Eidson - The Last Ride

For my parents
Genevieve and Richard

None of us will ever forget Erwin Street

Brake Baldwin spotted the horseman as he rode clear of the tamarisk trees. He pulled his spectacles down, watching over the newspaper to see that the stranger was actually coming in, then shoved them back and went on reading. It was late evening, storm clouds gathering in a lowering sky. A poor-will was calling from the hills behind the barn. The sound was off he didnt know why. The thick-trunked cottonwoods near the creek were blackening in the dusk, night closing over the small valley of the New Mexico ranch.

He returned to the newspapers headline: PRESIDENT DECLARES WILD WEST DEAD. Amazing. Just like that: it was over. Eighteen eighty-six and gone a finger snap. Santa Fe was getting ready, the paper said, to celebrate with a parade of modern inventions and a concert in the old Plaza. That should be worth the seeing, he thought.

The bay mare in the pasture whinnied at the strangers horse, but got no response, Baldwin glanced back up the rider was moving slowly in the dying light, the wind running hard ahead of the approaching rain. He kept his eyes on him longer this time, noticing something different, but the stormy twilight was too far gone to be good for seeing any distance.

Not liking the tenseness in his shoulders, Baldwin mumbled his grandmothers saying: You werent born in the woods to be scared by an owl. The man and the horse were coming through the orchard now, the trees singing in the building storm. The animals head was down and it looked ready to collapse. Behind him, he heard the barn open. Mannito had seen the rider, as well. The old Mexican was nearing seventy-five, but he had the delicate senses of one grown old dodging Mescaleros and Chiricahuas and their Apache brethren. Fortunately, those days were nothing but mean memories. Maybe the newspaper had it right; maybe the Wild West was dead.

He heard another door, and the sound of shutters closing, and knew Maggie was back caring for the woman and her children. She had been going round the clock with these three for days. She wasnt a regular doctor, but she had nursed over twenty years and was better at it than most, running a little infirmary of sorts. Mostly her patients were poor Mexicans like the woman and her kids.

The rider emerged slowly from the shadows and Baldwin focused on him, wanting to smile, but the battered Sharps rifle lying across the saddle kept him somber. Patterns had been tattooed into the stock of the old weapon with brass tacks, Indian style. He tucked the newspaper under his arm, dropping his hand slowly, the reflex surprising him since he hadnt worn a gun in years.

Malo, Mannito whispered. Bad. The little Mexican, hat in hand against the wind, was squinting through the darkening night at the stranger, then he turned and slipped away into the shadows, most likely gone to his shotgun, Baldwin figured.

The rancher stood straighter. The rider had stopped his horse a few yards away, and sat staring at him. Evening, Baldwin said.

The man nodded. Baldwins eyes moved slowly over him. He was old, maybe in his seventies, and big, close to six-six, deathly lean, but paunching some. Whether white or mixed breed, it was impossible to tell. At one time he must have been built like a range bull now he was all bones, ridges and valleys. His rough face was burned to umber and looked slapped together with pieces of wet clay that didnt fit just right; the heavy nose had been broken, maybe more than once, and he appeared tired or drunk, or both. His get-up was odd: frontier, Indian and Mexican. People had stopped dressing like this forty years ago. Baldwins eyes went back to the brutal features of the mans face.

A little black and white terrier, the size of a good bootjack, was perched on the horses rump, its fur up against the storm, looking like a circus dog Baldwin had once seen. Without warning, it took a flying leap off the horse, tumbled over the ground and then trotted nervously around the ranchers legs just out of kicking distance growling as though it weighed a hundred pounds instead of ten.

He bite? Baldwin hollered against the increasing roar of the tempest.

The old man nodded again, appearing to Baldwin for a moment like a demon riding in this dark wind. He was wearing a Pawnee medicine shirt made from an eerie blue-colored buckskin and covered with bright golden stars of silk that had been sewn on, and trimmed at the sleeves with a black fringe. A beauty. Gauntlet gloves covered his massive hands and a long black kerchief was clasped tight against his thin neck with a silver ornament; strangest of all, he was bare-legged, wearing a long Apache breechcloth. His body was painfully gaunt. Baldwin chewed on the inside of his lip for a second, wondering who the hell this old bastard was. He looked as though he belonged in a Wild West show; everything about him seemed old, as if he and his animals had ridden out of some ancient canyon lost to time.

Id rather he didnt bite me.

Chaco, the stranger said firmly, trapping a cough in his throat.

Lightning flashed in the hills behind them, illuminating the old giants harsh face for an instant, then thunder rolled slowly across the valley. The little dog had stopped growling when the stranger called his name, and he lifted his leg now where he stood and peed a yellow stream that Baldwin swore was directed at him; then he bolted forward, took one high bound, hit the mans stirrup, twisted, touched momentarily on his thigh, then with the man leaning out of the way slightly hopped nimbly back into place on the rump of the horse. It had happened so fast that Baldwin wasnt certain how he had done it.

Pretty slick.

The old man didnt respond.

Someone lit the lantern in the kitchen of the ranch house and the light from the window made the strangers holster and cartridge belt sparkle in the night, every inch decorated with rough silver hammered from Mexican coins. He looked seedy and old but hard, his eyes small and dark, and he was carrying enough hardware to dust half the Mexican army. Baldwin wondered if he was just show. The old man was staring at the kitchen window.

Join us for supper? Baldwin called against the wind.

The little gray, her eyes half-closed, jumped at the sound of his voice in the squall. She was old and bony like the man who rode her an Indian Chickasaw pony, with lots of Spanish and not a little wild blood in her veins. She was being followed by a young, claybank-colored mule that nibbled playfully at the old mans stirrup. Alice, he said, waving the jenny away. Reluctantly, she obeyed. Neat trick, getting a mule to do anything, Baldwin thought.

Baldwin place? The old mans words were slurred, but made sense, the voice deep and shaded Indian.

The rancher just watched him, pulling his hat down hard on his head.

Man on the road told me, the old giant offered, stifling another hard cough that made him wince behind his eyes, and taking a pull on a whiskey bottle.

Your name? Baldwin called.

Samuel Jones.

Baldwin studied him a moment longer, then said, Brake Baldwin. Those animals could use a feed.

Baldwin turned and started walking towards the barn, knowing Mannito had him covered from inside, and figuring the stranger probably knew it too. He didnt look like any pilgrim. Not remotely. Baldwin stopped and glanced back at him. He was still staring at the kitchen window, as if hypnotized by the light, his hair and clothes whipping wildly in the gusts.