Tramp
by Ian SchwartzJackson rode up to Espiritu Wells as night fell, eyes rimmed red by sun and sand and body bone weary from the lengthy desert crossing. He rubbed down Rio and was squatting over a meager dinner of cold beans and hardtack when the four men rode up to the wells.
The first rider ignored him, but each of the others in turn made a point of leveling him with a hard glare. The last rider, young and obviously convinced of his own invincibility, laughed and spit on the ground inches near Jackson.
Before he could stop himself, Jackson looked up, which was what the rider was hoping for.
"Got a problem, bum?" the rider asked.
Jackson just continued looking at the rider, who reined his horse around to face him. "Well, something here you don’t like, old man?"
Jackson cursed himself for looking up. The promise of a bed and a job awaited in Santa Fe, and he did not wish to die here, buried shallow at this lonely outpost without even a marker for his grave. Before the man could push further, the first rider in the group called without looking back. "Dammit, Taren, get the hell over here."
The young man, a boy, really, stayed where he was, insolent grin fixed on his face. "Just having some fun, Mase," he said.
"Now," answered the older man curtly, and Taren turned without another word and followed.
Jackson had lived long enough and been enough places to recognize trouble when he saw it, but there was nothing to do. Rio was played out and he himself was so tired he was nearly staggering. Besides, except for nods and terse howdies, they ignored him and settled in quietly 50 or so yards away at the western end of the water hole. It was only a trick of the capricious desert wind that briefly allowed him to hear their muttering.
"He seen us, I don’t like it."
"Leave it be, he’s just some old saddle tramp. He’s harmless."
"I still don’t like it."
"You don’t have to like it." The man’s voice was harsh with command. "I said leave him alone."
Jackson bristled at being called a tramp, but words had never hurt him. Besides, he admitted to himself, the description wasn’t inaccurate.
Despite the leader’s apparent control over the group, Jackson was still wary. He made a noisy show of turning in then moved about a dozen yards from where the men had seen him, settling in between the shelter of two boulders. From there, he could keep both Rio and the men in sight.
He took off his gun belt and loosened his Smith and Wesson in its holster, leaving it an inch or two from his left hand as he settled in under the stars with his saddle as a pillow. Not a comfortable bed, but a fitful sleep beat a permanent one.
The unmistakable claatter of an approaching wagon roused Jackson just after daybreak. "Strange," he mused aloud. Wagons didn’t come here on purpose. He watched it approach from the east, which was doubly surprising. There was nothing to the west except sand and trouble. Tenderfoot miners, he reckoned.
By the time the lone wagon rolled into his campsite and creaked to a halt, Jackson was already sipping his parboiled coffee and looking up at the couple facing him from the wagon seat. A man was driving, and Jackson was shocked to see a woman next to him.
Automatically, Jackson scanned for weapons. The man wasn’t carrying a belt gun, nor was a rifle or shotgun in plain sight.
Jackson shook his head. These people must be shot with luck to have made it this far. He heard the riders from the night before stirring on the other side of the Wells, and had a feeling that the couple’s luck was about to run dry.
Then the drive called out in a friendly, educated voice, "Hello. I am Ethan Blakely and this is my wife Hannah. Mind if we share the camp with you? We’ll keep to ourselves." The man looked to be in his middle thirties, a few years younger than Jackson. He had a frank, open face that bore traces of exhaustion and worry.
Jackson waved his hand in a wide arc, as if to say feel free. "It’s all yours, I was just about to be on my way."
The man nodded and shrugged, but the woman spoke up. She was looking at his stained and dented coffee pot.
"Sir, if you’d like to share breakfast with us, we’ve plenty of food. And since our two girls and my sister are the only company Ethan’s had for the last week, I’m sure he’s starved for a man to talk with." Jackson looked at her. The woman was passing pretty, and also tired. He didn’t bother to guess her age. He never was good with such things when it came to females.
Jackson wondered at the man. Taking four women into the desert on a lone wagon? He felt like shooting the fool on general principles. Not your business, he told himself.
"No thanks, Ma’am. I always feel better when I get an early start. Besides, old Rio is always happier carrying me on an empty stomach."
"Well, good luck to you then, stranger," the man replied. "We’re headed the other way ourselves, we’re going to California."
The hopeful way he said California told Jackson all he needed to know about just how much the man had riding on the move.
Jackson knew it was pointless, but he had to speak up. His reluctance made him sound harsher than intended.
"Not this far south, you’re not," he said brusquely. "All you’re going to do is get your women and yourself killed in the desert."
Blakely blinked in surprise. "Now - "
A voice from behind Jackson interrupted. "We’ll be glad to take you up on that there food offer, mister. Me'n the boys made dry camp last night and we’re hungry enough to eat each other."
Jackson turned, recognizing Taren's voice. Daylight revealed the young man to be skinny and unshaven, with a yellowed smile visible under his disreputable hat. He wore two tied down guns low on his slim hips.
The stranger continued, "Pay no attention to that old saddle tramp, he’s just trying to scare you is all. You can make that crossing easy as pie. In fact," he said, looking directly at the woman on the buckboard, "me and my brothers are headed the same way and would be honored to serve as escorts."
The wagon driver shifted uneasily. "That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ll be fine on our own. We, uh, have a map drawn up for us by a man who knows the area well. You and your brothers are welcome to breakfast, though." He nodded at Jackson, who had slipped away and was readying Rio for travel. "As are you still, sir."
"He’ll be movin’ on, jest like he said," said the other man with a hard look in Jackson’s direction. "And we won’t take no for an answer as far as guidin’ you. You can’t trust to maps sometimes.
"Boys," he yelled. "Fall out to breakfast.
"My name’s Taren Dell," he continued, "and the ill-mannered rabble you see making their way over are my kin. The twins there are Cable and Cord, and the big scowling galoot with the rifle there is Mason. He’s the oldest, kind of rides herd on us all."
Taren nodded at his older brother. "Mason, I was just telling these folks that we’d be happy to escort them to Californy."
Jackson had heard of Mason Dell, but had never seen the powerfully built, suspicious-eyed man stalking toward the wagon with a conqueror’s swagger. The man made a show of seeing little, but Jackson noted that though his head didn’t turn to either side, his eyes missed nothing. He saw Mason eyeball and then dismiss him before checking out the wagon and its wheel tracks, gauging its heavy load by the track’s depth.
"Then I reckon that’s what we’ll do," Mason said in a deceptively mild voice.
Jackson turned and cinched the saddle straps tighter around the big gelding’s belly while doing his best to ignore the hand playing out behind him. He looked out at the desert, where the shadows played upon the bleak landscape. Its pitiless heat was only a nascent threat as the sun crept above the featureless horizon.
Jackson cursed softly.
A commotion at the wagon drew his attention. A pair of eager girls scrambled down from the covered rear. Thin and comely, they were at the age when they were just starting to look like the women they would become, but were not yet ready to leave behind the girls they were.
Just as agilely, a woman followed the two girls down from the bed of the covered wagon. Jackson saw a blur of coal black hair and pale skin as she leaped to the ground and landed easily upright.
She lifted her head and her eyes met Jackson’s like a blow, pushing the air temporarily from him. She blushed, either at the frankness of his gaze or at being caught jumping down from the wagon like a young boy. She held his gaze, though, Jackson noticed. Her intelligent blue eyes were steady on his black ones. He noticed the wrinkles at their corners. No youngster, but a beauty all the same. Her chin lifted as if she knew what he was thinking.
Jackson turned away. Spunk, it was there all right, for all the good it would do her, or any of them when the Dells got them into the open desert. Not your damned business, he told himself vehemently.
He pulled harder on the saddle strap and Rio danced a bit in protest. "Sorry, boy," he muttered.
One of the Dells issued a low whistle at the sight of the woman.
"Take a look at that there," Cable said low, nudging Cord.
"Them younguns ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at neither," replied Cord, who didn’t appear to be out of his teens.
Blakely paled as he watched the women emerge from the wagon, as if realizing the seriousness of the situation for the first time. He watched Taren walk behind the wagon and poke his head in.
"Mase, you gotta see all this stuff. These people must be fixin’ to start a store or something."
"Hey, now," protested Blakely. "You’ve no call to be back there. Let’s all set down to some breakfast, then we’ll go our separate ways. I’m much obliged for your offer, but we’re determined to go ahead on our own."
Facing Taren, Blakely didn’t know Mason was right behind him until he heard his voice, which was cool as ice. "And we are just as determined to help you on your way. I do not think, mister, that you want to see who is more determined."
Blakely opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word Mason’s hand shot out and grabbed his shirt collar. Effortlessly, he yanked the man clear from the wagon seat and threw him onto the ground. The rest of the Dells broke out laughing.
"It’s on now!" screamed Taren, who began striding toward the woman with black hair, who from the folds of her skirt produced a massive Walker Colt pistol. Taren faltered, then laughed and continued boldly on as he watched her struggle in vain to cock the hammer. The spring was obviously too powerful for her.
"Give that here, little honey, I’ll give you a gun that’s a little easier to handle," Taren said. Jackson cocked his shotgun’s twin hammers. The sound was as loud as a thunderclap.
"I think that’s enough," Jackson said quietly. Standing on the far side of Rio with the weapon laid over the saddle on the horse’s back, he pointed the gaping twin barrels directly at Mason Dell’s heart.
Mason looked at Jackson. His hands never moved an inch from his sides and his brutal features were belied by that mild voice.
"Tramp, I appreciate what you’re trying here, I really do. I admire gumption. But stupidity, that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Just about now, you might be realizing the fix you’re in, so what I’m going to do is give you a way out. If you were to just get up on that horse of yours and ride away, right now without a word, I promise you that there will be no trouble from us. How about it?"
The barrel of the gun didn’t waver from Dell’s chest.
"Sorry," Jackson replied.
"Just give the word, Mase," snarled Taren, who had both Blakely and his older brother between him and Jackson.
"Taren, you idiot, you move a muscle and I’ll beat you to death with my bare hands, so help me," Mason replied.
Mason continued. "OK, tramp, maybe I’ve misread you. Could be that you want one of them women for your own self. Well, that I understand. Share and share alike, how about it?"
Facing a gun that could literally rip him in half at this distance, Mason didn’t even appear to be sweating. As repellant as the man was, Jackson was forced to admire his courage. "Sorry," Jackson repeated.
The strain started to play upon Mason’s nerves. "Then what the hell do you want!" he flared.
Good question, Jackson thought to himself. He wanted to be miles away from here on his way to New Mexico.
"Blakely," Jackson said, "go get their horses. Make sure you don’t get between me and them or we’re both dead. Mrs. Blakely, just sit tight. Everyone else back in the wagon."
The girls moved quickly to comply as Blakely hurried toward the Dells’ camp, giving Jackson and the shotgun a wide berth. Ariana, however, didn’t move. Apparently unwilling to turn her back on Taren, she continued trying to cock the gun by placing its handle against her stomach and using both thumbs to pull the hammer back.
"Mase," Cord yelled with fear in his voice. "If you let him take the horses, we can’t get out of here."
"He’s right, tramp, you might as well shoot us," Mason said. "It’s quicker than stranding us here to die."
Jackson ignored him. "I’m leaving you each a full canteen. I’ll leave your horses a day’s walk north, by the stand of Joshua trees on the old Fuller Trail. You know it?"
"I know it," Mason said.
"That’s 30 miles!" yelled Taren. "I’m damned if I’ll do it."
"You’re dead if you don’t," Jackson said. "Besides, it’s a safe bet you’re already damned. Now slowly, very, very slowly, drop your gun belts on the ground and kick them away."
They all complied. None of the gun savvy men wanted to buck a shotgun at 20 feet. Jackson had little doubt that they would have made a play if he were holding a pistol, but there was just something downright persuasive about buckshot. It dampened a man’s spirits.
Blakely tethered the four horses to the wagon, as Jackson instructed. Tucking the shotgun in the hollow below hiis right shoulder while keeping his finger near the trigger, Jackson emerged from behind his horse and began gathering up their weapons.
He had picked up three of the gun belts and was Moving toward where Taren simmered near the wagon when Mason spoke.
"Tramp, you know this isn’t the end, do you not? You’re no better than a dead man."
Jackson half-turned his head at the quiet chill in Mason’s voice and immediately recognized his mistake. He swung back in time to see Taren’s tiny palm gun coming level with his head, a feral amber smile creasing the man’s face.
Jackson raised the shotgun, knowing it was too late and he was already dead, when Taren’s smile changed to a look of shock as the slug from Ariana’s big Walker Colt tore a chunk from his chest before poleaxing him face down in the sand.
Jackson heard a rush of noise behind him and spun in time to meet Mason’s headlong charge with the butt of the shotgun. The blow caught the big man coming in low and fast, landing flush on his florid nose, which cracked loudly. He hit the sand face first and didn’t move.
Jackson turned his attention to the twins, but they stood with their mouths stupidly agape, looking behind him. Turning, he saw Taren lying dead in the dirt and Ariana sprawled on her backside by the big gun’s recoil. Her face was ashen, but the pistol, a thread of smoke still curling from the barrel, did not quaver in her two hands.
Jackson looked back to the twins. "Blakely, take the shotgun. If either one of them moves, give them both barrels."
Though the man’s eyes were stunned, he moved to comply. Taking the gun, he pulled it firmly to his shoulder.
Jackson walked over to where Ariana still sat on the ground. Gently, he took the pistol from her and helped her up.
"He, he was going to shoot you," she said.
Her hand felt rough from work. "Yes, Ma’am, sure was. I thought his ugly face was the last thing I’d ever see. Happy to be wrong, though."
He slid the gun in his belt and gestured toward the shocked twins and Mason, who hadn’t stirred. "You’ll forgive me if I don’t help you into the wagon?"
She nodded, and made her toward the back of the wagon, where the faces of the girls peered wide-eyed at her. He watched her climb up and in, then picked up the gun belts and looped them around Rio’s saddle horn. He mounted and walked the horse to the twins.
"Turn him over if you don’t want him to suffocate in the dirt. When he wakes up, tell him the plan has changed. I’m leaving one horse at the spot. You boys can take turns riding; it’ll give you time to contemplate the error of your ways, not to mention allow me to sleep at night. Also, I’d keep a low profile out there if I were you. I’m taking all the guns.
"Blakely, point that wagon north and get it moving. I’ll follow along behind. I want to keep an eye on these two."
"North," Blakely protested. "But – "
"There’s nothing west for nearly 800 miles but sand dunes, Apaches and the bleached bones of other idiot tenderfeet. Let’s go."
Blakely opened his mouth to protest, but his wife gripped his arm and whispered fiercely to him. Without another word, he pointed the horses north and set off at a brisk pace.
Jackson gave the wagon a minute head start and looked at the twins, who stared mutely at their fallen brothers.
"I’ll be looking back from time to time. If I see either of you I’ll kill you, armed or not."
It took three weeks for the wagon to make the trip to Flagstaff. Guided by Jackson, they took it slow, resting the teams often and making camp at the best water even if there was still daylight to travel by.
Come night, Jackson walked into the desert. He was soothed by its stillness. The first few evenings, Blakely had joined him, the two men smoking in near silence that was surprisingly companionable. Then one night after dinner was finished and the stars had risen, Mrs. Blakely called sharply to her husband, and Jackson went out alone.
He stood by himself beneath the stars in the middle of the vast sand and felt the day’s heat fade. Soft footfalls behind him made him turn. It was Ariana.
"It’s beautiful at night out here, isn’t it? I don’t understand how something so forbidding can beckon so strongly to me at the same time," she said.
Jackson felt tongue tied. "Yes, Ma’am, sure is."
She came up beside him and they stood shoulder to shoulder in the vastness. To Jackson, this silence was anything but comfortable. He searched futilely for something to say until miserably, he muttered, "Best we go back and turn in. It’s getting on."
Lying under his blanket, Jackson called himself every cowardly thing he could think of until he drifted off to sleep.
But the next night she joined him again, and a routine was established that would continue throughout the journey. They talked little the first couple of nights, mostly just comments on the weather or the day’s events, but she gradually drew Jackson out.
He told her about his life, a lonely column of wasted years spent as a soldier, $40 a month cowpuncher and drifter. He talked frankly, without bitterness, of the stupidity of his younger years; working long enough to earn a payday, then blowing it all in one night before starting all over again the next day.
"I’m 42 years old and I have nothing that I can’t carry on the back of a horse," he said. "What I can’t for the life of me figure out is just when did I go from being proud of that fact to being ashamed of it."
A jackrabbit scampered across their path, churning paws making a sibilant hiss in the soft sand. The clean smell of the night surrounded them.
She looked wistful. "I wish either I was born into a different time, when being a woman didn’t mean staying home or teaching in a school, or was a man. I resent the world that was made for me before I even took a breath in it.
"You know why we came west?" she asked. "Because I pushed for it. I got tired of being the only divorced woman in that small-minded town. I married late, but it turned out all I did was wait for the wrong man. It was bad, Jackson, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Now I’m 37, and all I have are two wonderful nieces and some money my mother left me. Spinster money, she called it. But time just slips away. I’m afraid I’m going to wake up one morning old and beholden to whatever relative took me in."
She went silent, and Jackson searched for something to lift the veil of sadness from her features.
He said, "I want to thank you for saving my life back there. He was going to kill "
"Don’t be an idiot," she interrupted gently. "You saved us all and you know it." She studied the sky. "It should be a lot harder to kill another human being, shouldn’t it? Just pull a trigger, and a life is over."
She studied his face and continued, "You would never have mentioned what you did back there, would you? Modest as well as brave," she teased gently.
Jackson laughed. "I don’t believe that men are brave or cowardly, it’s just a matter of what you could live with afterward. I’ve gone both ways, I’ve run and I’ve made my stand," he told her truthfully. "They both have their pain and can both eat you up inside."
The night before reaching the town of Flagstaff, they left the campfire and walked through the sand. Heat lightning flashed in the north. The gnarled cactus plants gave off grotesque and lonely shadows.
"What will you do when we reach town?" Ariana asked.
"I’m heading to New Mexico. An old friend of mine finally got tired of sweating for other men and started his own ranch. He needs a foreman, and possibly a partner. It’s a good opportunity." He was silent a moment, watching a star fall. "Maybe my last."
The night got very quiet after that, and they soon turned in.
About noon the next day, the wagon topped a rise and the dusty town of Flagstaff lay visible, no more than a mile away. While the wagon, at Mrs. Blakely’s insistence, stopped so the family could clean what trail dust they could from their clothes, Jackson rode out ahead. He was joined by Ariana, who was handling one of the Dells’ horses like she was born to the saddle.
"Don’t get too used to that horse. I’m leaving their mounts in town with the marshal," Jackson commented. "Don’t want the Dells accusing me of horse stealing, although they don’t seem the type."
"Too bad," Ariana said. "I’ve grown attached to him." She stroked the horse’s mane, watching Jackson’s profile as he checked out the trail ahead. His face was obscured by stubble the color of iron filings, but the jaw beneath was strong. Deep squint lines creased the skin near his eyes, and his hair was almost entirely gray. In less than a month, she felt like she new that face as well as her own. She took a deep breath.
"Jackson, if you had the money, would you want your own ranch?" she asked.
"I have one already," he told her with a smile.
Surprised, and strangely crestfallen, she blurted, "You do?"
"Yep." He pointed to his head. "It’s in here, from the amount of cattle I’d have to what I’d feed them to the color of my barn." He laughed. "Sometimes, it seems so real that I’m tempted to go rob a bank for the money. Other times, the idea is so perfect, it makes me think the actual having it would be a disappointment."
"If I wanted to start a ranch in California, would you help me?" she asked. "Maybe together we can build something that matters."
Shading his eyes against the sun, Jackson squinted at a lone rider up ahead, about halfway between them and the town.
"Takes money," he said mildly.
"I’ve got the money. I just need the know-how. You have it."
Jackson watched the rider ease closer and felt dread start small in his stomach and spread like a cancer.
"I already gave my word that I’d meet my friend in Santa Fe," he said, still looking straight ahead.
"Don’t you know what I’m asking?" she said. "Jackson, look at me. What are you scared of?"
"Him," Jackson said with a tight nod to the lone figure waiting on the trail ahead of them. "Go back to the wagon, Ariana."
Ariana looked. Her face turned white, and without a word she took off at a gallop.
Jackson halted his horse until she was well away, then continued forward. He reined Rio to a halt about 20 yards from the rider, who also stopped his horse. They looked impassively at each other across the expanse of red dirt prairie.
"Been waiting for you nigh on three days now, Tramp," said Mason Dell. "I was beginning to think you’d killed them all yourself and took off."
Jackson peered around.
"If you’re looking for the twins, don’t bother. Apaches lifted their hair some days back. Not easy to defend yourself without so much as one gun."
Jackson took in the undersized Indian pony Dell rode and the pistol stuck in his waistband.
"Looks like you made out all right," he said.
"Oh, don’t worry about me. I always make do somehow."
With his left hand, Dell raised the brim of his hat to allow Jackson to see more of his face. His nose had been smashed nearly flat by the shotgun butt.
"I was never a pretty man, but this is likely to set me back some with the womenfolk. I’m hoping it will hurt a lot less after I kill you, though."
"You can ride away," Jackson said mildly.
"Could I?" asked Dell with a laugh. "Since far back as I can remember, I had to fight. To live, to eat, to have a place to sleep at night. I was raised like a wolf, Tramp. It’s all I know. They’ll carry me away before I walk away. I got no choice, never did, and that’s how I want it."
Jackson licked his dry lips. He tried to swallow and couldn’t.
"You’re the one who had the chance to walk away, back at the Wells," Dell continued. "What the hell were those sheep to you, anyway?"
Jackson shrugged. "Just humans who didn’t deserve to die like animals, I guess."
Dell shook his head. "Funny, since that’s how you’re going to die right now."
With speed Jackson couldn’t hope to match, Dell’s hand flashed toward his pistol and came up spouting flame.
But Jackson was no longer there. Anticipating Dell’s action, he’d spurred Rio toward the man and pitched himself from the horse’s back, grabbing his rifle from the scabbard as he fell. The shots passed through the air where Jackson had been a split second earlier.
Jackson levered the rifle while falling and rolled to his left the instant he hit the ground. Two more shots sounded, one of them catching the heel of his boot and tearing it clean off.
Spinning onto his stomach, Jackson loosed a wild shot in Dell’s direction that had no chance. Dell was swinging off the far side of the pony now, planning on using it for cover the same way Jackson had in the desert. Jackson swore as he leveled the rifle and shot the pony in the head.
The horse went down instantly, its half-ton of dead weight bumping Dell enough to send the killer staggering back. With a wild cry, Jackson came to his feet and charged, dropping the unwieldy rifle and shucking his pistol in one smooth motion as Dell regained his footing with inhuman speed and agility.
Both guns came level and blossomed flame, Jackson’s a lifesaving hair quicker. He heard Dell grunt as the bullet took him somewhere low, the impact causing his gun barrel to dip. He swung it back up with a desperate heave, but by that time Jackson had planted himself and from less than 10 feet away, fanned his gun so the sound was a continuous roll of thunder. Dell crumpled, the pistol dropping from his useless fingers.
Dell’s labored wheezing was clearly audible in the unnatural silence following the shots. Exhausted and shaky from adrenaline, Jackson cautiously approached the dying man, who squinted up with an odd look of peace despite the bloody mess that was his chest.
"Who in the hell are you?" he gasped out.
Jackson shrugged. "Just a tramp, like you called it. No more," he answered honestly.
Jackson looked up to see Ariana racing toward them on horseback, gripping the animal with her thighs while she struggled to cock the massive Walker Colt. Hair streaming, she reminded him of a painting he’d once seen of a Valkyrie.
"Just a tramp," he repeated, "but I think I got possibilities."
He looked back down, but Dell was already dead.
Jackson turned and walked to meet Ariana, who had slowed the horse once she saw he was all right.
He spoke before she could get a word out. "You know," he said conversationally, taking the weapon from her, "I need to find you a smaller gun. Can’t have my lady partner having a bigger pistol than me. I’d be a laughingstock."
She smiled and they laughed together, grinning like a pair of young fools as the wagon rolled nearer.
The author, Ian Schwartz, ekes out a meager existence in New York City while tirelessly chasing his potential. He has worked as a reporter for ESPN and The Miami Herald, and his work has also appeared in BookPage, PulpLit and Flak Magazine. His first novel is progressing...slowly. He can be reached at iansschwartz@yahoo.com.
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