lap and fingered the embroidery on her skirt. Emmet suspected she enjoyed working behind the scenes and didn’t welcome any attention on herself, pretty as she was, so he tried to put her at ease.

  “You’ve been so gracious to me and the boys, I just wanted to take a minute to thank you.”

  He gestured with his hand to have some wine. The sip she took barely wet her lips.

  “How do you know Major Kingston?” she asked.

  “I fought under him during the war.”

  “You were a soldier.”

  “Yep.”

  “Were you a hero, Mr. Honeycut?”

  “Call me Emmet. The real heroes were my brothers who died during battle.”

  “I’m sure you’re glad it’s over.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you able to put it out of your mind?”

  “Actually, Miss Mariana, I’ve seen all the horrors of war, and I do my best to try to remember, especially my brothers who didn’t make it home. Watch this.”

  He lifted his glass and told her to do the same. “To my dead rebel brothers,” he said, and then he tossed the rest of the wine down and gave a loud hoot.

  His yawp startled her, but then she relaxed and took a bigger sip.

  “It’s good that you remember them,” she said. “It’s good to think of those who are no longer here.” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes drifted to the horizon.

  Emmet noticed a tiny cross around her neck. “Are you a churchgoer?”

  Her eyes crisped back into focus. “Yes. Father Ramirez is a wonderful priest. I’ve known him all my life. He baptized me. He hears my confessions and gives me Communion. He was the priest who married me.”

  Those last two words wedged themselves inside Emmet’s ears like half-eaten corncobs. He scanned her fingers and didn’t see a ring or any skin discoloration from where one used to be.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Mariana. What was his name?”

  “Miguel.”

  “What happened?”

  She twizzled the cross around her finger. “He drowned.”

  Emmet jammed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and let her go on.

  She let the cross drop. “I moved back in with my parents after he died. My mother got sick and died a few months after that. It was hard to lose my husband and my mother so closely together. I’ve taken care of my father ever since.”

  Some of the brightness had left her face. Emmet regretted kindling the conversation and intended to chase her sadness away, but she changed the subject before he could.

  “Are you a religious man, Emmet?”

  “No ma’am, I ain’t a churchgoer, but I got a grip on what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  “You have an easy way about you,” she said. “You let people talk, and your ears really listen.”

  Emmet chuckled at that one. “Not everybody thinks my way is that easy, or that I listen as good as I should. Plus some folks say there’s no better way to conceal yourself than to sit back and listen to everybody else talk. Maybe that’s my way of remaining mysterious.”

  She nestled back in her chair, and her shoulders slackened. She rubbed her hands together and then reached for her glass. “Are you a mystery man?”

  “I got nothing to hide, Miss Mariana.”

  She brushed some crumbs off the table. “Where’s your home?”

  “I have a cabin outside Dixville.” In his mind, Emmet saw the charred remains of the structure, the acrid smell rising from the smoldering timbers. “I ain’t particularly happy there, and I’ll be looking for a new place to settle down once our business in Santa Sabino is done. I’d like to make some changes in my life.”

  “What kind of changes?”

  “For starters, staying in one place for a long spell. All my life, I’ve moved from place to place and slept wherever I had to—cabins, bunkhouses, hotels, barns, tents, under the stars. I guess I was meant to be a rover, at least when I wore a younger man’s chaps. But I’m on the dusky side of forty now and aching to settle down in one location. I’d like to develop a sense of place.”

  He set his napkin on the table. “Excuse me for asking, Miss Mariana, but have you ever thought of remarrying? I mean, you’re still young and beautiful. If Soapy were here, he’d call you flat-out handsome.”

  Her skin was brown, but Emmet saw her blush.

  “No,” she whispered, “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it’s one thing to think it, and another to feel it. Thinking in the head and feeling in the heart are two different animals, and a lot of times they can get to clawing at each other. It’s best to keep an open mind about matters of the heart.”

  “Sounds like maybe you’ve been married?”

  “No. Never married. Engaged once.”

  Now it was Emmet’s eyes that turned glossy and distant. He began to reach for the photograph in his shirt pocket, decided against it. Several moments passed in silence.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” she said.

  Emmet snapped back to attention. “I’m keeping an open mind. Soapy’s been married twenty years, and he kids me about it: ‘Why bother getting married at your age, Emmet?’ And I tell him: ‘Soapy, if I get the right one, she’ll be worth the wait, and if I don’t, I won’t have so long to live with her.’ ”

  Mariana uncorked a hearty laugh that warmed Emmet’s innards. He continued to savor her beauty and the flash of her smile.

  “Miss Mariana, I was never exposed to a lot of kindness in my travels, and I know my lines of work had a lot to do with that. It’s pleasing to be in your sweet company if only for a short spell.”

  “I’ve enjoyed talking with you, too,” she said, “but I must get back to work.”

  The wine and food had made Emmet drowsy. He yawned, thanked her for her hospitality, and excused himself. She went back to the kitchen while he slipped off under the trees, figuring some shut-eye would sharpen him up for his meeting with the major in a few hours, and since he hadn’t seen the King in six years, he wanted to be razor sharp when he did.

  CHAPTER 8 THE TAILOR

  A well-dressed woman in her fifties stood in the doorway of Salazar’s office and announced, “The tailor’s here. Shall I bring him up?”

  Salazar hunched over his desk for a few seconds longer. Bookcases lined the walls, and piles of papers covered his desk. The room smelled of leather, pipe smoke, and pencil shavings.

  “Thank you, Juanita. I’ll come down.”

  He left the den, turned the corner, and descended the steps to where the tailor was waiting on the first floor. The tailor was a slight man with a thin mustache that angled out from beneath his nostrils in two small triangles. He doffed a small bowler and said, “Good morning, señor. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  Salazar brushed past him and said, “Let’s go.”

  The two strode down several long hallways, past the great room, the dining room, and several guest quarters, their footfalls clacking on the large tiles and echoing off the high ceilings. They stopped in front of a large wooden door guarded by a man with bandoleers crossing his chest.

  “The tailor’s here to measure t
he girls,” Salazar said.

  The door groaned as it swung into an enormous storage room that had been emptied and transformed into sleeping quarters. Girls in white smocks sat on cots and chairs that lined the walls. One window with bars across it divided the back wall.

  “How many girls?” the tailor asked.

  “There’s nine here now with a tenth on the way,” Salazar answered. “You know what to do. Give each girl a different look. Use different colors and styles. Juanita will see to their hair and jewelry, and work with you on the final display. I want my girls to sparkle.”

  Salazar reached in his pocket and removed a piece of paper containing the girls’ names. “Valencia,” he bellowed, and a black-haired girl came running over. She was on the chubby side of sixteen, her body no longer that of a child. She stared at the floor. Salazar put his forefinger under her chin and edged her head up, tilted it to the left, to the right. He felt her body trembling beneath his fingers. “Say ah,” he ordered.

  The girl opened her mouth, and he peered inside, his head moving back and forth for a better view. He pulled his hand back and let her chin drop. Then he placed both of his hands on her breasts from outside her smock. She flinched at his touch but remained silent. Salazar fondled her for a few more seconds and then leaned in until his lips touched her ear. “Very nice,” he whispered. “Very beautiful.”

  He turned to the tailor. “Give Valencia a lower neckline to showcase her bosom.”

  The tailor sparked to work, unfurling his tape measure and opening his worn notebook. He vaulted back and forth between measuring her bust, waist, the width of her hips—and jotting down numbers. He worked with great efficiency, his index finger beneath the tape measure, his thumb on top.

  “I’ve got what I need from this one, señor,” he said.

  Salazar told Valencia to sit down, and then yelled, “Faith.”

  Faith marched over to him.

  “So, how is our wild mustang today?” he asked. “Have you shed some of your sassiness?”

  Faith thrust out her chin and said, “You’ll be punished for what you’ve done.”

  “Really?” Salazar laughed. “By who?”

  “The wrath of God will avenge my parents,” she answered with words crusted with contempt, “unless my uncle gets to you first.”

  “Your uncle?”

  “He was an officer during the war, and he knows how to fight. He’ll come for me. And you’ll be sorry.”

  “Little mustang, I would welcome an opportunity to meet your uncle—unless my men get to him first.”

  “The Lord says ‘I will punish you according to the fruits of your doings.’ ”

  “And what fruits are those?” he asked.

  She had bathed that morning, and the fragrant scent of bluebonnets filled his nostrils. He sunk his hands into her soft hips and tried to lift her up, so he could gaze into her eyes, but she slapped him across the face. He staggered back, raised his hand to hit her, but stopped. Instead, he rubbed his reddened cheek and said, “Such spirit. I just may outbid the others so I can have you all to myself. Measure her, Pepe, and put her in your fanciest gown. She might fetch a greater price than all the others combined.”

  Faith stared at the wall, blank-faced, as the tailor snapped off her dimensions.

  After the tailor finished, Salazar said, “Stay well, señorita. You and I just might be spending a lot of time together.” He scanned the list and yelled “Toya.”

  A small, wiry girl slinked over to him as Faith returned to her cot.

  Before he began his examination, Salazar glanced over at the guard and winked. “I do enjoy looking over the beautiful flowers in my garden.”

  The guard smirked and held out his hand in a gesture that said “be my guest.”

  CHAPTER 9 THE REUNION

  Emmet woke from a cleansing sleep refreshed and alert. The sun was just easing down behind the trees, so he reasoned he’d been out for at least five hours. Mariana was making a batch of corn tortillas in the kitchen and yelled to him from the window that Major Kingston had arrived and was waiting down by the stream.

  Emmet’s blood surged when he saw Lam-rye tied up with the rest of the horses, confirming that he was going to make eye contact with his former commander for the first time in six years. Emmet thought Lam-rye was a ridiculous name for a warhorse when he first heard it, until the King told him that it was the name King Arthur gave his mare.

  Emmet studied the animal. She was old but still a magnificent beast. She didn’t smell like the typical barn-kept horse. Her scent was a sweet mix of earth, sweat, and wild honey. The Friesian was dark as pitch and strong in stature, and Emmet would have recognized her anywhere. In battle, Emmet remembered the horse and the King moving as one—a striking whirlwind of fire and fury.

  He patted Lam-rye on the withers and sauntered toward the stream. In the fading light, he saw the shadow of Kingston lounging in a chair, puffing on a pipe, and watching the dying sun-fire kindle a rosy glow between the hills. Kingston turned when he heard Emmet’s foot crack a twig.

  “Major, I know I ain’t the quietest redskin in the forest when it comes to sneaking up on people.”

  “Emmet Honeycut, you tall bundle of rags.”

  They clamped their left hands on each other’s shoulder and shook hands with their right, squeezing and pumping several times before letting go.

  “Major, it’s been a long time. Sorry our reunion is under such sad circumstances.”

  “It’s bittersweet to be sure,” Kingston said. “Sit, please.”

  He pointed to a second chair. A jug of whiskey and two glasses waited for them on a small table. Emmet glanced at the setup and said, “Looks like you were expecting company.”

  “I was.”

  Kingston poured three fingers worth in each glass and said, “I knew you’d come, Emmet.”

  “Reno told me about your niece, and your sister and her husband. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Recognizing the grimness of the situation, Emmet foreswore his usual toast and hoot and sipped from the glass. He knew the King was not a man to fribble, so he got down to business.

  “How did you find out about your sister, Major?”

  Kingston took a small sip from the glass and a huge puff off the pipe.

  “Telegram. When I got the terrible news, I immediately left for Texas. It took me an extra day to find their small cabin because it was in such a remote canyon. Chubby McDaniels, a neighbor, met me and told me what he knew. He’d been riding up the main road to my sister’s for a drop-by when he spied a group of men headed in the direction of Santa Sabino with Faith in the middle of them. The leader wore a red sombrero.”

  “That would be Garza,” Emmet said.

  Kingston nodded. “McDaniels found Bart and Celie outside the shed. Emmet, you and I have seen a lot of killing, but it was war, not murder. He said Bart and Celie died quickly, shot close up, black muzzle burns on their foreheads. He gave my sister and her husband a proper Christian burial and then telegrammed me. I’ve been in Santa Sabino ever since, trying to figure out the best way to rescue Faith.”

  “Major, you know that I’m in this with you to the end.”

  “Emmet, you’re a true Lancelot.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” Emmet joked, “but that ain’t the nickname most folks call me these days. Anyway, it looks like we’re gonna be rescuing us a damsel.”

  They both laughed and eased back into their chairs. Kingston recounted his years since the war, which he had devoted to running the family business. Emmet noted the major was wearing his gold West Point graduation ring with the eagle on it on his right hand, but his wedding ring was missing from the left.

  Kingston followed Emmet’s eyes and smiled. “Yes, Elsie’s gone. We wrangled a lot over the years but managed to keep patching things up, until we both grew too tired to bother any more. She got her share of what she was after, then re-married and settled in Vicksburg. How about you, Emmet? You got a woman. Did you ev
er marry?”

  “Nope. Came close once. Things didn’t work out the way I’d planned.” Emmet cleared his throat. “Major, if I didn’t have buzzard luck, I’d have no luck a-tall. But I got no bitterness inside me. I’m pretty sure of it. And you never know. Beauty could be right next door in places you’d least expect to find it.”

  “I take it you’ve met Mariana,” Kingston said.

  “I reckon I have.”

  Kingston sipped his whiskey as Emmet told him about his years after the war: how long-range shooting became his means to earning a living; how the railroads hired him to provide buffalo meat for the work crews in the ragtowns, and hides at two and a half dollars a piece for rich easterners riding the rails; how he grew weary of the vagabond life and abandoned it in the hope of settling down.

  Emmet paused and gazed at the stream. The moon was spinning silver curls on top of the gurgling black water.

  “You and me ain’t seen each other in years, Major. How’d you know enough to send the telegram to Dixville?”

  Kingston sighed, looked Emmet in the eyes. “I read the newspapers.”

  “Well, don’t believe all the hot ink you read.”

  “I read you were found not guilty.”

  “Not guilty of murder, but I did shoot that little girl. I’ll always be guilty of that.”

  Kingston slumped in his chair, looked down at his boots. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

  Emmet drained the glass. Kingston poured him another measure and waited.

  “An outside alarm bell woke me from a deep sleep,” Emmet said. “My first thought was that it might be an Indian raid, so I grabbed my gun. As soon as I stepped outside, though, I saw the light from the fire clear across town. It was night, but the whole sky was lit up red as a sunset. By the time I reached the hotel, flames had pretty much swallowed up the building. The eyeballing crowd backed up every few minutes as the heat grew worse.

  “Somebody screamed when a girl appeared on the third-floor porch. People shouted at her to jump, but the poor thing was in shock. Never matter. The heat was hotter than the furies of hell, and the flames below her were every bit as big as those above, so nobody could get near enough to catch her. Through breaks in the smoke, I saw her silhouette cowering in the doorway. Her long hair was blowing in the heat swirls. She screeched for someone to help her. It was awful.”