The Last Ride. Thomas Eidson
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wearing a cabriolet bonnet to keep her hair from frizzing in the moisture, but suddenly her hair wasn’t important; she felt blinded by the cloth and yanked it off, sitting straighter and holding it in her trembling hand, not sure what was bothering her. She looked down at it, forcing her mind to other thoughts. The hat was a perfect example of what was wrong with this whole wilderness. Her father, and every other man in the territory, called this style a coal scuttle bonnet. No matter how many times she corrected him, it was still a coal scuttle bonnet.
Lily stopped and listened. The first hint of a sound had come to her. Something large. Perhaps a horse. She waited to hear it again, her pulse quickening. Nothing. Just the wind. It had a way of coming off the sandstone cliffs, shrill and crying, hurt and womanish sounding. She hated it. She went back to her magazine. Then moments later, it was there again: faint footsteps in the night. She sensed them as much as heard them. ‘Hello? … Mannito?’ she called. There was no answer.
She started to call out louder, then caught herself. The old man could be trying to scare her. He knew she didn’t like him, that she thought he was a fraud. She felt somewhat better, certain it was him.
She turned her head slowly to catch any sound. Nothing. Only the phantom perception of someone moving in the darkness. Lily fought the panic inside her. There was no lock on the door, just a simple wooden latch that could be yanked off with a hard pull, leaving her trapped. She got herself ready.
The night seemed tense with a strange silence. ‘Father! Mannito!’ She listened, knowing she was too far from the thick-walled house and barn to be heard, but hoping her screams would frighten the old man away. She stared at the door, sensing that it was about to be jerked open.
Lily darted out into the wall of dense fog, staying low, instinctively, and driving forward. Something moved in front of her; something dark in the night that grabbed for her and missed.
She ran twisting and dodging in sheer terror, unaware of where she was running, just doing it, afraid to scream. Then she fell tumbling into deep sand, realizing that in her panic she’d run away from the house toward the north slope. She crouched, her heart beating a ragged rhythm inside her chest, listening for sound in the darkness that surrounded her.
She waited a long time before she heard them again. Footsteps. He was looking for her. She got down in a tight ball, making herself as small as possible. The soft sound stopped.
Lily fainted when the hand touched her. She did not wake until she was being carried in someone’s arms, screaming her way out of a dazed, half-conscious nightmare.
‘Granddaughter,’ Jones said. ‘Hush.’
Baldwin studied the old man. They were standing in the barn and Lily had just finished accusing Jones of stalking her in the darkness. The night wind was blowing hard beyond the walls. Maggie had her arms around her daughters, holding them close and glaring at her father.
Jones had stripped to his breechcloth and deerskin boots and was rubbing red paint onto his face. He was paying no attention to any of them. The little Mexican watched him closely.
Outside, the wind was working itself into a hard blow, the fog gone. Maggie and her girls stood near the door, in the circle of faint lantern light, as if it gave them some sense of security. The Mexican stepped close to Baldwin.
‘What, Mannito?’
The little man turned and looked at the old giant, his face and body covered now by eerie red and black designs. ‘He did nothing, señor. He saved her, perhaps. Nothing more.’
‘From what?’
Mannito continued watching the old man as he prepared for battle with this thing of the night. ‘I don’t know. I just know this viejo, that’s all.’
Baldwin studied the little Mexican’s face for a moment, then nodded. Jones was carrying his bow and arrows and moving for the door now. Lily stumbled away from him, as though she expected him to try and slit her throat. Maggie stood her ground.
‘Brake,’ she called across the shadows, her eyes still on her father’s hideous red face, ‘he tried to frighten Lily.’
‘Ma, don’t say that,’ Dot pleaded.
Jones stopped in front of them. ‘Granddaughter. You’ll find your cat in five days.’
‘Poppycock,’ Maggie snapped.
He slipped silently into the darkness and the stinging sand.
Samuel Jones did not catch the night beast. Nor did they find tracks the following morning, the sandstorm having obliterated any trace. Any trace except for a blurred footprint that looked odd to Jones. Lily’s candle and magazine were still in the small shack. Her bonnet was gone. Baldwin thought it had been blown away by the wind. Jones did not. Neither did he figure that the dead sparrow he found lying behind the shack was there naturally.
With the pink smudge of dawn two days later, the gray pony was missing and Jones was stumbling wildly through the barn. The truce was broken. He charged Mannito in the corral, slamming the little man against the wall, pulling his knife and shoving it against the Mexican’s throat.
‘What did you do with her?’ the old man wheezed.
‘Que?’
‘Don’t give me Mexican! My horse – caballo – where is she?’
‘No se. I don’t know.’
‘You better say unless you want to lose a handful of brains.’
‘You loco? I don’t see your horse. She probably died. She’s old.’
‘She better not have!’
Jones threw the little man to the ground and stormed around the corner of the barn, whistling for the old horse. Baldwin and Lily had ridden out early to check the cows in the high valley, while James and Dot had gone for mail at the railhead. Alice, the mule, was braying in the distance. Jones headed in her direction.
The gray was on her side in the pasture, tongue out, bloating badly, breathing fast and shallow. Sometime during the night, she had broken into the field of dew-covered plants, and made a feast of it. Alice was running frantic circles around her, still braying.
The old man moaned from deep inside as he dropped to his knees beside her. Her belly was swollen twice normal size, rising above her backbone on the left flank. He knew she was dying and nothing he could do would save her. He had seen other horses die from the lush green forage of the whites.
The People thought it was the magic of white witches that killed their horses. He knew better. The killer was gas that blew the guts open. It was an ugly death. He didn’t want the gray to go through the agony.
He pulled the little pistol from its hiding place and sat next to her, stroking her head, and thinking back over the years they had been together. They had ridden through the worst of his life. She had never let him down. He admired her toughness and loyalty. His throat was tightening and he knew it was more than admiration he felt. The little mare was in terrible pain, panting hard, sweat covering her body.
The Mexican squatted near her middle and placed his hands on the enormous belly and felt around, drumming with his fingertips on the tight skin. Chaco approached the old horse slowly, sniffing her and whining, then he sat beside the Mexican, shivering. Mannito continued feeling the horse’s stomach. Jones watched him. The little man pressed with his hand at a spot between the stifle and the ribs and the gray squealed and tossed her head. Alice darted in and nipped at him. The old Mexican waved her off.
‘Leave the horse be!’ Jones snarled.
Mannito ignored him, continuing to explore the belly; then he stood and trotted off toward the barn. Chaco followed. When he returned, he was carrying a small wooden box. He squatted and rummaged inside it, pulling out strange-looking metal instruments and setting them to the side, until he finally found what he wanted. It looked like a foot-long hat pin. Jones didn’t like the determined look on the old Mexican’s face. He cocked the derringer.