Except for a few places where they disappeared beneath the desert sand or in a mirage, the railroad tracks glinted silver and orange in the late afternoon sun. They were almost mesmerizing, and William Samuel McKay had kept them in sight for the past four hours.
Locomotives needed water and coal. Where there was a route, towns would spring up. And even the smallest town that provided water or coal would also provide at least a small, ramshackle train station where people could buy a ticket. And almost all the trains in this part of the country pulled at least one stock car so a man could take his mount along with him.
Finally the rails led him to a town. He thought it was a low outcropping of rock when it first appeared on the horizon. But as he’d drawn nearer, allowing his paint mare to walk most of the time, the rocks in the outcropping separated themselves into two uneven, shimmering blue mirage splotches of wood or adobe buildings.
The railroad track ran along the south side of town. Accordingly, the splotch on the south side of the road was a narrow, single row of buildings.
The splotch on the north side of the road was deeper. It consisted of five or six smaller rows behind the main one. Probably mostly houses back there.
When he was still a half-hour from the town, he came across a narrow, rut-ridden road that swung in from the north and turned west. He urged his mare to a canter and followed the road the rest of the way in.
When he reached the town, the blacksmith’s shop was the first building on the left. Almost directly across the road, a large barn housed the livery stable. He stopped there to let the mare drink from a trough. He took off his wide dusty silver colored hat and wiped the brim with his left hand, then set it back on his head. He wiped his hand on his trousers as he looked around.
Some distance beyond the blacksmith’s shop, a row of squat buildings housed a feed store, a general store, a few vacant buildings and then an eatery. The row continued past that, but the only sign he could make out plainly was the railroad depot and telegraph office at the far end of town.
After the mare drank her fill, he walked her past other, similar buildings on the right and finally stopped near the center of town in front of a saloon. In chipped white letters, the sign on the window read Macy Mae’s Saloon and Gambling Hall.
Gambling hall? Well, it might be if Bass Reeves was inside, depending on his mood. Dealing with Bass was always a gamble.
But Reeves’ old black mule wasn’t tied to the rail. In fact, he hadn’t caught a glimpse of that mule for three days, and even that was only the fading away of a north end headed south.
No, today Macy Mae’s would only be a saloon, at least for him.
McKay stepped down from the saddle, his right boot raising a cloud of dust that reached halfway up to his knees. He rubbed his hand over the brown and white neck of his mare and muttered something quiet, gentle. Then he whipped the reins over the hitching post, reached over the horse to pull his .45 caliber Winchester from the scabbard, and stepped up on the boardwalk.
The thick outer doors were propped open with a thick chunk of caliche rock, one to each side. He stopped near the right door, lay his left hand lightly on top of the right batwing, and looked over. Life had taught him it was always better to gauge a place than to just walk in.
The bar stretched away along the center two-thirds of the left wall. Behind it was a broad mirror with a shelf beneath it. Several bottles of amber liquid and a few neat stacks of glasses lined the shelf. Five small brass spittoons sat on the floor, one at each corner of the bar, the other three spaced more or less evenly.
The bartender was behind the bar. Older and thin, white long-sleeve shirt, waxed handlebar moustache beneath a flattened nose. Balding, black and grey fringe, something more than a wisp of hair in the center of his head. He’d just set a tall glass of beer in front of one man.
No gun belt on that one. A black bowler hat tipped back slightly, a threadbare Sunday jacket, smiling as he nodded his thanks to the bartender.
The bartender wiped his hands on a small towel as he moved farther along the bar to help another customer. As he turned away, McKay could make out his right ear was smashed and puffed up. Cauliflower. Probably a bare-knuckle guy in his day.
The customer near the far end of the bar was wearing a gun belt, slung low toward his right hip, the bottom of the holster tied off to his leg. Brown trousers, a matching jacket, a beat-up hat that had seen better days. He said something quiet to the bartender, then something else as the bartender started to turn away.
The bartender nodded over his shoulder, then took a bottle of amber liquid from beneath the bar. Must be the good stuff. He grabbed a clean glass and returned to set both in front of the man. Maybe a lawman. Either way he would bear watching.
Three other men were standing at the bar closer to the near end. All of them wore jeans and button-down shirts, no collars. A faded red shirt, two off-white. All three wore guns. All three wore spurs with small rowels on their boots. Cowboys. Either in town with a herd or in advance of one to come.
A bone-white upright piano with a vacant seat took up the area to the left of the bar. Past the other end were two round tables.
A gentleman in a frock coat occupied one of the chairs and was dealing cards to himself. A neat low flat-top hat with neatly trimmed sideburns halfway down his jaw. Apparently playing solitaire. That must be the gambling hall part of the place. Business was slow. Then again, it was mid-afternoon, no later. Beyond the man in the frock coat was another door. As deep as the room was, that one probably led into the alley.
The rest of the floor was covered with a dozen or so more round tables, each with four chairs. Most of them were neat, with the chairs pushed in. At one, toward the bottom of the stairs that started up about halfway along the right wall, the chairs were all there but sitting at odd angles, as if the table had recently been vacated.
Behind that table, near the corner formed by the back wall and the wall beneath the enclosed stairs, three men were leaning forward slightly over a table, apparently having a quiet conversation. They were dressed similarly to the men near the front of the bar, but no spurs and only one was wearing a sidearm. Ranch hands, probably.
A small door had been set in the wall beneath the stairs. Probably a small storage room.
The stairs led up to a landing that stretched across the back of the room. Three, four... five doors opened on the wall behind the landing.
No women on the floor. Probably in the rooms waiting to come out when the day cooled off and thirsty men filed through the front door.
He pushed the batwing open, then let it swing closed behind him as he approached the bar. The soft clacking of the door was the only sound other than his boots on the wooden floor and the two hushed conversations.
The bartender stopped about halfway along the bar and wiped his hands on the towel again, then flopped it over his shoulder.
As McKay approached the bar, the man in the bowler hat tipped it to the bartender, then turned toward the door. He brushed past McKay’s left side and went out.
The bartender grinned amiably in McKay’s direction. “Get you something, sir?”
With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, McKay swept the base of his white moustache from the center out, then ran his palm over his thickly stubbled cheeks. “Whiskey. And a glass of water if you’ve got it.”
The bartender nodded, then turned away. When he turned back, he set the glasses on the bar. “Four bits.”
McKay dropped a five-dollar gold piece on the bar. “When the whiskey’s gone, I’ll have another. Maybe two. Long trail.” He picked up the whiskey glass and downed it, then set the glass on the bar and pointed at it.
“Yes sir.” The bartender scooped up the coin as he refilled the glass. “Don’t get a lot of call for water on this side of the street.” He pointed toward the front door. “Simon’s Café, that’s right across the street. They don’t charge extra for water.”
McKay nodded as he drained the water, then set the glass down. “Fill that again too, would you?”
The bartender looked at him for a moment. “Yes sir.” He picked up the glass and turned away.
When he turned back, McKay said, “You seen a black fella in town recently? Dressed up, big white hat?”
The three men at the near end of the bar twisted their heads around to look at him. The man in the brown suit toward the other end did the same.
“No, sir. Not that I can recall. We don’t get a lot of black cowboys out this way. Maybe farther south around the border. Or maybe over in Tucson or up in Phoenix. Bigger towns and all.”
McKay nodded. “The border sounds right. I don’t think he’d run to a bigger town. And he ain’t a cowboy.” He downed the second glass of water and set it on the bar. “You saw him, you’d know. Coal black skin, always dressed like he’s headed to church, and a big white hat. Almost as big as a sombrero. Rides a black mule.”
“No sir. I haven’t seen anyone who—”
“What’s this man done?” It was the man in the brown suit.
McKay looked him over for a moment. “And who might you be?”
“Stilson. I work for the US Marshal in these parts.”
“You work for him? So you’re a deputy?”
“Nah, he ain’t no deputy.” It was the man nearest the other end of the bar, talking past his friends. “He’s too old. Cleans the office, keeps an eye on things when the marshal’s gone.”
McKay nodded, then picked up his whiskey, downed it, and set the glass on the bar again. He pointed at it, then looked at the man in the brown suit. “Oh. Well, nothing you’d be interested in then.”
The bartender refilled the whiskey glass, then set the bottle next to it.
The man in the brown suit had already started toward McKay, but he was looking past him. “Shut up, Billy. I was roundin’ up stray outlaws before you were a gleam in your old man’s eye.”
Another of the men at the near end of the bar, the one closest to McKay, laughed. “Stilson, you wouldn’t know an outlaw if you caught him in bed with your old lady.”
“You little bastard!” Stilson went for his gun, a black Remington with oiled wood grips.
The barrel wasn’t clear of the holster when an explosion sounded behind McKay.
Chips of plaster fell through a dust cloud that suddenly erupted at the ceiling.
McKay calmly downed the second glass of water, then stepped away from the bar. The dealer at the far end hadn’t budged, and the men at the table near the stairs were still there.
Such nonsense must be a common occurrence.
McKay looked back toward the near end of the bar.
All three men had their revolvers out and leveled at Stilson.
McKay said quietly, “Now that’s not good, son. You might make me nervous.”
The bartender said, “That’s enough, boys. Put ‘em away.” As the younger men were holstering their sidearms, he looked at the man in the brown suit. “Mr. Stilson, they were only kiddin’ you a little, you know that.” Then he looked at McKay. “Sorry, stranger. Anyway, I don’t think you’re gonna find your black fella around here. You can get some real good food over at—”
“Yeah, I know. Simon’s, right? There a good place to camp around here?”
The man in the brown suit said, “Little spring runs through about a mile west of town. Little grove of pecan trees out there, growing wild. Road leads right past it nowadays.”
McKay glanced at him and nodded. “That’ll do.” He turned to the bartender again. “What’s your name?”
“Spenser, sir. Jim Spenser.”
“I’m Willie Sam McKay. Pleased to meet you. I’ll be around a couple of days. You see or hear anything about my guy, send word, would you? It’s important I find him.”
“Sure thing.”
McKay nodded. “I’ll see you again.” He picked up his carbine with his left hand. As he turned for the door, the kid at the far end of the bar laughed. “Didn’t mean to scare you away, old timer.”
McKay stopped. Quietly, he said, “You’ve got a big mouth, boy. Don’t let it make a debt you can’t earn out.”
Anger flashed over the kid’s face and his right shoulder twitched. But about the time his right hand touched the butt of his revolver, the resounding click of McKay’s Colt being cocked filled the silence.
All three men gaped at the .45 caliber barrel.
McKay moved it side to side. Quietly, he said, “Now lessons can be easy or they can be hard, son. The big lesson today is things aren’t always as they appear. You skin that thing around me again—for any reason—you’ll be dead before you hit the floor.”
In the time it would take to count to one, he studied their eyes. Nothing there.
He holstered his Colt and walked past them toward the door. The only sound was his boot heels clomping on the wooden floor.
As the batwings slapped closed behind him, the voices were hushed again.
“Did you see that?”
“Not really.”
“Who the hell was that guy?”
An older voice said, “Willie Sam McKay... I’ll be damned. I thought he was dead.”
*
Camping wasn’t as necessary as it used to be. Back in the day he’d stayed in hotels or rooming houses now and then. But sometimes, especially nowadays, staying in town invited too many questions he didn’t want to answer. Sometimes they were questions he couldn’t answer, not without dredging up more questions.
As he rode past the west end of town, he felt a kind of affinity for the small train depot. The building itself was narrow and long. Behind it, a platform ran the length of the building along the tracks. After he’d looked it over, he nudged his mare into a canter and headed out of town.
When he found the stream, he walked his mare into it, then turned back to the north. A quarter-mile farther he found the pecan grove.
He unsaddled the mare, sensing he wouldn’t need her again until morning, then staked her out so she could graze on a good patch of grass growing along the stream.
Once he settled in, he built a small fire and brewed some coffee, then leaned back on the saddle to think about his life.
It had been a good one, with a lot of trails ridden and a lot of justice served. He’d had a good career as a lawman. Still, he hadn’t begun to approach the number of captured or killed outlaws that his quarry could claim. Quietly, he mumbled, “Where are you, Bass? You of all people should know you can only run so far.”
An image of the small train depot came to mind again. It would all end there. He was sure of it. Back in the day, that kind of certainty would fill him with elation. But tonight it left him with a sense of fading nostalgia. But that was silly. It was a job—his last job—and nothing more. Time moves on, that’s all. But never would he have believed he’d be on the trail of Bass Reeves.
He sipped his coffee again. When he felt grounds against his upper lip, he turned the cup sideways and tossed the remainders into the darkness. Then he reached for the coffee pot to pour another cup.
His fingers had almost closed around the handle when a horse whinnied in the distance.
Forgetting himself and obeying instinct, McKay dropped the cup, rolled to his left and came to a kneeling position with his Colt in his hand behind a pecan tree.
He released a breath, then glanced down at the familiar weight in his hand. He shook his head and muttered, “Just as if anybody could hurt me at this point.”
He grinned and holstered the weapon, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Whoever’s out there, come on in. Coffee’s on.”
There were sounds of a horse and rider drawing closer. Hooves moving through the low-slung creosote that seemed to cover most of the distance from here to town, the light squeaking of the leather saddle. Then the hooves stopped for a moment. In a dry, scratchy voice from the darkness to the southeast came, “Hello the camp. Friendly comin’ in.”
It was the old lawman from the saloon. Good. The company would be welcome as long as the guy didn’t ask too many questions.
A long moment later, the sound of boot soles scruffing through the creosote brush got louder. The old man in the brown suit passed through the edge of dim circle of light and set his horse to graze next to McKay’s paint, then came back. “Coffee, you say?”
McKay nodded, then knelt next to his saddle bags. “Even got another cup here just in case. Not that I’ve needed it lately. I don’t get a lot of visitors.” He laughed quietly, then looked up and passed the cup to the old man.
“Thanks, that’ll work fine.” As he filled his cup, he said, “Jud Harkins is my name.”
“Over Abilene Texas way?”
The man nodded. “The same.” Then he shook his head. “Man that was a long time ago.”
McKay laughed again, then started filling his cup. “Wasn’t everything?”
Harkins took a sip of his coffee. “Seems that way.”
“Those kids in town—”
Harkins wagged one hand. “Aw, they’re all right. Or they will be if they outlive their foolishness. Need to stick to cattle while they still have that much left.”
McKay nodded. “Easier to see time passing when you’ve been through so much of it.”
“Man that ain’t no lie.” He hesitated. “Y’know, I heard you was killed awhile back.”
“That right? And yet here I sit.”
Harkins nodded. Then he said, “So this black fella you’re lookin’ for. What’d he do?”
“Oh. Well, you might say he’s on the run from somethin’ he can’t escape.”
Harkins grinned. “Would that be you?”
McKay laughed again, a little louder, and shook his head. “Naw, I ain’t all that. But what he’s runnin’ from, it’s just a fact. Kind of fate, I guess you’d say.” He paused. “I just drew the short straw, I guess. My last job.”
“Who is it, you don’t mind me askin’?”
McKay only shrugged. Then he said, “What time the trains come through town? The ones that stop, I mean.”
“Well, let’s see. There’s four of them. They only come through twice a week, Wednesday and Saturday. ‘Course, tomorrow’s Saturday. There’s one right at 8:30, but it’ll be headed east. I reckon you wouldn’t be interested in that one.”
“Probably not. Maybe though.”
“The other one goes to Tucson from here. From there the main line goes on west to California, but another line cuts south to the border from there. From the sound of it, that might be the one you want. That’ll be through around 11.”
“Day or night?”
“Day. Eleven a.m. Sometimes it runs as late as noon, but never before 11.”
The image of the depot filled McKay’s mind again. This time the image was complete with Bass Reeves leading his mule up the ramp into the stock car. He looked at Harkins. “Yep, that’ll be the one.”
“Y’know, I’d be happy to help. Not that guns matter all that much anymore, but having two of us there might at least add some pressure.”
McKay studied the man’s eyes in the light of the fire. What he saw there was a silent plea. It made him more amenable to the man’s offer.
Jud Harkins had been an accomplished lawman in Texas. But with the advent of new procedures and techniques, he’d been unceremoniously put out to pasture. The same thing would have happened to him if—well, if what happened in June two years ago hadn’t happened.
McKay understood. What Harkins was looking for now—the reason he’d come to McKay’s fire late into the night—was not to horn in or take over. But neither had he come to beg for a job. Harkins just wanted a chance—one more chance one more time—to make a difference in the world again.
McKay nodded. “Y’know, you’re right, Jud. Havin’ you there would be a help.” He paused. “It ain’t easy bein’ us, is it?”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised we never rubbed elbows before, what with you bein’ in Texas and me bein’ mostly in Kansas and Arizona and then New Mexico. But I’m happy you came along when you did.” He took a deep breath. “The man I’m lookin’ for is one of us. Name’s Bass Reeves.”
“Bass Reeves. Out of the Territory? Well, I guess they call it Oklahoma now.”
“That’s him.”
“He didn’t slip off the dirty end, did he?”
“No, nothin’ like that. But I have to lead him back to a place he has to be. That’s all I can really tell you about it.”
Harkins nodded.
“Now he’ll try to board that westbound tomorrow, no doubt in my mind. And if he makes it, well, then I’ll have to keep goin’ ‘til I find him again. But I’m bone tired, Jud. I’d sure like to end this deal tomorrow.”
“You can count on me. Whatever you need me to do.”
“All right. Now there won’t be no gunplay. I can guarantee you that. Not that it would matter even if there was.” He leaned forward over the fire a little and said, “Anyway, let me fill you in on our guy. Here’s what happened.”
*
The next day at a quarter to 11, Jud Harkins and Willie Sam McKay came into town from the west.
As they’d already discussed, Harkins took up a position in a chair on the boardwalk across the street from the depot.
McKay stopped at the west end of the depot and ground reined his paint. He walked through the front door of the station to check the schedule with the station master, then exited through the same door. He flashed a thumbs-up at Harkins, then walked toward the west end of the building again.
As he walked past the corner, the shimmering heat waves made him seem to disappear. He’d wait around the corner with his mare until the train pulled in.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and there was no train in sight.
A few people had filed into the station to wait inside out of the heat.
Eleven fifteen came and went. Eleven thirty. Eleven forty.
At 11:46 a whistle sounded in the distance to the east, long and low.
And suddenly, there he was.
Bass Reeves, big as life, sitting on his mule ramrod straight, shoulders back, reins in both hands, riding straight down the center of the road. He was decked out in a finely checkered grey and red three piece suit and black mid-calf boots. And that huge white hat.
Harkins leaned the chair forward, then looked up the street past Reeves.
There was nothing there.
At the far end of town, the locomotive was slowing. He visualized steam hissing out around the wheels as it slowed. Between the buildings, he counted a locomotive and six passenger cars. Then a stock car, then the caboose.
There was still nobody on the street. But he’d looked up the street several times a minute for the past ten or fifteen minutes, and there’d been nobody there then either.
Probably the dust. Or maybe a heat mirage. In the right conditions, there could be a whole raft of people between him and the saloon and he wouldn’t be able to see them.
He glanced back toward the depot.
No sign of McKay either. Probably he was waiting until Reeves dismounted. The breeze, what little there was of it, was moving east to west. McKay should be able to hear the man dismount.
The train was almost stopped. The locomotive had pulled forward to take advantage of the sluice from the water tower. The stock car and the caboose extended past the east end of the depot platform.
Reeves was almost to the depot. If he got into the station without McKay appearing, Harkins himself would get across the street and engage Reeves in conversation until McKay got there. He’d always wanted to talk to the man anyway. Over 2000 bad guys arrested or killed—mostly arrested. Nobody else had a record like that. At least nobody he’d ever heard of.
But as he watched, Reeves angled the black mule toward the east end of the station. When he got there, he dismounted, kept the reins in his hand and walked southeast toward the stock car.
Maybe he’d already bought a ticket elsewhere. Or maybe he’d stable his mule first, then go inside for his ticket.
Harkins stood and made his way across the street. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he didn’t want his new friend, McKay, to have to continue on this guy’s trail.
Before Harkins even got all the way across the street, Reeves disappeared into the stock car, the mule following along like he’d been through this dozens of times.
Harkins had passed the northeast corner of the station and was halfway from there to the stock car when Reeves reappeared at the top of the ramp.
His gaze immediately fell on Harkins. “How can I help you, sir?”
Harkins stopped, looked up at Reeves. “I—I mean—You’re Bass Reeves, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.” He swept the right side of his jacket up, tucked it inside the grips of his revolver. “Are you looking to make a name for yourself?”
“Now Mr. Reeves, you know those days are over.” It was Willie Sam McKay. Somehow, without Harkins even hearing his approach, he’d appeared at the east end of the platform.
Reeves looked at him and frowned. “Who are you? I saw you, what, three days ago? Four? You seemed hot on my trail. But if I’m not mistaken, we’re on the same side.” He turned his attention back to Harkins. “You too?”
Harkins nodded. “Jud Harkins, Abilene.”
“You’re not mistaken, Mr. Reeves, and you know who I am. Though I think you’re a little confused about my current role.”
Reeves frowned. “Oh? And how so? Are you after me or not?”
McKay nodded. “In a way, yes sir. Think back. This is April, 1910. Back in January—”
Reeves suddenly jerked up his left hand and pointed at McKay. “Wait. I do know you. You’re Willie Sam, right? Willie Sam McKay?”
McKay nodded. “Yes sir.”
“But—you were killed, weren’t you? Santa Fe, right? June, 1898 if I recall. A saloon. You cleared a room of toughs and only had to shoot two of them. But—” His voice grew quiet, and he paled. “But you didn’t notice the man near the top of the stairs. He shot you in the back.”
McKay glanced at Harkins, then back to Reeves. Quietly, he said, “Yes, that’s right.”
Reeves spread his hands. “So why are you here? How are you here?” He shook his head. “Are you even here?”
Harkins had gone pale. He stared at McKay. Barely above a whisper, he said, “Willie?”
But McKay ignored him, continued to focus on Reeves. “Mr. Bass Reeves, born July 9, 1838. You served as a deputy US marshal for over 30 years and retired in 1907. You joined the Muskogee police department and were there until you succumbed to the same bad luck almost four months ago. January 7, 1910. Also in a saloon, also the victim of a backshooter.”
McKay paused. “It isn’t easy, Bass. Remembering, I mean. But better things await. Now we can go on with this chase if you want. I was required to round up ten honorable men who weren’t ready to go yet. You’re my last one. You and me, we can walk through the door together.” He paused again. “You know what I mean.”
Reeves looked at him for a long moment. Then he glanced at Harkins. “And you?”
McKay said, “No, Jud’s number hasn’t come up yet. Maybe when it does, he’ll learn from what he’s seeing today.”
Reeves walked down the ramp of the stock car. He stopped in front of Harkins and offered his hand. “Jud, good to meet you, sir.”
As they shook, Harkins said, “The pleasure’s mine, sir.”
Reeves nodded, then said, “Well, thanks for helping our friend there escort me home.” He released Harkin’s hand and turned to McKay. “So, we just go?”
McKay looked at him and nodded. “We just go.”
The two men turned and walked to the northeast corner of the building, then turned left and stepped out on the road.
Harkins followed along behind them to the corner. He stopped, shuffled his feet, feeling suddenly out of place.
He put his left hand on the building to steady himself, certain he was right to hang back.
He watched until they faded into a blue mirage.
* * * * * * *