I knew beyond a doubt that something out of place had snapped me from my troubled slumbers. Something peculiar. An eerie oddity that didn’t belong had surely pulled me away from nightly reveries of the blood-soaked missions me and Boz had gone on.
Whatever was out there in the dark was well on the way to bringing me back to wakeful awareness. Now, I just had to ferret out whatever it was that didn’t fit. The task simply required that I be patient. Pay attention. Get my fogged-up mind right.
Near half a minute passed. And then, the world went completely and totally silent, as if the hot breezes had died and all the night animals, birds, and crickets had suddenly, inexplicably vanished from the earth. Eerie as hell. Made the skin pimple and crawl up and down my achy spine in unsettling waves.
Then, there it was, sure enough. No doubt about it. None. Could barely lay an ear to the errant, distant popping. But there it was for damned sure—off in the hazy, red-tinged, gray-black distance. The distinctive, instantly recognizable sound of gunfire crackling through the early morning air. The sound vaguely echoed along the river’s placid surface, climbed up the steps, invaded the house, and set my teeth on edge.
Pistols. Somebody was firing off their pistols out there. No mistaking that sound. Strange. Couldn’t figure for the life of me who would be blasting away like that so early of a morning. And what in hell would they be shooting at anyway? For the most part, was still darker out yonder, in the briars and brambles, than a boxful of black kittens.
A prickling sensation of the sinister and unknowable kind crept up my pain-tinged spine again. I ran fingers through sweat-dampened hair. A widening, wavelike patch of lumpy, bristling flesh crawled up my spine and settled between pinched shoulder blades. An eye blink later, the crickets came back to life.
“Who on earth?” I said to the dimness of advancing dawn, then rubbed a chin that needed serious attention from a well-stropped razor.
6
“. . . MURDERED A BOATLOAD OF INNOCENT FOLKS . . .”
I CAST A sharpened gaze into the reddish-gray gloom of rapidly fleeing darkness. Could hardly see the dog, but I knew ole Bear was there. Knew it as surely as I knew the sun would soon climb over the rugged hills and turn our Devils River patch of west Texas into an earthen, nigh on devilish oven.
Ever watchful, Bear rarely left the front stoop at night. Dog wasn’t mine, of course. He’d come along with the house. A wayward animal might draw the brute from his guardian’s perch once in a while, but not often.
The massive creature sat at attention on the creaking porch’s top-most tread and gazed into the northern distance. I knew his wet, shiny nose twitched and sifted through all the air it could take in. Brute’s inquisitive snout always snuffled and snorted for anything unfamiliar, out of place, or strange. His mottled, ragged, cocklebur-infested rope of a tail was surely wagging from side to side. I could hear the brushlike appendage sweeping a clean spot on the splinter-riddled, rickety step.
He twisted his battle-scarred head to one side and seemed to cut a questioning glance over a hunched shoulder at me. Thick-muscled and dangerous beyond most men’s understanding, the hairy brute, conceived of indeterminate wolf and canine parentage, appeared to flash a menacing, barely visible smile.
Fight-notched, pointed, ever-shifting ears flicked from side to side, gathering the minutest of inconsistent noises. The vigilant canine easily took in the most obscure of sounds for miles around his carefully guarded domain. Anything that didn’t belong in the dog’s personal realm would bring an immediate, and dangerous, reaction.
I could hardly make out the hand-sized tongue as it lolled out one side of the dog’s mouth and dripped slobbers. Beast cast another panting gaze up at me. He flashed a wicked set of canine teeth the size of a highwayman’s trigger finger, as if to say, “You’re damn right I heard all that shooting, Dodge. Wake yourself the hell up. Get a move on, man. Let’s go have a look-see. Chase down the skunks making all that needless racket. Let’s knock ’em over. Bite ’em in the ass. Drag ’em around in the mesquite. That’ll show ’em not to roust us from our much-needed nighttime devotions.”
Boz limped up out of the darkness from his crude quarters in the barn’s cluttered tack room down the hill. He was all got up in nothing more than a pair of oft-patched drawers, a pistol belt, .45 Colt, run-down boots, and a knife-ventilated, palm-leaf sombrero. I’d tried to get him to sleep in the main house, but he steadfastly refused. Man preferred the ground to a real bed. Near as I was ever able to determine, my friend could sleep like a newborn babe atop a roll of rusted barbed wire and liked it that way.
A mist-like cloud of fine-powdered earth trailed behind him and fogged up around his near imperceptible feet. The gritty miasma gave him the bizarre appearance of somehow floating, wraithlike, above the dusty earth that swirled beneath those booted and spurred canoes at the ends of his legs.
He ran the flicking forefinger of one hand back and forth beneath his droopy moustache. The shaggy ornament completely obliterated his top lip and had the appearance of a living animal trying to invade a gap-toothed mouth. Ragged, wispy tip ends of the moustache dangled below his jawline and swayed in the morning breezes. That’s when I realized that the pair of us had gone and got pretty damned seedy, and in right quick fashion, too.
“You hearin’ all that commotion out yonder, Lucius?” Boz said, then took a seat on the edge of the rugged porch, within arm’s length of the dog. He grunted, rubbed his damaged leg, then ruffled the animal’s huge head. He patted the beast’s furry back, then leaned against one of the crude props that offered some highly questionable support for the shaky veranda’s off-kilter roof.
One shoulder lodged against my sleeping quarters’ rough-cut doorframe, I gazed in the same general direction as Boz and the dog. Didn’t need much in the way of heavenly illumination from a brain-frying sun to know exactly what lay out there in the receding darkness.
Swear ’fore Jesus, the entire earth appeared to spool away from the edge of the house’s front veranda to the farthest reaches of the known, and unknown, world. A seemingly endless sea of hilly, reddish-brown, man-killing sand and dirt marched from our crude, leased home’s front stoop to the Tinaja, Woods Hollow, and Glass Mountains, some hundred and twenty miles west and beyond.
In my personal estimation, the land, while bleak in ways hard to describe, was beautiful beyond any other place I’d ever seen. And mostly unoccupied. Few other people, if any, lived for miles around. Our nearest neighbor, as I knew of anyway, had a spread about twelve miles to the south and east, over near the Del Rio road. And that’s exactly the way me and Boz had wanted it from the beginning.
“Yeah,” I muttered, then fished makings from atop the chest of drawers just inside the bedroom door and set to rolling myself a smoke. “Yeah. I heard the shooting, Boz. Woke me from a right nice nap. Well, ’bout as good a one as I can hope to get these days, anyhow.”
“Uh-huh. Me, too.”
“Must’ve spent the entire time I did manage to doze a bit dreamin’ ’bout some of the times we’ve had in the past. Good and bad.” I stoked the roughly wrapped ciga-reet to life and took a single, lung-filling puff. Smoke cloud from the burned tobacco rolled out with my words. “Come to wakeful consciousness thinking for sure we’d just run ole Jasper Pike to ground. Hadn’t so much as entertained a single thought about that murderous brigand in at least two years. He came back to me in a dream. You remember Jasper, Boz?”
An unintelligible, guttural grumble came from my friend’s general direction. Unable to distinguish for certain whether the wordless response originated with the man or the dog, I flicked ash from the end of the hand-rolled with a little finger and continued with my unsolicited, meandering musings.