Showdown at Possum Trot Page 3

  A Texas bluebonnet was painted into the lower right hand corner of the sign. Rosalie introduced herself and then she introduced Martha. Rosalie had a widespread shock of bright red hair, curled in natural ringlets over the edges of her face. She had a few freckles that bordered her nose and a figure like a goddess. Martha was more succulent, rounded in her important places, her skin a little darker, olive-like, as if there was a mysterious element added—Greek isles, perhaps Italy. They stood in sharp contrast to Crissy, a waif-like girl with straight blond hair halfway down her back. She appeared almost pubescent though fully twenty-six years of age. Horse was fond of saying he had girls to appeal to any man’s taste.

  Rosalie turned to the new patient. “This is Crissy,” she said.

  Crissy’s eyes wandered. Her lids struggled to rise above half-mast.

  “Bring her in,” he said and unlocked the door.

  They brought her to the examining table and she collapsed there like a rag doll. Galen dropped his saddlebags on the chair and approached the table.

  “What happened here?”

  The girls looked at each other. Rosalie spoke. “She hit her head.”

  Galen examined her head. Her eyes were half closed and swollen. On her cheek was a crimson blotch the shape of part of a hand. She was bleeding from her right ear.

  “How did she, ‘hit her head’?” asked Galen.

  The girls hesitated.

  “No sense telling lies,” he said. “I can see the damage here. She has a handprint up the side of her face, swollen eyes and blood out her ear. Somebody took a swipe at her.”

  He fixed his eyes on Rosalie. She trembled a little.

  “I see,” he said. “Okay. So, just so we are clear, you didn’t tell me this, but I, shall we say, deduced that somebody beat her up pretty bad.”

  He looked at the girls. They did not rise to correct him.

  He nodded. He felt her neck, moved her head side to side, lifted her clothing to look for evidence of damage, listened to her heart and lungs with his little monaural stethoscope and shook his head.

  “She’s got a concussion. Brain Fever. That blood in her ear means she might have a skull fracture too. And, you can see, she’s moving in and out of consciousness.”

  “Is she going to be all right?” said Rosalie.

  Galen stood back with hands on hips. “I have to keep an eye on her a while. Let’s move her to the back room. Hold her head gently as I lift her.”

  There was a cot in the back situated by the window looking out on the open prairie extending beyond the horse stables like a huge brown ocean spreading in the far distances of the western horizon.

  “Get me two pillows, Martha, from that bin over there. We have to keep her head elevated to reduce the swelling.”

  She placed the two pillows on top of each other on the cot and Galen and Rosalie drifted her lightly to her rest. She sighed and descended into a deep sleep.

  They watched her breathe a while, lying tenderly without moving.

  “You can go now,” he said. “I’m going to stay with her until the danger passes.”

  He fixed the girls in his eyes as if looking deep into their consciousness. “I know you didn’t tell the truth about this,” he said. “But I want you to know that this will not be tolerated. So here’s what I want you to do.”

  They nodded.

  “I will confront Horse myself. I will make an impression on him. Your job is to report any violence that happens. Any violence, however small. You gotta do this because we’re already in deep waters here.” He looked at the gentle form of Crissy lying on the cot. “She might not survive,” he said. He intensified his glare and pointed one finger at them. “One of you could be the next one to be knocked unconscious fighting for your life. Get my meaning?”

  They nodded.

  “Now scat,” he said, “and do what I told you.”

  *****

  Three days and three nights he sat at her bedside watching her every move. She woke and slept and woke and slept. . . when she was awake it was only half awake, just rising for a brief moment over the edge of consciousness, vital enough to barely slip a little water and chicken broth down her gullet before she drifted away. He was moved by her vulnerability and the danger that posed. He shook his head. He looked up at the invisible sky. He drummed his fingers on the table. He stood, went to his saddlebags and strapped Claudette, his trusty Remington, at his side.

  Jake came looking for him, brought him food, watched Crissy for a couple of hours so Galen could catch a few winks, then returned to the ranch. He noticed the gun strapped to his side, nodded imperceptibly, and said nothing.

  There were times Galen wanted to talk to her, to learn more about her: where she grew up, what she liked best about early morning, what she was afraid of. There were times he wanted to hold her if only to reassure her someone was there.

  But he just sat, and watched, and waited.

  The third morning, five a.m., she sat bolt upright, eyes wide open, and asked for three scrambled eggs and two slices of buttered toast. Galen was only too pleased to go to the little kitchen in back and fill her order.

  He watched her eat. There was a certain way she would suddenly look up sharply, as if to see if he was still there, eyes like a mouse guarding her grub. Then she would smile lightly and dig back into breakfast.

  “I need to get back to work,” she said.

  Galen asked her about the events. She couldn’t remember. He asked if she was treated badly. She bowed her head and didn’t answer.

  He leaned over the bed and touched her shoulder. “I will protect you,” he said. Then he left the room to let her get dressed.

  He was sitting in his chair, feet on the desk, flipping a deck of cards one at a time into the wastebasket across the room when a pounding, vicious knock came at the door. Crissy was in back still getting dressed. She heard the knock and crouched on the floor against the wall.

  “It’s open,” Galen said.

  In walked Horse. There was a sinister looking man with him, black leather vest, red scarf tied around his neck, gun belt low along his hips, a flat, Texas Hickok hat, brim barely above his dark eyes.

  “I’m here to pick up my whore,” Horse said.

  Galen tossed another card into the wastebasket. “Nobody here by that name,” he said.

  “Wise guy,” he said. “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Galen scrutinized the both of them. Tossed another card.

  “She belongs to me,” Horse said.

  “Nobody belongs to anybody,” said Galen. “It’s a free country.”

  Horse strolled around to the side of the desk and leaned over Galen. Galen ignored him. Tossed another card. “You’re talking mighty tough with two of us in the room,” Horse said. His hand drifted over the gun at his side.

  Galen froze, a card stuck between his second and third fingers mid-air as if paralyzed by a sudden freeze. He flashed a hard stare at Horse. “I should warn you,” he said. “I’m just as fast sitting down as I am standing in the middle of the street. And if you drop your hand one quarter inch lower, I will not be responsible for what happens next.”

  Horse looked at his gunslinger, then back to Galen. “Maybe we should see about that,” he said, lifted his hand tauntingly, and made a dramatic drop toward his sidearm.

  The card went flying. The first shot took the low-lying gun off the thigh of the gunslinger and spiraled it out the door, the second one didn’t need firing, because the muzzle was already pointed at Horse’s balls.

  By the time all this happened, Horse’s hand had not even reached the butt of his gun.

  “Now do you still want to try to draw with me sighting down the surgical path of my barrel right at those tiny little oysters of yours?”

  Horse looked down to the place where his balls, intact, still hung. He rocked back and forth a little as if actually contemplating a draw but eventually thought better of it and just said, “Another time, Clay. But I want my girl b
ack.”

  “So let me tell you about that.” He put the gun on the desk alongside his still propped up legs. “She was badly beat up. No one I know is cow shit enough to strike a women, much less beat her up. Now, since she is theoretically under your protection, working at your place of business, I am going to hold you personally responsible for her safety. And if I hear of any harm coming to her, even the slightest scratch I will be at your doorstep with retribution in hand.”

  He paused to let all that drop its weight. He picked up Claudette and waved her around for emphasis.

  “And I should tell you that on occasions, like this one we’re in right now, I have, in the past, let this lightning quick gun of mine do all the talking.” He turned it sideways for a better view. “Do I make myself clear.”

  No answer.

  “I take that as a yes.”

  He holstered Claudette.

  “Oh. And Crissy will be there when I say she’ll be there. She had a concussion and Brain Fever and almost died.” He nailed Horse with his glare. For the first time he put his feet down and leaned over the desk. “Some worthless ass-hole roughed her up pretty bad. If I find out who that was, they’ll get the same treatment.”

  Galen turned a pointing finger on the weaponless gunslinger. That goes for this amateur you brought into town too.”

  “You don’t know what amount of trouble you’re in,” said Horse.

  “Oh, I do.” He patted his gun at his side. “I pretty much have lived in that kind of trouble every day, not a day short of seven years, and I guess I must be pretty good at it because you see me here, alive, well, and still pretty fast on the draw.”

  He made a clacking sound with his tongue and pointed one finger in the air.

  Horse and his gunman turned to go out the door.

  He spoke to their diminishing backsides. “Crissy will return when I say so and nobody better touch her unless she wants them to.”

  *****

  And after that, there was a little wave of silence spreading through the bright new morning.

  THREE

  The Rusty Bucket was in a sad state of affairs. While the front was the same as it always was, the back was gone, as if a thirty foot giant had come along and stomped it to the ground. Even though people had waited three days to let the heated embers cool down, some of the blackened wood was still smoking in the light morning breeze.

  A gathering of townfolk had begun that morning, spontaneous, as if called forth by a song sung by goats or children, some to gawk, some to bring little offerings of bread or berry pie. It’s what people do in this part of the world when tragedy occurs, a motion organic as sunrise, automatic as stretching out the kinks after a long nap.

  Horse stood at his window staring at the assemblage, unwilling to acknowledge its good nature or generous intent, hoping in his black heart that the curious were there to admire the awesome power of destruction that fire makes, or the strangely attractive remnants of smoke and stench that still hung in the rafters and the chairs. He hoped they got the important message: this is the price you pay for messing with Horse.

  Nor had he counted on this surge of spontaneous cooperation and benevolence that was forming before his eyes as the men began breaking up the debris with pickaxes and shovels, piling the charcoal to one side, and the women started scrubbing down the floors and windows.

  “Bunch of goddamned cows,” Horse muttered, and excavated a wet wad of half chewed cigar butt from between his yellowed teeth and flipped it out the window. He chuckled. “Come tomorrow, all it’ll take to lead them right back into my arms is a couple of free drinks and a comfortable place which is not in disrepair and doesn’t smell like shitty rags.”

  *****

  Jake had risen early, hitched the buckboard for a drive around the ranch to pick up lumber to haul into town. Galen, knowing that Crissy needed a couple of days to recover from her beating at the hands of Horse Diggins had refused to let her go back to the Angel Dust Saloon until the tempers cooled down and she was a lot stronger.

  Because he knew she would be vulnerable if left alone without protection at his little medical infirmary, he decided after she woke up that third day and Horse showed up and tried to take her away, he’d bring her home with him. She rode behind him on his horse, Major, her arms wrapped around his waist, her head pillowed on the back of his shoulder.

  He gave up his bed for her, choosing to sleep in a chair in the front room. He brought her food and water. He watched her fall asleep at night.

  “You’ve been kind,” she said the morning of the gathering of townfolk, “but I am what I am, I belong where I belong, and I have to go back now.”

  He brought her to town, turned her loose in front of the Angel Dust, watched her go through the front door then joined Jake and the crowd of neighbors working on repairing the Rusty Bucket.

  The Angel Dust was empty as a church on the Fourth of July. She’d expected to see the usual familiars there. The place greeted her with an ominous dusk-like feeling with its scattered light through curtained windows. Being away a few days made her see the place for the dungeon it was.

  She expected Horse to come down the stairs any second now and abuse her with a toxic explosion of spittle, insults, and static. She could hear him upstairs rummaging around his office but he didn’t come down. He didn’t speak to her. In fact, he ignored her.

  She went upstairs to the girl’s room and found Rosalie and Martha half-dressed, applying make up and combing their hair.

  They surrounded her with hugs and kisses.

  “You okay?” said Martha.

  “Fine.”

  Martha touched the side of Crissy’s face, now a spreading smudge the shade of a yellowish green apple, traces remaining where the bruised handprint used to be. “This looks awful,” she said.

  “Don’t hurt none.”

  Rosalie walked around her touching her here and there as if to see that all the parts were in the right place. “He knocked you out, you know,” she said, “plumb out.”

  “Can’t remember anything about that,” she said. “I tried but there’s nothing as far back as the middle of the day before.” She paused and looked as if she were searching for the next words. “I think he busted my memory.”

  Crissy sat down on the one soft chair. The girls on the edge of the bed.

  “Aren’t you afraid to come back here?” said Rosalie.

  “It’s my life,” she said.

  Rosalie pursed her lips and tilted her head. She nodded. “Galen Clay take care of you?”

  “He was a doll.”

  The girls giggled and raised their eyebrows. They reached out and touched her shoulders and her waist. She giggled and withdrew clasping her elbows together as if overcome by a chill.

  “Did you give him a free poke?” said Martha.

  “What?”

  “A poke. A poke. Did you let him have a poke?”

  Crissy smiled. A rosy blush joined the island of deep coloration on the side of her face. “I offered,” she said. “I’d gladly done it for him.”

  She paused

  “Well. . . ?“ said the girls together in one voice.

  “She laughed. “He said, much obliged, but he’d rather pay me sometime, under different circumstances.”

  The girls moaned.

  “Sweet,” said Rosalie.

  “So cute,” said Martha.

  “So, what you going to do about Horse?” said Rosalie.

  A trouble look crossed Crissy’s face. “Bad weather,” she said.

  “He kinda picks on you,” said Rosalie.

  “Always has,” said Crissy. “Don’t know why.”

  “Maybe his momma beat him up all the time,” Rosalie said. “Maybe you look like her.”

  The girls nodded.

  “Well, I kinda think maybe there’s hope,” said Crissy.

  “How so?” said Martha. “He’s been awful lately.”

  “Promise you won’t tell?”

  They cross
ed their hearts.

  “Horse was gone a couple of days while I was out. Turns out, he brought back a gunslinger, some old friend of his from days when he was up to no good back around Abilene. They showed up at the doctor’s office full of piss and vinegar, saying they were going to take me away. I was in the next room and I heard it all.”

  The girls leaned forward on their bed.

  “Apparently, things got pretty rough out there, and after a little bit I heard a shot. Found out later that Galen shot the gun right off the hip of that gunslinger clean out the door and into the yard. . . and then. . .” she giggled. “. . . then I guess he pointed his gun at Horse’s balls. . .”

  The girls laughed with glee, bouncing up and down on the bed, then covered their mouths.

  “Love to have seen that,” said Rosalie.

  “Well, what happened is that he told Horse if anybody laid a hand on me, he’d come back and deliver their due.”

  “People are always touching you,” said Rosalie.

  “Yeah. But the hook is—now listen to this—I have to want them to.” She teared up a little. “Never had anyone treat me so nice.”

  “Ah. Perfect,” said Martha. “Then you’re safe.”

  “Crissy wiped her eyes with two fingers. “Not so sure,” she said. “‘Cause I don’t know if Horse can control himself when he gets on a tear. Mean as he is, he might even relish a confrontation with Galen. And then, if he builds up a ring of protection around him like that gunslinger he brought. . .” She took a breath. “. . . we all just have to be real careful.”

  *****

  The kitchen at the Rusty Bucket smelled like a smokehouse but was intact and functional. The Bucket Girls set a table outside and Jackson Charles set about making food for the workers, who by noon had assembled a frame of a wall and the pitch of a roof out of the salvaged wood Jake brought and were erecting it at the spot where the back wall used to be.

  Everybody took a break for mashed potatoes, green peas, fried chicken and loads of iced tea.