No Call for Clocks

1

As the wind alternately howled and moaned outside, Cecil Jameson sat stoically at one of the five small round tables inside the clapboard stage stop and café. His fine brown-wool bowler hat rested on the edge of the table to his left, crown up. Only himself, the owner of the stop, and his wife were in the place. No other passengers had come in.

He took off his small round spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put his glasses back on.

Well, she might be his wife and she might not. Sam Gaff certainly is well-tanned, but her tan was much deeper than his. She might even be Indian. Or maybe a Mexican. So she might be only his woman.

Inwardly, Cecil chastised himself, but not for his thoughts about the woman. It was his own fault he was here. He’d been in this godforsaken little settlement for two nights. No hotel, and the so-called bed in the room above the so-called saloon was two splintered planks raised on a frame with a blanket spread over them. And two dollars fifty per night! Outrageous!

As he shook his head, a smirk curled one corner of his mouth.

I should have stayed on the stage instead of stepping off. If I wanted to witness life in a small town, I should have waited until we came to a small town that had some life. But the saloon was at least interesting. At least compared to this so-called café.

Cecil had seen all there was to see of the small room when he came in a half-hour ago.

The clapboard walls were only as thick as the boards themselves, and as unpainted and unpapered on the inside as they were on the out.

Five small, round tables, each with two chairs, were scattered across the wood plank floor. A low counter stood opposite the front door.

Centered behind the counter, a bright Mexican blanket provided the only splash of color in the place. It hung almost to the floor from a rusted wire stretched from one side to the other of the entrance to the back rooms.

And there was nothing else to see: no paintings or other artwork, and no tourist trinkets like he’d seen in other stops on his way here from St. Louis. Only the bland, dry wood of the walls and furnishings. Well, and the four almost transparent panes of mica that formed the only window. That was on the east wall. He’d seen that when he came in too, but once he sat down the window was on the wall behind him.

So most of the time he only sat, his palms stationary on his thighs, and watched the front door as it tap-tapped against the doorframe when a wind gust caught it just right.

The door was held in place, barely, by a bit of wood that rotated on a nail in the edge of the door. One end of the bit of wood fit into a notch in the doorframe. Sometimes his fingers caught the rhythm of the door and tap-tapped on his thighs, but otherwise he didn’t move.

2

Eventually he thirsted a little for a sip of the now-cold coffee that the woman had brought him in a tin cup when he first sat down. In an attempt to be gracious despite his predicament, he had smiled at her and said, “Thank you.”

But the round little woman, her coal-black hair pulled back into a ponytail that hung past her waist, had only nodded slightly, grunted softly, and moved away, her skirts swirling. She disappeared behind the counter and the Mexican blanket, and she hadn’t come back out.

Mr. Gaff, on the other hand, sat behind the west end of the counter the whole time. Only his fingers were visible at the edges of what passed for a newspaper in this part of the country. Above it was only the top of his head and a few sparse, salt and pepper hairs.

Looking in Mr. Gaff’s direction, Cecil finally hooked his right forefinger through the flat handle of the cup. He carefully raised it toward his lips, and—

A horrendous rumbling sound seemed almost to shake the fragile little building.

He rattled his cup onto the table again, jerked his head around, and glared wide-eyed at the window.

But it was fine. All the panes were in place.

Cecil turned back and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Gaff?”

From behind the paper came a gruff but quiet grunt.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but are you familiar with that sound?”

“Mmm? What sound?”

“That rumbling. Was it perhaps the sound of horses? Maybe the horses pulling the stage?”

Behind the paper, the man shrugged. “Dunno.”

“I—I just wondered.” Cecil paused. “Will it be much longer, do you think?”

From behind the paper, Gaff cackled. “Longer’n what?” He cackled again. “Nah, it’ll prob’ly be the same as always. ‘Bout sixteen feet, give ‘er take.”

Cecil stared at the newspaper for a moment, then looked at the tap-tapping door again. Did it tap louder when that rumbling sound happened? Quietly, he muttered, “Maybe it was only the wind.”

From behind the paper came, “No maybe to it. It’s always the wind.” The top third of the paper folded down, and Gaff’s thick, round, deeply tanned face rose above it like a blood moon. His blue eyes were bright under bristling black eyebrows. “They ain’t got no wind on that big river back yonder in St. Louie?”

Cecil smiled. “I—uh, no sir, not like that.”

“Mmm. I reckon we got more wind here than anywheres else on Earth.” He paused, then cackled again. “‘Least ‘til it rushes off somewheres else.” He paused, still grinning. “But that’s what wind does, don’t it? Kind’a rushes around here an’ there, makin’ folks nervous.”

Cecil only nodded, then found a knot in the wood of his table of particular interest. Somehow, a thin splinter extended halfway across the top of the knot. He put his right palm back on his right thigh and focused on the knot.

The newspaper rustled as Mr. Gaff flopped it upright again.

How can I phrase it so he’ll simply answer me? He finally looked in Mr. Gaff’s direction again. “Do you know when the stage will arrive?”

“Usually early afternoon.”

Cecil fished his pocket watch out of the watch pocket of his vest.

The second hand wasn’t moving. He frowned and tapped the glass with a fingernail.

The second hand remained still.

Did I forget to wind it?

He glanced at Mr. Gaff again. “Do you have the—” He stopped and shook his head.

“Mmm?”

“What I mean is, do you know what time it is now?”

“Nope. We got no call for clocks.” He lowered the top of the paper again and eyed Cecil. “Stages ain’t like trains. They leave when they leave and they get where they’re goin’ when they get there.” The paper rustled slightly as he shrugged. “If a wheel don’t fall off.” He flopped the top of the paper up again. “Or if they ain’t attacked by banditos or Comancheros. Or them Comanches. Them’s the worst. ‘Specially when Four Crows is about. But they gen’rally attack up north or over Amarillo way.” He paused, then flopped the top third of the paper down again. “Hey, ain’t that where you’re goin’? Amarillo?”

Cecil had just finished winding his watch. The second hand was moving again, so at least that was a relief. He could set it after he got to Amarillo. He looked up at Mr. Gaff and only nodded.

Gaff flopped the paper up again. “Well, prob’ly nothin’ to worry about. They don’t hit the stages too often. Too much work.” He paused. “Them Comanches is lazy when they ain’t slicin’ off eyelids or poppin’ out eyeballs.”

The same rumbling sound came again, then a third time.

In Cecil’s mind, it sounded for all the world like the first rumbling had come from behind him, beyond the wall with the panes in it, and the next had come a second or two later from the wall to his left, the one with the door in it.

And that made perfect sense. The sound would come more easily through the window and the loose door than through any other part of the building. And the stage would have done that too. Wouldn’t it? Come from the north and then turned the corner to head west toward Amarillo?

But of course it would have stopped. The driver would know there was a passenger here waiting for him. Wouldn’t he?

He looked in Mr. Gaff’s direction again. “Do you think maybe—”

“Mmm?”

“Never mind.” Cecil stood, tugged at his brown wool suitcoat to straighten it, then set his bowler on his head and tugged at the brim to position it as tightly as he could. Finally he picked up his thin brown-leather satchel from the chair next to him.

The newspaper rustled as Mr. Gaff folded down the top third.

Cecil tried on a smile and gestured toward the tap-tapping door. “I’ll just go see if that’s it.”

Mr. Gaff shrugged. “Suit y’se’f.” He straightened his paper again.

3

Cecil worked the bit of wood, freed it from the notch and—

The door jerked away, then slapped him hard on the left shoulder.

He shoved at it with the knuckles of left hand, which was also holding his satchel, and quickly stepped through.

As the door angrily slapped shut behind him, the wind gusted again and whipped at the lapels of his suitcoat.

With his right hand, he reached up to grab his bowler. His satchel dangled swung wildly at his left thigh. He grimaced and narrowed his eyelids as he peered to the west, the sand stinging his forehead and cheeks and chin and peppering his collar.

No stage. So it didn’t pass by.

In the blowing dust and dirt he could barely make out the barn that housed the blacksmith shop and livery stable. Behind it low, thick blue-black and somehow greenish clouds blocked the horizon. Lightning slashed the sky open twice.

As the thunder rumbled, he jerked his gaze down to his boots and turned his back to the wind, then took a couple of stutter steps to keep it from blowing him down the street. The collar of his suitcoat slapped the back of his neck, and his spectacles jerked, threatening to whip away.

If what old Gaff said earlier was true, the stage will come in from the north, then round the corner in the middle of town anyway. “Then it’ll stop out front,” Gaff had said. But then he’d shrugged. “Or it might go on by. Old Simon might wanna ride out the storm down in the livery.” Then he cackled.

Apparently Sam Gaff had never been tasked with carrying foreclosure papers all the way from St. Louis to Union Bank in Amarillo.

4

Amarillo was only another twenty miles to the west. But three days ago Cecil was so taken with the authentic little western town of Jimson and so tired of being choked by dust in the jostling coach, he’d decided to wait for the next one to come through. Three days wasn’t so long, and with only the final four-hour leg of the trip remaining, the papers would still arrive in plenty of time.

He looked again to the east.

Probably I should go back inside.

As if on cue, a different rumbling sound blew in against the wind and the horses and then the coach strained around the corner.

The driver spotted him and leaned back hard against the reins. His mouth formed an O, but whatever he said was lost to the wind. The coach creaked, groaned, and rattled to a stop anyway about thirty feet past Cecil.

The near-side horse snorted, shaking its head against the bit and the stinging sand.

Still clinging to his bowler, Cecil turned and raised his head slightly, his eyes squinting as if to verify the location of the stage. The weather-worn leather boot on the back of the coach was flattened, so maybe there were no other passengers. And thankfully he had only his satchel.

And my small suitcase! I left it in the room in the saloon.

Of course, it holds only the new undergarments I’ve been trying and a few extra collars. Retrieving it and then battling the wind again is hardly an attractive option. And there’s nothing in it I can’t replace in Amarillo.

With that problem dispatched, he scowled at the stage. Couldn’t he have stopped a little sooner? Didn’t he see me standing here?

He leaned into the harsh wind as he stepped off the boardwalk. The coach would at least partially block the wind.

As he neared the stage, he forgot about his bowler. He shifted his satchel to his right hand and reached for the large rear wheel to steady himself, and the bowler was ripped away. He jerked around to watch it race down the street on the curl of the brim like a short, fat wheel.

He twisted himself back around and shook his head. “Of all the—” He looked at his boots and took a deep breath. “No, never mind. I’ll buy another in Amarillo.”

He strained along the side of the coach and finally worked the latch on the door, but—

The door jerked away as if by magic. It swung wide for a moment and wavered, seeming to defy the wind. But just as he reached for the edge of the opening, the door slapped shut with a crack as sharp as a pistol shot. He barely retrieved his hand in time.

A moment later, the door swung wide open and hovered again.

And a voice came from above him. “Hey!”

Cecil shielded his eyes with one hand and looked up.

Past the top of the coach, the driver had twisted around in a sweat-stained long john top and black vest. His pockmarked cheeks and chin were only partially hidden by a sparse red beard that also fluttered in the wind even where it was stiff with dried tobacco juice. His dusty black hat was tied on with a thin leather strap, the brim flipping and flapping in the wind.

His bushy red eyebrows knitted together under a deeply wrinkled brow. He yelled, “You gettin’ in, or you just tryin’ to break the door off my stage?” He spat a stream of tobacco juice that flattened on the wind and flashed past Cecil’s right cheek.

Cecil scowled up at the man. Against the wind, he yelled, “Oh, for—I’m not trying to break anything! The wind is just—”

“What’s that?” The driver put one hand to his ear. “Can’t hear you for the wind.” He cackled, then wiped his chin with a sleeve. “You comin’ or what? I got a schedule.”

Cecil glared at the driver, then looked at the door again.

Certainly this is nothing I can’t handle. One needn’t be a savage to survive in the high plains of the Texas Panhandle. Though it would probably help. He raised his satchel to block the unpredictable door, then reached for the edge of the door frame with his left hand.

The coach sagged and rocked a little as he swung up into it. The door slapped shut again as he fell back into the forward-facing seat, his satchel on his lap. He shifted the satchel to one side, looked down and muttered, “Damned lousy dust.” He began brushing it from his trousers and suitcoat, but he was leaving as much as he brushed away. It seemed to cling to the very threads.

Across the way, a diminutive young Mexican woman giggled quietly.

Cecil jerked his head up.

5

The woman in the stagecoach appeared to be in her mid-20s and was attractive. To stifle her giggle, she held two fingertips to her mouth under a pert nose set beneath warm brown eyes and a soft brown felt hat. It was not a lady’s hat, but the broad-brimmed fedora men usually wore. Still, it looked as if it fit her perfectly, so maybe she dressed like that all the time. Some women did these days.

She was dressed more like a man than a woman below the hat too: a tan shirt with a white collar under a brown coat, then brown trousers and scuffed, round-toed brown leather boots. A red neckerchief hung in a triangle beneath her chin. Probably to keep most of the dust out of her lungs when the stage was moving. Her dark brown hair draped in a long, thick braid down over her left shoulder.

Why did the luggage bag on the back look so flat?

But a small valise rested on the bench next to her.

Cecil reached up to tip his hat, then remembered the wind had taken it. Heat rose in his cheeks as he flushed. “Sorry for the language, Miss. I, uh, lost my hat to the wind.” He gestured. “And the door was slapping and the dust was—Well, I have a meeting at the bank tomorrow morning, so it would just be better if—” He shrugged and wagged one hand vaguely toward the dust on his clothing. “Well, the dust. But never mind. I was frustrated. I do apologize.”

She smiled. “Eet ees all right.” She shrugged. “But eet ees only the weend, verdad? And there are many things moch worse than the weend or even the dost.”

As she shifted in her seat, the left side of her coat fell open to reveal the butt of a revolver facing away. She quickly tugged at her coat to close the gap.

Cecil frowned, but offered a thin-lipped smile. She carries a gun? He cleared his throat and nodded. She was right. It was only wind. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

He wondered vaguely which way her shirt or blouse was buttoned. That was how to tell the difference between a man’s shirt and a woman’s blouse, or so he had heard. But since she was facing him, everything was backward, so he couldn't tell without gaping. He wouldn’t do that. He certainly didn't want to give her the wrong impression.

And what does it matter anyway? It is the wild west, after all.

Besides, during his stay in Jimson he’d seen stranger sights. For example, a second saloon—not the one he stayed in for the night—was housed in an off-white heavy-canvas tent on the east end of town.

With this wind, that tent’s probably somewhere over Oklahoma by now.

But two nights ago he’d seen three grown men on a makeshift wood-plank stage doing a skit. All three had beards of varying lengths, and two of them were in gingham dresses.

His neck began to itch slightly under the tight collar. Itchy things, collars, especially when the collar’s starched and a man begins to sweat. Especially with this infernal dust.

Despite the wind, it was a scalding hot day. I wouldn't have worn the collar at all if I hadn't decided to wear a suit and tie to the meeting with the Amarillo banker tomorrow morning. And that’s tomorrow morning! I needn’t have worn a collar today at all.

But things lead to things, don’t they? If not for this assignment I wouldn't even be in this town or on this stage. And I wouldn't have sat across from a very pretty Mexican girl who’s dressed like a man. And I wouldn't have wondered about her clothing, and I wouldn’t have seen that she was carrying a revolver. And I certainly wouldn't be nervous as hell and sweating into my stupid collar.

He shook his head slightly and muttered, “I’ll certainly be glad when we’re underway.” Realizing the woman would have heard that, he looked up and smiled, then shrugged. “The driver seemed in a hurry. I wonder what’s causing the delay?” He leaned toward the door and reached for the latch.

6

Just as Cecil reached for the door to ask the stage driver about the delay, the latch turned and the door jerked open.

Incredibly, his bowler hat appeared in a bony brown hand with protruding knuckles at the end of a dusty left sleeve. The sleeve was a dazzling red, and behind it was a brown leather vest. The rest of the shirt and the right shoulder of its owner were keeping the door at bay.

Centered above the shirt was a protruding Adam’s apple, no collar, and a bony, stubbled, and almost pinched face with a broad, toothy grin. An off-white hat, darkly sweat-stained around the base of the campaign crown and with a drab tan leather strap cinched under the chin, topped it off. The wide triangle of a blue bandana hung at an angle beneath his chin.

The man said, “Hola, señor. Thees hat, eet belongs to you, verdad?”

Cecil canted his head slightly as he took the hat in both hands and turned it over. “Yes. Yes, this is mine.” He brushed lightly at the brim with the fingers of his left hand. “Thank you! I mean, gracias!” He put the hat on his head, then raised his hips from the seat and reached into his right front trouser pocket. “I think I have some coins here. Let me—”

The young man laughed and waved the hand left to right. “Oh, no no. Nothing is required, señor. Maybe I will see you sometime later and you can return the favor.”

Cecil settled on the seat again. “Well, thank you again.”

“Por nada, señor. An’ you are whelcome. Pero eef you could moof over?”

“Oh. Certainly.” Cecil looked to his left, picked up his satchel from beside his left hip, and adjusted his position on the seat. Now he was directly across from the young woman, who was also looking at the Mexican man. Cecil laid the satchel on his lap and rested his palms on it.

The young Mexican man chuckled as he bent and entered the coach. Below the red shirt and brown vest, he was dressed similarly to the woman, with dusty brown boots but tan canvas dungarees.

The door thumped against his backside, and he reached back to latch it. Then he turned again and nodded, still grinning. He gestured at the bench. “Thees seat ees not taken, verdad?” Not waiting for a response, he twisted around. As he sat, he glanced at the young Mexican woman and nodded all but imperceptibly. “Señorita.”

She smiled the slightest bit. “Señor. Very gallant of you, returning my traveling companion’s hat.”

“Por nada.”

Cecil looked at him and forced a smile. “No. No, that seat wasn’t taken.” He gestured lightly toward the door. “I was just about to ask the driver why we haven’t departed yet. Do you know where—”

As if on cue, the driver yelled, “Ho!”

The sound of a cracking whip sliced into the coach. As the stage lurched forward, the young woman leaned forward only slightly, but Cecil was forcefully lodged against the bench again. He said, “Goodness!”

The woman smiled at him. “It is best to take things as they come, yes?”

The horses were at a full gallop. Dust curled up from the wheels to whip in around the thin window flaps, seemingly against the wind. Jostled about, Cecil was doing his best to remain in his seat.

Beside him, the Mexican man laughed. “Be calm, señor. Be a stone and jos’ ride. The harder you try to hold on, the greater the chance you weel eend up on the floor.” He paused. “The driver, he waited for me. Wheen I saw your hat rolling een the weend, I waved at heem to let heem know I wanted to ride but that I would be delayed.” He extended the hand. “Martín Vega, señor, at your service.”

Jameson shook his hand. “Cecil Jameson. Thanks for the advice, but I’ve been a stone all the way from St. Louis. Admittedly, I’m not very good at it.”

Vega whistled. “I think I would rather ride a horse that far. At least you have the good air to breathe, verdad?”

Cecil only nodded. There was no reason to mention he had never ridden a horse. As he focused on the floor and did his best to remain in his seat, he regarded the woman briefly.

Her shirt. It is a shirt, not a blouse. Despite the buttons. If it was a blouse it would be more colorful. Wouldn’t it? Pink, maybe, or some other more vibrant color. Or maybe it would be printed with flowers or vines or something. Or maybe even silk. Women like such things.

But it was a shirt, though a nice one. Tan linen, and wholly uninteresting. Nothing unique or colorful about it except the shape she lent it.

Not to seem a masher, he averted his gaze.

*

The twenty miles from Jimson to Amarillo will not be a pleasant ride, and it will take half a day. If a wheel doesn’t come off. And if there were no attacks. And the damn dust. The dust roiling up off the wheels will soon coat everything inside the coach, including us. Well, and everything outside, for that matter.

Except the driver and the shotgun rider, but they would be stung by the sand until the wretched storm passed. Or until they drive us out of it.

But the long trip by stagecoach couldn’t be helped. There was no spur into yet across Indian Territory and into Texas off the train line yet. And the thought of hiring and riding a horse that far by myself—well, that simply wasn’t going to happen. At least we’ll arrive in the cool of the evening.

He frowned. Was there a man riding shotgun on this leg of the journey? I didn't notice.

He glanced at the young Mexican woman again and smiled slightly.

At least she has a gun. And the man has a gun too. So if the bandits or Comanches—

But all that was probably just Mr. Gaff’s way of entertaining himself at the expense of an easterner.

Even at 27 years of age, Cecil had experienced many things, but everything west of St. Louis was brand new. It was exciting to be sure, but a bit frighteningly so.

On the whole, I’m glad both of them have guns. Perhaps one of them has an extra. If trouble occurs, perhaps I can borrow one.

Not that he’d ever fired a revolver, but how hard could it be?

Or if there isn’t a shotgun rider on this leg of the journey, perhaps I could borrow the shotgun. If the shotgun rider left it on the stage. Would he do leave it, or would he take it with him?

But that was all speculation. Mr. Gaff himself had said the Comanches raid only closer to Amarillo and farther north.

7

Cecil had been jostled about on the seat for at least a few hours. Amarillo has to be close. How far have we come?

He couldn’t ask the young woman. Her eyes were closed and her head was resting against the side of the coach.

To his right, the young man’s head was lolling on his chest, swaying with the movements of the coach.

Having forgotten his watch wasn’t set to the correct time, Cecil took it from his watch pocket and checked. It read 9:18 a.m.

That reminded him. He snorted quietly and slipped the watch back into his vest pocket.

Not more than a long moment later, the coach noticeably slowed. Then it jerked a little and slowed more, then jerked again as the front wheels bounced up over something.

In Cecil’s mind, he “saw” the coach moving off the road and over the small parapet of dirt and rock along the edge.

The young woman awoke, looked at Cecil and smiled, then stretched, then put one dainty hand to her mouth and yawned.

To Cecil’s right, the young man stirred too, though more slowly than the woman. He flashed a smile across the coach at her, then shifted on the bench, straightening himself.

Then something was scratching the sides of the coach and the flaps over the windows.

Cecil frowned. “I wonder what that is?”

The scratching stopped and the coach slowed again, then stopped.

Cecil’s frown deepened. Bandits? Comanches? But there had been no sounds of gunshots. No thudding of arrows or axes into the coach. He looked at the young woman and forced a smile. “I wonder what’s going on now?”

To his right, the young man shifted on the bench. “I weel go an’ find out.”

As the young man worked the latch on the door, pushed it open, and stepped out, the young woman lifted her valise to her lap. She opened it and took out a second revolver.

Cecil smiled. “You know, I wondered whether you had a second gun. Perhaps I could borrow—”

She pointed the revolver at him and gestured with the barrel toward the door. “You should step out now, señor.”

He frowned and canted his head. “But if there’s troub—”

“Ahora, por favor.” She gestured with the barrel again.

As he started to rise, she said, “Take you’ bag weeth you.”

He reached back to retrieve it, then pushed open the door and stepped down.

The sun had just touched the western horizon.

The wind was all but nonexistent.

The driver was standing to one side of the front wheel. The shotgun was in his hands. He spat a thick stream of tobacco juice just beyond his feet. “Not yore day I reckon.”

Cecil frowned. “What?”

The Mexican man was standing some twenty feet away to Cecil’s left front. His arms were folded over his chest. The same toothy smile graced his face.

Cecil frowned again, then looked around. Mesquites. Everywhere, mesquites. That explains the scratching. But what’s that faint, flowery aroma? He looked at Martín. “This is a joke, right? But what is that wonderful aroma?”

Behind him, the woman touched the barrel of her revolver to the small of his back. “Acacias. That ees the scent of acacias. Beautiful, verdad?”

As he started to look over his shoulder, he said, “Yes, it’s very beaut—”

She prodded him with the revolver. “Do not look at me. See the arroyo to een fron’ of you? Walk to eet, then onlock you’ bag.”

He raised his hands to about shoulder height, but he laughed. “My bag? It isn’t locked. There’s nothing in it but the papers for—”

“Yes. For the bank, verdad?” She prodded him with the gun again. “We know what kin’ of papers the bank likes.” She prodded him again. “Walk.”

As Cecil started walking, he said, “No, it isn’t money. These are foreclosure papers for—”

Martín laughed. “Maria, why all the drama? We can sheck the bag after.”

Cecil said, “After? After wh—”

In a flash of motion, the Mexican man drew his revolver and fired.

The bullet took Cecil in the right side just below his elbow and exploded in a pink spray out the other side.

Cecil folded flat to the ground, and the satchel landed just beyond his outstretched left hand.

Maria scowled at Martín. “Now look what you haff done! He was almos’ to the arroyo!”

As Martín approached, he shrugged. “Jos’ get the money, woman! An’ geef Simon hees share. I weel drag the gringo to the arroyo.”

As Martín crouched next to Cecil and started going through his pockets, Maria grabbed the bag and started toward the driver.

As Martín dropped Cecil’s body into the arroyo, just as it landed atop four other skeletons, the bones bleached by the desert sun, Maria screamed.

Martín turned around, his revolver in his hand. “What ees eet?”

Maria and the driver were both staring into the open satchel.

Simon looked up. “Ain’t no money. Just paper.”

Martín holstered his gun. “Ah well. How far ees left?”

Simon shrugged. “‘Nother half-hour or so? Just after dark.”

Martín held up Cecil’s pocket watch, dangling from a silver chain. “Only thees an’ seven dollars een hees pockets.”

Simon said, “That’ll get me a bath an’ our drinks to boot.” He gestured toward the watch. “What time is it anyway?”

Martín glanced at the watch. “Eet ees not the right time. Eet says after ten. In the morning or the night, that ees wrong.” He turned and threw the watch. It skipped off a rock and descended into the arroyo. He looked at Simon and grinned. “Like Meester Gaff always say, we got no call for clocks.”

And they all took their places in or on the stagecoach and continued their journey into town.

*******