Good Water Read online

  “Huh. I’ll tell you, there’s another reason, as much as anything else, that made me think it might be just as well that we left for a while.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ortiz. There’s no good goin’ to come of him at all.”

  “Faustino seems to think he’s good protection.”

  “He might not get ’em all killed, but I don’t see him as their salvation. If I ever saw a duck out of water, it’s him. I don’t think he’ll last long around these people. They’re too decent. Even Faustino, stiff-necked though he is.”

  “So you think we just wait him out? Ortiz, that is?”

  “Better than being around him.”

  “I guess so. But I still don’t like walking out on those people.”

  “Ah, you know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  Tommy almost laughed. “I can’t imagine Faustino getting any fonder of us.”

  Lockwood’s voice still had a light tone. “Oh, he might be glad to see us at some point. But I was referring to the others, you know. The feminine persons.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tommy sat with his head held back as Lockwood fanned the campfire with his hat, bringing a brighter glow to the orange center. Thick smoke was rising in a lazy cloud. Lockwood shifted in his crouched position and made shorter, brisker motions with the hat. A small flame leapt up in the center of the twigs, spread, and grew higher. The flame burned cleaner, and the rising heat dispersed the heavy smoke.

  “That’s better,” said Lockwood “I don’t like all that thick smoke. You never know if someone else is around and wants to come and see what’s going on.” He settled onto his knees and reached for some thicker twigs to build up the fire.

  Tommy shifted his eyes from the fire to the small can of water. Lockwood had shared a can of peaches from his meager store, and now he was going to boil some coffee in a can. The day was getting under way on a small scale and at a slow place. Tommy made an effort to be patient as Lockwood went about it all in his casual way.

  “Ahh,” said Lockwood. “Now she’s burnin’. Sometimes I’m amazed at how much trouble you have to go to, and how much fire you need, just to boil a little coffee. It’s a good thing we don’t have to cook a pot of beans. ’Course, before the day’s out, we might wish we had some beans.”

  “What kind of a plan have you got in mind for today?”

  “Right now, the biggest thing for me is to get this to boil, and to try to keep it from spillin’ over.”

  “And after that, I suppose the big thing is to drink the coffee.”

  “That would be next.” Lockwood poked at the fire with a stick. “What’s on your mind? You don’t seem like you’re in a very good mood.”

  “I don’t see how I could be, after the way I was made to look yesterday. It was bad enough that they brought up that thing from the past, but then they laughed at me.”

  “Oh, that’ll blow over. Might take a little time, but like you said, you put it in the past. Anybody who cares, if you know what I mean, ought to be able to see that. You did something unwise, but young people make mistakes, and everyone knows it. And furthermore, not to be unkind, you might have had a bit of bad company.”

  “I don’t want to blame it on Red.”

  “Of course not. You stood up and admitted it, just like you should. Anyone who wants to be a man has got to own up for the things he did. And it helps if he learns from it.”

  “I think I have. I’ve thought about it, from the day we did it and even more so since it all came out in the open yesterday. I think I have a better sense of good and bad than I did when I was just a little younger—say, when I first came to work for Cushman.”

  Lockwood poked at the fire again. “Yeah, I know what you mean. All the time you’re growin’ up, they say, ‘You know the difference between right and wrong, don’t you?’ And you say, ‘sure.’ But maybe what you really know is what will get you in trouble. That’s not the same as knowin’, deep down, why things are right or wrong to do.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Lockwood grimaced as he shaped up the burning pieces. “It’s called a moral sense.” He reached for three more sticks, about an inch thick, and laid them on top of the fire. “Not everyone gets it at the same point in life. That’s why some young people get in trouble. And, of course, some people don’t get it ever, and that’s why they end up in the bad ways they do.”

  “So if someone gets it, he can change.”

  “Sure, but he’s got to stay with it. He doesn’t just say, ‘I’m sorry,’ and go on to do something like it again. Not that I’m sayin’ you would. I’m puttin’ it in general terms.”

  “I understand.” Tommy sorted things out for a few seconds. “So that’s one kind of change. Now I’ve got a question about another kind.”

  “Go ahead. I seem to be the philosopher of the moment, but that’s because there’s only two of us here.”

  “Well, it goes back to the way I grew up. When my folks died, I lived with my aunt and uncle. They didn’t have much, and I was used to that. But my uncle always said things like, ‘A poor man has a poor way of doin’ things,’ and ‘I was born poor, and I’ll die poor.’ So that’s what I’m wondering, whether someone is stuck in a way of life where he started out or whether he can move up. I’ve always thought he could, or at least I hoped so, but when I get made fun of, I begin to wonder.”

  “If you mean whether a man can rise in the world, some people can. Some men, like Lincoln and Grant, have risen quite a bit, but they’re exceptional. And some of them, not to say which, have had a long ways to fall. In general, though, and this is just my idea, a man can make a better life for himself than he started out with, but he doesn’t become an entirely different man.”

  “That’s the way I meant it—whether a person who started out low can keep from being low for the rest of his life.”

  “I think so. It’s a natural thing for people to want to do better in life, although not everybody tries, and not everyone who does try does it the same way. Some men want to cheat to get there.” Lockwood laughed. “And there’s the lowness comin’ out. Then there’s others who move up a level, or even two, and they try to pretend they’re something they aren’t. That is, they deny where they come from. And I think that comes out, too. Like I said, a fella doesn’t change all that much. He starts out bein’ Joe Jackson, and a little bit of money and some nice clothes aren’t going to make him into Lord Chesterfield. But some men will try to make it seem like they’re better than their own kind.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve met anyone like that.”

  Lockwood smiled. “You’re just gettin’ started.” He grimaced again as he faced the fire, which was blazing with the most recent sticks he had put on. “For the moment, though, it looks as if we might get some coffee.”

  “And after that?”

  “Sooner or later, we’ll have to get some more grub. But in the meanwhile, I’d like to look around in the neighborhood. I don’t like the idea of leavin’ our friends open to any more surprise attacks.”

  “I didn’t like leaving to begin with.”

  “I know. But even if I was wrong, it seemed like the best idea at the time.”

  “Do you think Ortiz has finished his bottle of whiskey?”

  “Oh, he’s a bad pill. With or without a bottle.”

  Tommy followed Lockwood on horseback up out of the creek bottom and headed west. As long as they had been camped on the creek, Tommy felt connected to Anita. He imagined her a mile upstream, dipping a pail in the water. Now he was out in the open country, with no place to call home and no specific place where he was headed. Tommy’s idea of the neighborhood, as Lockwood had called it, was bounded only by the creek on the east and the Mexican camp to the north.

  Lockwood did not whistle or sing, and he did not make small talk. He rode in silence, stopping every once in a while to listen. On one occasion he dismounted and knelt to study the ground.
A dry breeze had picked up from the southwest. Lockwood tore off a twist of shortgrass, tossed it into the air, and watched it float away. Without a word, he swung into the saddle again.

  The sun was drawing close to straight-up noon when Lockwood stopped and pointed to the north. “I’ve been watching that dust for the last ten minutes,” he said. “Headed east.” He nudged his horse in that direction.

  Tommy heaved a sigh. They had been wandering one way and another but mostly west, and now they were going back to where they started.

  Lockwood drifted along for half a mile, then held up his hand and brought the grey horse to a stop. Tommy brought his horse alongside.

  “I think there’s more than one rider to make that much dust,” said Lockwood. He held his hand out flat at the edge of his hat brim to extend the shade.

  “It looks like they’re going where we were camped.”

  “A little bit north, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they camp on that same creek.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get a look at ’em if we can.”

  Lockwood led the way, keeping higher ground to the left. Twice, at intervals of half a mile or so, he motioned for Tommy to wait as he rode up to the crest. Each time, he came back shaking his head.

  A sparse tree line showed the course of the creek about a mile to the east. Lockwood had made another stop, and he sat with his hands on the saddle horn. He spoke in a low voice. “They ought to have gotten to the creek by now. If they cross it, I don’t know what to think. Let me go take another look.” He rode up the slope, stayed but a minute, and came back down. “I see smoke. I’d say they made camp.”

  “Do you think it’s them?”

  “I have a hunch it is, but I’m going to have to take a look.” Lockwood brushed his mustache with his gloved hand. “It’s not going to be easy. I’ll have to go on foot. You wait with the horses, and you be ready to ride like hell if we have to.”

  Lockwood rode west again, following the contours until he found a low area that curved around to the north. After another ten minutes of roundabout riding, he came to a stop.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  He rode uphill, made a half-circle with the horse, and rode back. He slid off the saddle and handed the reins to Tommy.

  “This is as close as we’re going to get with the horses,” he said in a low voice. He unbuckled his saddlebag and took out a small pair of binoculars. “Keep an eye out.”

  He walked up the slope, carrying the binoculars away from him and leaning forward. At the top, he lowered into a crouch and disappeared over the brow.

  Time dragged on as Tommy waited. Lockwood’s horse moved, and Pete moved. The grey horse lowered its head to crop grass, and Tommy pulled up on the reins. The horse leaned its head forward and shook its saddle. No other sounds came from anywhere around.

  The sun was straight up now and beating down. Tommy was sweating and could not feel the breeze in the low spot. The grey horse lifted its tail, and the smell of fresh manure drifted on the warm air. Pete shifted his weight.

  The grey horse’s head rose up, and the animal snuffled.

  “Shhh!” said Tommy.

  Here came Bill Lockwood, carrying his binoculars and digging in his heels as he hustled down the slope.

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “Nah. But it’s them, all right.” Lockwood put his binoculars away and took the reins from Tommy. “There’s five of ’em.”

  Tommy made a quick tally. Vince Cushman, Lew Greer, Walt McKinney, Fred Berwick, and one bulldog. “That sounds right,” he said.

  “It sure doesn’t look like they’re out workin’ cattle. They’ve got one horse each and hardly any camp gear. No wagon and supplies, for sure.” Lockwood pushed back his hat. “They don’t look like they’re up to any good.”

  “What do you think we should do?”

  Lockwood dragged his cuff across his forehead. “I think we should go warn our friends.”

  No one stopped them as they rode up to the Mexican camp and dismounted. A gathering had formed inside. Lockwood left Tommy with the horses and walked straight to Raimundo. Tommy looked around for Anita but did not see her. He refocused on the center of the camp.

  Faustino and Ortiz stood about three yards apart, neither of them speaking. A strange tension filled the air. Faustino was not wearing a hat, and his full head of dark hair was shining in the sun. He stood with his hands on his hips, above the handles of his two revolvers. Ortiz was wearing his black leather vest and his flat-crowned hat as before, but his posture sagged, and his face had a sour expression.

  Gabriel appeared at Tommy’s left.

  “What’s going on?” Tommy asked.

  “Nothing but trouble. This man Alfredo is very drunk.”

  “He looks like it. How much whiskey did he have?”

  “He drank the whole bottle last night. Then he tried to touch Milena. Everyone knows he’s dangerous, so they keep an eye on him until he goes to sleep. Then this morning, when the women all go out to make a circle, he looks in my uncle’s wagon for another bottle. He finds one and drinks it all.”

  Tommy felt a sense of embarrassment and dread together. The women had their routine of forming a circle, all of them looking outward, as they took turns at a latrine they scratched in the middle. All along, Tommy had done as the other men did, pretending not to notice. Now Ortiz, drunken and callous, had disrespected that sense of privacy at the same time he had trespassed into someone else’s quarters and had stolen something.

  Tommy glanced at Ortiz’s holster. The gun was not there.

  Faustino spoke in Spanish, and Tommy was able to follow the meaning. You get on your horse, and you go. Do not come back. Not here, and not in our pueblo.

  Movement caught Tommy’s eye. Emilio came around from the north side of the wagons, leading the horse Ortiz had ridden the day before. It was saddled with a bedroll tied on back.

  Faustino looked over his shoulder and nodded at his brother. Facing Ortiz again and motioning with his thumb, he said, “Vamos.”

  Ortiz stood in place, swaying in his drunkenness. His face held the same sagging, unpleasant expression as he moistened his lips and made a spitting motion at the ground in front of him. He said something that Tommy did not understand, but it must have fallen short of vulgarity, for it caused Faustino to fold his arms across his chest and breathe out through his nose rather than step forward and punch the drunk man.

  Ortiz walked toward the saddled horse and stopped a yard away. “Mi pistola,” he said.

  Emilio produced the gun, drawing it from his waistband in back. He held it barrel up and clicked the cylinder to show that the gun was not loaded. He stuck it in Ortiz’s holster, then reached into his pocket, brought out a handful of cartridges, and put them in the pocket of Ortiz’s vest.

  Emilio held the horse’s reins as Ortiz grabbed the saddle horn with both hands. The man staggered as he tried to put his boot in the stirrup, so Emilio moved forward and boosted Ortiz with his shoulder. Ortiz found his seat, took his reins, and turned the horse around. Slow and solitary, with his hat tipped against the breeze on his right, he rode to the southeast as half the people in the camp watched him.

  A hundred yards out, he took his gun from the holster and began loading it. He flinched once and reached down, to no avail, but to all appearances he got the rest of the shells into the cylinder. Still slouched, he kept riding, with low dust rising and blowing away in the breeze. He crossed the creek and continued heading southeast, in the direction he had come from with the Romero brothers the day before.

  The people in camp drifted back to their wagons, some inside the enclosure and some outside. Faustino and Emilio had taken seats on wooden boxes, as if it were not worth their attention to watch Ortiz ride away. Faustino had his usual self-confident air, which Tommy attributed to his successful exercise in authority—in spite of his having brought the man into camp to begin with. As for himself, Tommy did not feel as if all of his bl
ame was gone, but he didn’t mind seeing Ortiz, his main accuser, leaving in disgrace.

  Raimundo stood up to face Faustino as Lockwood moved to a position closer to the opening where Tommy stood with the horses.

  Raimundo spoke in English. “Well, Faustino, it’s a good thing you got rid of that man. I don’t know how much good he would have done us. I always thought he was a criminal, and there’s the proof.”

  “Well, he’s gone, and that’s that. No need to say I told you so.” Faustino wrinkled his nose. “And what brings your friends back so soon?”

  “They come to tell us that Cooshmon has a camp not far away. Five of them. Bill doesn’t think that the one you shot is with them.”

  Faustino flicked a glance at Lockwood. “He wasn’t here. How would he know which one it is?”

  “By counting. And you may remember, Tommy was here.”

  Faustino shrugged.

  Lockwood spoke up. “They don’t look like they’ve got any kind of a cow camp. I think they’re here for trouble.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t out there alone. They might hurt you.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh. You know what they’re capable of.” Lockwood held his hands at his sides. “For what it’s worth, I’m offering to help once again. Yesterday you said you had enough help, but your man left just as easy as he came. Well, maybe not quite as easy. And I’ll give you credit for gettin’ rid of him the way you did.”

  “No one got hurt. It would have been very bad for him if someone did.”

  Lockwood turned to Raimundo. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a suggestion.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll listen.”

  “I don’t know what Cushman is up to, but I think he’ll make a move of one kind or another. He’s got his camp south of here. If he does anything, he’ll start from there. So I think you should move all the sheep north of camp, and put all the horses and donkeys on the north side of the wagons, between the camp and the sheep. Make sure we’ve got water in camp, and don’t let anybody get very far away.”