June, 2010

Issue #9

Last Rider: Nopal, Texas
by J. B. Hogan

When Moses Traven crossed over into the Territory from Ft. Smith, he had every intention of avoiding the Boston Mountains in the north of Arkansas. He planned to skirt those hard to ride hills and the rest of the Ozarks altogether until picking up the old trail in southwest Missouri that led to the one-time trailhead town of Sedalia. Mose hoped there might still be work there.

During his first full day out of Ft. Smith, however, Mose's plans changed - and changed quick. From out of nowhere, an early norther blew up across the flat lands of the Territory and drove him south towards Texas.

Riding into the little town of Nopal at daybreak, the norther still on his heels, Mose headed Buster, his dependable buckskin, for the usual place he figured he could hole up and ride out the weather - the local livery stable. Remembering the kindness of Henry Hallow, the blacksmith and stable man back in Ft. Smith, Mose hoped the Nopal smithy would run just as friendly an establishment. It turned out be a false hope.

"One dollar a night," this blacksmith grunted, not even looking at Mose, who had reached his hand out for shaking. "You sleep on the hay you feed your animal."

"One dollar?" Mose questioned.

"Take it or leave it," the blacksmith said. Mose turned Buster to go. "Six-bits." Mose kept Buster moving. "Four-bits." Mose reined in Buster and backed him up.

"Clean hay for my horse and for me."

"Suit yourself. Four-bits."

Mose dug in his shirt pocket and came up with the money.

"Put the animal in the middle stall across there," the blacksmith said curtly.

"That'll do," Mose said, nodding his head.

What a difference between good old Henry in Ft. Smith and this character. The man still hadn't even looked at Mose, much less introduced himself or asked who Mose was.

After unsaddling Buster and giving him a good currying, Mose climbed up to the stable loft and found some clean hay to lay his bedroll on. He dug in his saddle bags for some jerky he'd bought in Ft. Smith and after eating a couple of chunks of it, laid down for a rest.

Around dusk the smith stopped his banging and clanging below and left the stable. Mose tried to sleep but it was just too early. Instead he closed his eyes and daydreamed about riding a wide, sure-footed trail into a land of high green grass and tall thick trees. He could see a small creek running alongside the trail and there were small mountains, not much more than hills, in the blue distance and a … Suddenly, Mose opened his eyes, quickly out of his daydream. Someone was in the stable below.

It had turned dark and Mose couldn't see the floor or stables very well but he heard Buster snort and dig at the ground with his hooves. Carefully reaching for his .36 caliber Navy revolver in its holster beside the bedroll, Mose took the weapon and quietly moved up to the edge of the loft. There was someone stirring below. Mose aimed his pistol at the figure and called down:

"Who's there? What are you doing?"

The figure stopped moving but there was no answer. Mose made a production out of cocking the .36.

"Wait, wait," a high voice cried out. "Don't shoot. I'm the smithy's wife."

"What are you doing down there?" Mose asked.

"Come to see if you was hungry," the woman answered. "Got some food here."

Mose heard a scratching on one of the stable's wood beams and then a match flared. The woman lit an oil lamp she carried and set it on a work table.

"Biscuits and bacon," she called up to Mose. "Figured you might like some."

"Yes, ma'am," Mose said, holstering the .36 before hustling down out of the loft.

In the light of the lamp, the smithy's wife looked to be several years her husband's junior. She had long brown hair, flowing wild and free, and sharp, playful brown eyes. Her skin was dark and smooth, with a narrow attractive nose above her full mouth - which seemed always on the verge of forming into a laughing sneer. Her long, form-fitting cotton dress left little doubt as to her womanly attributes, which Mose tried to ignore.

"I reckon you was some hungry," she said, watching Mose tear after the food.

From the little curl in the woman's well-defined lips, it looked like she might have more to say on the subject - on any subject for that matter.

"I reckon I was," Mose said, concentrating on consuming his meal.

He didn't think the smithy would necessarily cotton to his wife being out in the stable chatting with Mose after dark - whether it was to bring him food or not.

"There's water here, too," the woman said, pointing to a small cup beside the cloth she'd brought the biscuits and bacon in.

"'Preciate it," Mose replied, taking a swig of the water with his last bite of food. "How much I owe you?"

"You don't owe me nothin'," the woman said, moving up close to Mose to retrieve the food cloth.

Mose downed the rest of the water and handed her the cup. Her hand grazed his during the exchange. It felt like lightning running through Mose's body. The woman moved closer yet. She was so close, Mose could feel the warmth of her body and the smell of something sweet on her breath. He suppressed an urge to put his arm around her waist.

"I better get back up in the loft," he said, rising quickly. Just as he did, the blacksmith came banging through the back door of the stable.

"What the hell is goin' on out here?" he bawled at Mose and his wife.

"Whoa," Mose said, instinctively backing up. "Nothin's goin' on."

"You get back in the house," the smithy growled at his wife.

The woman turned and with a lovely sneer for both Mose and her husband, sashayed right out of the stable as if she were a noble lady strolling in a manicured English garden. The smithy glowered at her retreating figure and when she was gone turned his harsh glare on Mose.

"Stay away from my woman," he said coarsely, "if you know what's good for you."

"I wasn't doin' nothin' with your woman," Mose countered, "and I wadn't intendin' to."

"You saddle tramps think you can just come in anywhere and take what you want," the man said.

"I don't think no such thing," Mose shot back, "and I'd be goin' easy on the saddle tramp part."

"I'll say what I …," the smithy began, but stopped when he saw Mose square up into a fist-fighting position. "I … just don't like nobody messin' with my wife."

"I done told you I wasn't messin' with nothin'," Mose said, making no effort to conceal his anger or lack of respect for the pushy smithy.

The smithy looked Mose up and down, saw the hard, clenched fists, the fire in the eyes, the position ready to strike. He backed away. Slowly, but surely, snatching the lamp off the work table where his wife had left it.

When the troublesome man was gone, Mose let out a deep breath and relaxed his hands and body. Seemed like these days somebody was always trying to start something with him. In the dark of the stable he climbed back up into the loft to his bedroll and lay down to try and get a night's sleep. He kept the .36 nearby just in case.

Mose woke next morning to a commotion in the road outside the stable. Sleepy-eyed and still groggy from his long run on Buster away from the recent storm, he slowly raised himself up and peered over the loft edge. The blacksmith was there already, preparing for his day's work.

"What's all that ruckus out there?" Mose called down.

"You cowboys are mighty slow for risin', I reckon," the blacksmith said by way of answer.

"Don't concern me no how," Mose dismissed the topic.

"If you have to know," the smithy said grumpily, "they was a stagecoach robbery yesterday. The guard was winged and a passenger shot and killed."

"My, God," Mose said, "that's terrible."

"Hmph," the smithy grunted.

The conversation seemingly over, Mose put on his boots and started gathering his gear. There didn't seem any reason to stay in this place any longer, especially now that the norther had passed through. Down in the stable, he fed and watered Buster. The smithy acted like he was busy but he was keeping track of every movement Mose made.

"Leaving in a hurry?" the smithy finally said, unable to restrain a natural impulse towards nosiness.

"Yeah," Mose answered, "I don't see any …."

Before Mose could finish his sentence, the doors of the stable swung open and several men marched in. At their head was a big man wearing a star.

"Morning, Enoch," the lawman spoke to the smithy, while giving Mose a quick once-over.

"Morning, marshal," Enoch said, also giving Mose a fast glance. Mose tossed and straightened the blanket on Buster's back in preparation for saddling him.

"I reckon's you heard about the stagecoach?" the marshal asked the smith.

"Yes, sir," Enoch said firmly. "Got you a killer on your hands. A loner was it?"

"One man," the marshal confirmed. "Shot the guard, killed a passenger. Rode on towards Nopal, the driver said."

"Anybody else get it?" Enoch asked.

"No, thankfully," the marshal said. "A woman and man, not together, were unhurt. The other poor fella got it in the neck. Bled to death out there."

Enoch didn't say anything but he turned his head in Mose's direction, enough so to make the marshal do the same. Mose was tossing the saddle onto Buster's back.

"What about you, young fella?" the marshal spoke to Mose. "What's your story?"

"My story?" Mose asked.

"Yeah, where you from? Where you headin' in such a hurry."

"I ain't in a hurry," Mose said evenly, giving Enoch a cold stare, "I'm just leavin'. Ain't the most hospitable place I seen."

"Where were you late yesterday?"

"Ridin' into here."

"He come in right about after that shootin'," Enoch volunteered. "Come off the trail. He's a saddle tramp. He might be your man."

"You son of a …," Mose began.

"Easy, son," the marshall said, squaring up towards Mose. Some of the men with the lawman did the same. Mose stopped saddling Buster. "We just need to ask you a few questions."

"It's him," Enoch said, wagging a finger at Mose. "I know it is. He paid me with brand new coins. Bet he got 'em from the strongbox on the coach. Hell, yes. I knew they was somethin' wrong with him right away. Scared my wife in the night, too. Damn near raped her, I figure."

"Why you lyin' dog," Mose growled, stepping forward menacingly towards Enoch. The smithy took refuge behind the marshal's delegation.

"Hold up, boy," the marshal ordered Mose. He pointed his finger at Mose and two of his biggest men grabbed Mose who started to struggle, then thought better of it.

"You're makin' a big mistake, marshall," Mose said, red-faced, "this lyin' weasel made all that stuff up."

"We'll decide that," the marshal said, "over at the office. You come along peaceful, son, or we'll take you there the hard way."

"I ain't done nothin'," Mose insisted, but he went along quietly. There was nothing else for it.

The Nopal city jail was not much more than a cage at the back of the tiny marshal's office. There was only one rickety wooden cot with a filthy, lice-infested mattress that could have doubled for a worn-out blanket it was so thin. Mose ended up putting the mattress under the cot, finding hard wood more comfortable than the insect-filled padded cloth.

Well into late afternoon, after leaving Mose pretty much to his own devices for the better part of the day, the marshal, a thick-headed deputy, and some man named Carlton who had something to do with the local court bustled into the jail with news for Mose.

"We found your stash of loot, boy," this Carlton blustered, as the three men gathered around Mose's cage.

"I ain't got no stash of loot," Mose said tiredly.

"What do you call this, then?" the thick-skulled deputy asked. He held up Mose's twenty dollar gold-piece and the remaining paper money he had left.

"I call that wages," Mose replied.

"Nobody makes that much money," Carlton countered.

"We found it among your belongings, son," the marshal said.

"Look, marshal," Mose said, feeling the marshal might be a good bit more reasonable than the deputy and the court man, "I earned that money. Ridin' trail."

"That gold-piece is spankin' new," the deputy said. "Like it came off that strongbox from the robbery." Mose shook his head. These boys weren't listening.

"Why you hidin' that money, if you earnt it," Carlton huffed.

"Why do you think?" Mose said.

"You stole it, that's why," the deputy shot back.

"I'm on the trail these days," Mose explained patiently, "you can't leave what you got out in the open."

"Where were you headed?" the marshal asked.

"Sedalia," Mose answered.

"Sedalia?" Carlton laughed. "Boy, you are a liar. You come in from the north, the smithy said he seen that. You goin' the wrong direction if you was goin' up to Missouri."

"I was tryin' to outrun the norther," Mose said. "You call me a liar again and I'll come out of here and knock your head off, mister."

"See, marshall," Carlton squealed, jumping back away from the cell, "he's the one. He's the killer. He's threatenin' to kill me. For nothin'."

"Take it easy, son," the marshall told Mose.

"I'm tellin' you, marshal," Mose said with some heat, "I never had nothin' to do with no stagecoach robbin' nor killin'. And I don't like bein' called a liar by some damned polecat."

"You'll think polecat," Carlton spat at Mose, while backing towards the jail door. "You killed a good man. A good man from this town. People knew him good. You'll pay for this. People in town will see to that. You'll pay soon."

"Calm down, Carlton," the marshal said. "Judge Winter will be here in a couple of days, he'll decide."

"There may not be nothin' to decide by then," Carlton threatened, opening the jail door. "There won't be no need for a trial."

"Go on," the marshal told him.

"Mark my words," Carlton called back from the doorway, "it'll be settled long before that."

After Carlton, the would-be vigilante, left the jail, Mose tried to calm his own nerves by lying down and resting for a bit. He stretched out carefully on the wood slats of the cot, his feet dangling off one end and closed his eyes. He tried to picture in his mind what his parents looked like but too many other images from the last ten years of his life gained the forefront and he could not clearly picture either his mother or his father's face.

He could remember the handful of battles he'd been in when serving under General Shelby in Missouri. Boonville, Waverly, the bitter defeat at Westport. The retreat and collapse of General Prices' command. The flight into Mexico and the mixed experience in the Carlota colony. It was there ….

Of a sudden it seemed, Mose was startled awake by loud shouting outside the jail. Sitting up quickly, he was surprised to see it had gotten completely dark. The unseen mob was loud and boisterous but Mose could occasionally hear the marshal's voice over the general clamor. He was sure he heard Carlton and maybe Enoch as well.

"He killed Bert," Carlton's voice declared into the night.

"Kill him," came a chorus of angry voices.

"Take it easy now," the marshal counseled the mob.

"Bert was our friend," someone cried.

"He was mine, too," the marshal allowed, "but lynchin' this fellow without a trial ain't right."

"We want him," someone else demanded, "now." Mose thought it might have been Enoch.

The next outburst from the crowd was unintelligible and Mose's attention was then drawn to a nearer, different sound. It was a hissing noise coming from the back of the cell. He got up from the cot and walked back to the barred window to find its source. At the window, he was shocked to see Enoch's pretty young wife just outside the back of the jail.

"What are you doin' there?" Mose asked her.

"I got your horse," the woman said, "I'm gonna bust you out of there before they hang you."

"What?" Mose wondered, almost laughing. "What are you talking about?" But when he looked outside more carefully, he could see the woman had Buster saddled and ready to go.

"Here," the woman said, reaching the end of a thick rope inside the jail to Mose. "Knot that around the window bars. This adobe ought to fall apart like dry sand with a good pull."

"Are you crazy, woman?" Mose said, holding the end of the rope like it was a dirty yellow rattlesnake. "I'm under arrest. I gotta wait for the judge to come. There's gonna be a trial when he gets here. I'll be let go. They'll see I'm innocent."

"They'll see you're hung is more like it," the woman shot back. "You ain't gonna make it through the night much less till the judge gets here."

Mose listened to the loud, unintelligible sounds of the vigilante crowd outside the front of the jail. The woman had a point.

"You got that rope tied good to the saddlehorn on Buster?" Mose wanted to know.

"I will," the woman said, "on one condition."

"Oh, no," Mose groaned.

"You gotta take me with you."

"Hell, woman, I'll be lucky if I make it a mile out of town even if we do pull this window out. They'll be comin' hell bent for me, lickety-split."

"I cain't stay here. Enoch beats me. He's a God-awful man, mister."

"If I take you, we both die," Mose said flatly. "Buster cain't carry the both of us."

"He looks big and strong."

"Not that big and strong."

"Hell."

"Listen, lady, I thank you truly for helpin' me, but I gotta go alone. There's no other way."

The woman was silent. Mose listened to the mob out front. It was getting louder. There was no time to lose.

"Bust me out, woman, or forget about it," Mose said. "It's dark out there, run off the other side. Nobody'll see you. That old man of yours won't know you did it."

"Damn it, mister."

"I'm sorry."

"Damn," the woman repeated, but she made sure the rope knot on the saddlehorn was as tight as she could get it.

Mose hooked his end around each of the two bars closest to where he stood. They looked the weakest. He tied the rope off tight.

"Swat Buster on the rear. Hard," Mose told her, "he's strong."

The woman did as she was told and Buster gave a leap forward, straining against the rope and the wall it and he was attached to. The lady swatted the horse again and he pulled hard against his restraints. The barred window ground out on the side closest to Mose and with a hard kick he knocked two chunks of adobe wall loose. Buster jerked forward again with another slap on the rear and the wall separated enough for Mose to climb through. He was out. Free.

"God bless you, lady," he said, pulling the knotted rope loose from the window bars.

The woman gave Mose a quick hug, shoved a pistol into his hand and dropped something round and shiny into his shirt pocket. Without another word she disappeared into the darkness. Mose could hear the crowd going wild in front. They'd heard the noise. He didn't have much time.

Sticking the pistol behind his belt, he ran to Buster, clambered into the saddle and dug his heels into the horse's sides. The spirited animal practically leaped forward, then galloped into the desert night, Mose pleading for more speed as they shot out of the little town and onto the stagecoach road.

Behind them, the mob cursed and yelled, fired wildly and inaccurately in the general direction of the escapees. None of the rounds even came close to them, but Mose kept Buster at a gallop until he was sure they were completely out of range. He ran the animal as fast and hard as he dared in the available light.

About a mile or so outside Nopal, they left the stagecoach road and headed due north toward the Big Dipper, toward the refuge of Indian Territory, toward freedom. When Mose could no longer hear anything but the normal sounds of night, he reined Buster in and let him cool down at a reasonable walking pace.

The night was still, reassuringly quiet. Mose was sorry he had had to leave the lady back there to deal with her vicious husband and the mindless mob, but there was nothing he could do about it. They were looking to string him up. He had to escape.

As the night deepened into its darkest hours, man and horse were one in the opaque shadows. Nopal was well in the distance now. Mose kept on a northerly trail, he never once looked back.

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