The Last Ride. Thomas Eidson
hand. He towered over the little horse.
‘No trouble. But I don’t want him touching my animals. I don’t trust Mexicans.’
Baldwin could see his jaw muscles knotting as he worked.
‘Mucho mierda,’ Mannito said, turning on his heel and walking off.
‘What does that mean?’ Jones asked, in a voice that still had the ability to make a person nervous.
‘Forget it,’ Baldwin said.
Baldwin watched her in the yellow light of the Rochester lanterns, remembering the newspaper story about the things of the future, the trimmings and fixings of civilization, and wishing Maggie had them now. She had returned from the infirmary and was at the kitchen stove. From behind, her slim frame showed fetchingly through the cotton dress. Her thick brown hair, shining in the lantern light, was swept to the side and caught in a simple ponytail. A lot of men bragged how beautiful their wives were. Baldwin never had. Maggie possessed such an abundance of God-given attributes that bragging seemed just to carry the point to excess. She was the kind of woman who looked her best in bright sun.
Their two eldest children were looking at him. He finished strapping on his pistol, then held a finger playfully to his lips. The home was soft shadows, mixes of browns and reds, and smelled of burning wood and baking. Maggie and he had hand-hewn it themselves. There was style and comfort to its heavy lines.
Downstairs was one room, big and open two stories – giving the feeling of soaring space. Constructed of unpeeled logs, the heavy walls were calked with white adobe and decorated with deer heads and Indian blankets. Harp-lanterns hung on heavy chains from the ceiling, their glow creating pleasant yellow pools throughout.
Lily, their seventeen-year-old, had returned a few days earlier from the Salutaire Boarding School for girls in Denver and was reading in front of the massive stone fireplace, where a pleasant fire burned. He had noticed changes in her. For one, she was fully a woman now. He had seen a package among her things marked the ‘Peerless Bust Developer’; and she dressed fancier, and called him ‘father’ instead of dad. And, like all near-grown youngsters, she thought she knew more than she did. But then she had always felt that somehow she’d had a hand in the Creation. He watched her a moment longer. Her mother’s great beauty had passed on to her in full measure, and that was fortunate because, unlike Maggie, appearances were important to Lily.
James sat at the kitchen table fidgeting with a model train. He had just come in from riding fence and was still wearing his hat and chaps, his rope coiled on the floor. He was wide shouldered for fifteen. Baldwin winked at him and tiptoed up behind Maggie, slipping his arms around her waist, his shirt damp from the rain.
She tensed, then smiled. ‘I knew you were there. Go wash up – supper’s ready.’
‘Geronimo’s older brother is joining us.’
‘Who?’
‘A crazy pretend-Indian. Meanest-looking face I’ve ever seen. And a strange caravan of animals.’
She turned back in his arms and smiled up at him. ‘Not teasing?’ After all the summers and winters, her skin was only beginning to show soft lines at the edges of her mouth and under her eyes. Still a great beauty.
‘No. Brutal looking. White. Dressed half-buck. Boasts he once rode with the Chihenne. Looks sick and drinks too much – I suspect he’s come for doctoring.’
Lily had joined them and stood scrunching up her handsome face, her skin soft and white. It took a tremendous effort to keep it covered from the sun in this country. ‘White man riding with Apaches – another old liar.’
‘Lily, it’s Sunday,’ her mother chided, then smiling again, she looked up at her husband. ‘It’ll be fun to have the company.’
As fast as it had come, the rain had gone. Jones was sitting on a bale of hay, a frown on his haggard face, and staring at the muzzle of Dorothy Baldwin’s shotgun, when Baldwin returned to the barn. The little terrier was tugging hard at the girl’s pant leg.
‘Dot?’
‘I caught this Indian. Mister – get your gawddamn dog off me or I swear I’ll shoot him.’ The young jenny mule was nudging the girl from behind in a friendly way.
Baldwin could hear Mannito snickering in the shadows. He also heard the same two words: ‘Mucho mierda.’ The old man heard them, too, casting a glare in the direction of the little Mexican.
‘Chaco,’ Jones wheezed. The dog let go and hopped up on the bale of hay.
‘Dot, come here, please,’ Baldwin said, turning and walking toward the door.
He tried not to smile. The young mule was following Dot like a big dog, pushing her playfully from behind. Eleven years old and a firecracker with copper-colored hair, bright eyes and a sunburned face, Dorothy Baldwin went at life with a vengeance. She was tall and awkward, and looked unlicked. For certain, she would be pretty one day, but for now she was just thin and boyish. She pushed the jenny away with a gentle shove.
‘The man is a guest – you don’t go pointing loaded guns at just anybody,’ Baldwin said. ‘We’ve had that talk.’
‘Okay. But he looks dangerous. Have you seen him close?’
‘Yes, but that’s no reason to point a cocked gun at a man. Just stay away from him. And watch your language.’
The little dog darted into the house ahead of them, sat, and took to looking pitiful, shivering as though he was in the middle of a blizzard. Alice the mule would have followed if Dot hadn’t stopped her. Maggie started laughing.
Baldwin noticed that Jones had scraped the mud from his clothes, and when he pulled his hat off, it was obvious he had oiled his long hair. He was holding a scraggly bunch of desert flowers in one huge hand, and smelled of whiskey and tobacco, but also of some sweet tonic. A bright red bandana was tied around his head, Apache-style. He was a fierce-looking desert peacock. And a nervous one. For a second, Baldwin had the feeling he might flee.
Maggie was setting a platter of biscuits on the table and laughing at the little dog, when the old man stepped inside. She looked up with a welcoming smile. Then, as her eyes met the stranger’s, her face suddenly changed, the smile disappearing. Lily had stepped backwards and stood with a hand to her throat.
‘Maggie, this is Samuel Jones.’
Maggie Baldwin continued to support herself against the table, a crucifix swinging slowly from her neck.
‘Maggie?’
She straightened up.
‘Ama,’ the old man said shakily.
Maggie studied his features. Then, in a quiet voice that Baldwin had never heard before, and never wanted to again, she said, ‘Get him out of this house.’
‘Maggie?’
‘Get him out of this house!’
Samuel Jones left his flowers and fled with his little dog.
At the sound of knocking, Maggie turned toward the open bedroom window, staring out into the darkness and slowly rubbing her hands together as if they hurt. She knew her husband was in the doorway behind her. She didn’t turn.
She was remembering things she hadn’t thought of in more than twenty-five years, and she didn’t like the fact that she was thinking about them now. She rubbed her face, then ran her hands through her hair.
‘He’s not Indian,’ Baldwin said.
‘I know.’
‘He called you Ama.’
She just shook her head.
Baldwin waited a while before he spoke again. ‘Who is he?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Maggie?’
‘I