Me and My Uncle

Three days ride from Pueblo Colorado, we stopped over in Santa Fe. Uncle ‘n me, we’d been working as roaming ranch hands, killing coyotes, running off rustlers, the heels of our horses clicking, kicking up dust, trailing dirt clods behind us. I’d shoot for the horse’s legs, but Uncle would aim straight at their backs. “Dead or alive,” he’d said. “All pays the same.”

Uncle had no qualms about killing. He wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t a good man either. And if there’s one thing he liked more than gambling it was taking down worse men—for damn good pay. When I was about five years old, I remember overhearing Uncle tell my Pa “The greatest bet a man can make is his own life.” They were up late drinking rotgut whiskey on the front porch, smoking hand-rolled cigars. I was supposed to be in bed but burning to know about the world of men, I crept beneath the window careful not to creak the loose wood planks. “When it’s all or nothing… ain’t no better rush than cheating death,” Uncle had said. The next morning, he and Pa set out—where to I never knew—and left me with my Nanna. Pa never came home. It’s been me and Uncle ever since.

At best we were earning copper and silver coins. The townsfolk couldn’t pay us much. But halfway to Santa Fe our luck changed. We caught two young bucks who were on the run. They tried to steal our horses as we slept beside the fire. Uncle drew first. They were dead ‘fore I’d even hobbled to my feet. “First mistake boys,” he said, looking down over their still warm corpses, their blue eyes wide and lulled to the side, their scruffy blonde locks streaked with blood, matted, and clumped with dirt. “Should have killed us where we slept.” Uncle stooped over one of the boys, plucked the dusty brown Stetson from his head and thumped it down on mine. “Always shoot first.”

I hadn’t had a word, just a nod and a tap to the ivory grip peeking at my holster. Uncle was clear as the growing daylight above the distant mesas, clear orange and streaked with red.

I withdrew a crumpled poster from my pants pocket. I knew I’d recognized the one boy from local wanted papers—they’d just robbed a bank. Bagged a whole pile of gold. As I turned him over with the toe of my boot, I was sure it was him. Down to the freckles along his cheekbones and the angle of his chin. “Bounty’s high for these two.” I tossed Uncle the crumpled drawing as he crouched over the taller of the two. “Santa Fe ain’t too far to collect.”

“To hell with that bounty.” Uncle pulled a bulging pouch out from beneath the boy’s coat. He weighed it in his palm, gave it a few pats. That unmistakable clink cracked a smile wide across Uncle’s face as he cocked his head and looked past me down the open road. “But we’ll still ride for Santa Fe.”

As we rode off, the coals in our campfire glowed, the dying embers and charred logs coughed thin trails of smoke into the breeze behind us and the blue sky before us clouded with dust.

In Santa Fe, the high sun fried so hot, little vapors rose from the ground and the air choked my throat. We stopped off at a local saloon. Lucky’s Last Chance. The saloon was a sure sight. An oasis in this rocky waste. “Hitch them horses good, boy. I’m gonna have me a drink.” Uncle hopped down from his saddle, the spurs jingling on his boots as he pushed the swinging saloon doors ajar and trotted straight back, I’d no doubt, to the card table for a game.

Round back the stall, I tied the horses up and took off my shirt. I wiped off my hands beneath the spigot and splashed the dirt off my face, arms and chest, but it mostly ran and smeared. I wiped my hands off on my jeans and buttoned up as I made my way inside. The saloon was crowded with townsfolk, ramblers, and road-weary cowboys all laid back smoking and drinking, saloon girls dancing and carrying liquor on trays. I lit up a smoke, leaned on the bar top and took in the scene, my foot perched on the bar stool before me. In back, a piano man played fast and free, girls danced nearby swiveling their hips and dipping low. The bright tones of his keys carried over the chorus of conversations and drunken disputes.

My eyes fell on Uncle at the poker table. The waitress behind him sat down a whole round and he paid her from his own front pocket. Each cowboy grabbed a glass and downed their shot. Uncle downed his, too and plopped down the bag of gold on the table with a thump. “I’m all in, boys.” He let out a raspy chuckle, knowing, as I knew by now, the cowboys would never see what comes next. When gold talks, people listen. And when it’s as big a chunk as Uncle just raised, cowboys can’t hear nothin’ else.

I’d seen Uncle swap the decks before. His shtick was always the same. He’d drop his wager in the center of the table and lean over the edge with both palms flat and lock eyes with the toughest looking sumbitch at the table. With the sleight of hand of Jesse James fanning the barrel, he’d swap the decks and take an ace up his sleeve, the other deck he’d slip into his waistband where it’d catch on the mouth of his boot. Then, through a hole in the knee of his jeans he could pull any card he’d need. With my elbow propped on the mahogany bar top, I locked eyes with the barmaid, a blondie with curls down to her breasts. Through the ruckus behind me I heard Uncle call that signal I knew all too well. “High low Jack’s the game.” He turned the chair around, backrest to the table and straddled it like a bucking mustang, his Colt 45 hanging loose off his belt. “Winner take all.”

I tilted the brim of my Stetson over my eyes and dropped my pouch of coins with a clink on the countertop and slid it up to the barmaid with a sly smile. “Firewater, all around.”

She rang a bell above her head and the whole barroom erupted with a unified hurrah, anyone who still had a drink in hand poured it back and awaited the next round. In a few moments, we all held our glasses high then downed our shots. I slammed my glass and eyed the curly blonde with my chin tilted slightly up. I gave her that stony gaze that sets them all on edge in just the right way. “What’s your name darling?”

“Molly-Sue.” Her cool and lush blue eyes met mine for a flash then darted back to the glass she was wiping clean.

“Tell me Molly, how’s such a fine young lady as yourself wind up waiting on this rabble?” I nudged my elbow toward Uncle and the cowboys round the card table, haggard and dusty, a free-for-all mix of scruffy gray and black bearded, plus a few younger round-faced, bright-eyed boys not much younger than myself.

“It’s a small town, Mr., and young boys don’t raise free.” The frills below the waist of her lavender dress swayed as she thrust the rag inside the glass. She swiveled her elbow at a sharp right angle.

“Young boys? You got a man?”

“I did.” She said it curt. By her tone, she didn’t mean to elaborate, and I didn’t mean to press. I reached into my denim chest pocket and unfolded the hand drawn portrait I always kept with me. I slid it towards her with a pat. “That’s my boy, Cody. Back in Denver. He’ll be three in a month’s time.”

She picked up the portrait and held it gingerly in her hands, widened her eyes and tilted her head back slightly as she looked from the photograph and back to me. After a moment’s hesitation she said, “I can almost see the resemblance.” Before I had a chance to chime, she pressed forward. “I haven’t seen you ‘round these parts before. What’s a new daddy doing so far from home?”

“The road pays,” I said.

 “In all the wrong ways.” Molly-Sue reached for a new glass.

“That’s for each man to decide for himself. Long as I bring home enough to provide for my boy, God will do right by me. I know that to be true.” The piano grew louder with ragtime and the chatter of the crowd erupted with a momentary uptick.

“A God-fearing man is still a fearing man,” Molly-Sue said.

“Ain’t no man that ain’t.” I tapped my palm on the bar top and pushed myself up. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Molly-Sue, I’ve got to take a leak.”

A few minutes later I was heading back for the bar when the commotion started. The piano playing erupted then abruptly ended with a ruckus of wrong keys pressed too hard, Uncle stumbling back into a few of the dancing girls, an older gray and scraggly bearded cowboy at his throat. “You think you can swindle us?”

Uncle had his hands up by his chin, his fingers fanned wide. “Now, hold on partner, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ain’t no way you could win so many times in a row.”

Uncle squared up and puffed his chest making himself taller than the other man, looked him dead in the eyes. “Guess I’m just lucky.”

The others all stood, too, and circled around him. “He was cheating, I know it,” a younger one said.

I stepped closer with my hand perched on my hip. All eyes were on Uncle and the three men circling around him. “That’s my uncle you’re accusing and he’s an honest man. C’mon now, let’s settle this like gentleman,” I said, but they barely paid me any mind.

 “Check his sleeves,” the third one said as he strode towards Uncle.

The three cowboys pressed toward Uncle, and as they closed in, he clapped the black-bearded cowboy with a staunch fist of red and calloused knuckles. He grabbed Uncle’s collar as he crumpled to the floor, and Uncle threw the man off him, grabbed a chair and broke it over his head. The piano man picked up where he’d left off, not knowing what else to do, he stroked those keys at a breakneck pace, playing for dear life.

The grey cowboy with the bigger belly, who’d seen one too many summers and could surely outdrink any man in the saloon, dropped his hand to his waist to draw his revolver. It was halfway out his holster when I shot him dead between the eyes. My wrist kicked back, my Colt hot and heavy in my hand. Smoke wafted from the barrel and I turned on my heels, watched as all the other cowboys ‘round the table stood and drew too, and I fired off another round through the chest of the young boy, big-eyed and bright-faced, a few springs greener than me. I watched slow as melting butter as he collapsed. I caught his gaze as the light left his hazel eyes, and he stepped forward, clutching his heart with his last breath. I felt something leave me, too. I thought of my boy, Cody. I thought of the pale of this boy’s skin that would never crease. The world froze around me. All air left my lungs, dry mouth gripped me tight, and my stomach wavered, knees wobbled. Dust immobilized midair and the last light of the day shafted through the open doors for an infinite instant as I stood, unable even to swallow my spit. My palms clammed against the ivory of my revolver, and I thought for sure I’d been shot, too, when I felt an arm around my shoulder pulling me down.

I collapsed and looked up to see Uncle’s lips moving but I couldn’t hear his words. He reached around the table and fired three times then grabbed me by both cheeks and shook me wild. “You done damn good, son. Damn good.” He fell onto the pile of gold, his whole raise plus everything the cowboys had been gambling for weeks. He bagged it up in his shirt, stuffed it into a pouch strapped to his belt and turned to me. “When I say three.” He nodded his head vigorously, the gray flecks in his scruff glistened with sweat and his face was pocked with blood. “You hear me?”

I pulled it together, scrambled from my knees to my feet, squatted, ready to scurry. I nodded my head. Uncle reached over and fired off another few rounds. “Three.” We bolted for the door, shooting the empty space behind us. Out the back door, onto the horses, and away we galloped, full speed down the dusty road. We shot like lead out the barrel in a beeline straight toward Juarez.

~

Ten days on, we barely slept. We only stopped off on the outskirts of small homesteads for quick provisions. Though we now had the gold, Uncle couldn’t caution his greed. We stole everything from food to horse feed and in between. We slept only a few hours at a time, always hitting the trail before dawn’s first light. In a small township outside Las Cruces, we were run off by the sheriff’s deputy on account of Uncle’s gang connections, though not before he’d nicked a case of whiskey from the general store. I was awestricken by his goddamned persistence. Peace really ain’t to wicked men. As we kept on down the road I took pace behind Uncle, looking back over my shoulder in fear of who, or what, might follow, though thankfully, as civilization dwindled, we became just a few other nameless passing faces. The landscape stretched on to more of the same, tan, dry, an expansive waste, green only with cacti and dead brush faded to brown. The hot orange sky, high above the mesas, turned to distant peaks as we reached the Rio Grande Northwest of El Paso. The terrain grew rocky, and the brush grew much greener in the surrounding shrubs. Patches of trees with low hanging branches hugged the river and shaded our path. We led the horses off the road down a trail and made camp by the river beneath some trees where we hitched the horses behind some rocks. Beyond necessity, Uncle and I’d barely spoken the whole ride. I built a fire while Uncle washed off down by the river. I stoked the coals and piled on more wood then slumped into a heap of myself on the nearest log. I pulled Cody’s portrait from my breast pocket and thought of him as I stared into the windswept flames dancing upon the backdrop of the fading sun, a gradated blend of purple, pink, yellow, and orange drowned out the vast blue and cloudless sky.

When Uncle came back, he sat next to me on a stump which I’d dragged from the brush. “You shot first,” he said, lighting up a smoke. “You’d make your father proud. Damn proud.”

“We barely made it out alive.” I kept my eyes on the fire. I could still feel the weight on my hip, like a freight train had been strapped to my holster, dragging each step the whole ride since Santa Fe.

Uncle tilted his flask in my direction and unscrewed the lid. “We have you to thank for that.” After a big swig left his chin streaked with bootleg coffin varnish, he passed me the flask. As I reached, I switched the portrait of Cody to my other hand.

Uncle glanced at the drawing as he puffed his smoke. “You know he ain’t yours. You were playing daddy in a whore house.” He hocked then spit on the fire. His saliva sizzled then bubbled over.

I sipped the flask. Despite my gut and a bite of pride, I wouldn’t concede him this truth. My silence spoke for me. I swigged the flask again and eyed the fire as I held it out for Uncle to take. Who was he to say that?

I knew he was right. Lorena had been a lover for a long time, on and off. But I knew who she was. She’d been a working girl and a dancer when we met. She was tryin’ to survive, just like me. Only way she knew how. I couldn’t blame her. And there was something sweet inside her that lured me in. We both fell hard in love. For years, I was never alone when I returned from the road. When I’d met little Cody, only a few months old, something in me changed. I told Lorena right then and there—and she agreed—if she would stop working, I’d provide. I knew Cody might not be mine, but If I didn’t raise him ain’t no one would take my place. And besides, not knowing was better. Every boy needs a man, daddy or not. Uncle taught me that. He may never know it. He may never show it. But under his wing I found grace. Something more than brotherhood, yet less than charity. In all his life he might have never trusted none other than me, except my Pa. If I could give Cody something close, well…

My mind drifted off as I watched the trailing smoke rise from the campfire. I remembered the day I left with Uncle. The local work had all run dry and Uncle swore we’d make it big on the road. I’d promised Lorena when I returned we’d never have to worry about money again. Little Cody was hanging on the hem of my trousers, his hand reached all the way up to my holster. I dropped to my knee and pressed my knuckles into the patchy blond waves atop his head. “You take good care of your mother now, you hear me?” I withdrew my Colt 45 and held it flat for him to see, took his hand and traced his palm across the ivory grip. “One day I’ll teach you to fire this. They’ll call you Cody Quick Hands. Fastest draw this side of Denver.” I stashed the gun, barrel first, back into my holster as I rose to my feet. I gave Lorena one last kiss. A kiss I didn’t know might well be the last I’d ever give her.

Uncle sighed and stretched his fists up wide. “Welcome to Juarez.” I grabbed the flask when he leaned toward me with it. “Welcome to the rest of your life,” he said.

The thought burned inside my gut and drowned in the swirling coffin varnish. I almost held my tongue, but the liquor spoke for me. “We’ve earned more than enough. Give it a year or so, lay low. I can get back to Lorena and Cody and make good new life. Never count yourself out. You taught me that.”

“Son, you’re a wanted man now. Ride back through Santa Fe. See your face on a poster. See how far you make it then.” Uncle puffed his cigarette, the cherry a lone star ember in the freshly fallen night. “Besides, I’ve got the gold. And it’s damn time. I’ve earned it.” His words cut through the cool night air in a trail of smoke. “We’ll find you a nice ranch with a pretty young Chiquita. Never count yourself out. I taught you that.” He swiped the flask out of my hand and downed one big final swig.

Hours after Uncle passed out in his sack, I was still up staring at the glowing coals, the layers of ash, and the black and charred logs still smoking beneath the orange glow of the fading embers. I thought long about the gold and how it could open whatever passage I might choose. I could return to Denver, to live with Lorena and Cody. Or I could send for them, settle all their affairs and arrange for travel. I could start a new life in Juarez and find a way to send something home—write a letter to explain why they’d be better off without me. Or else, vanish like the smoke. I had no way to know what might be best, so I buried the thought. As I stared into the fire, all I could see was red. The way it dripped between the eyes and down the face of the grey-bearded, big-bellied cowboy, and the lifeless eyes of the younger boy as he stumbled toward me, clutching his heart, and fell to his knees, submitting like a pawn to the force of fate. Was it a matter of survival? Of us or them, and this unholy flaw in the grand design? Or was it just a cold blood fact? I’d killed a man. I killed two men. But it was the younger boy who stuck with me most. That moment looped behind my eyes, his mouth slightly ajar, the why in his stare just before his hazel eyes drooped and his jaw fell limp and loose. He’d never roll another smoke nor drink another sip. Never feel the whistle of a cool breeze on his thighs pissing after a long ride, nor feel the satisfaction of the sweat beneath his brim after a hard day hauling hay. He’d never grow old and feel the creak of age in the crook of his back. Never court the pretty, young ladies who reside in his heart and prance through his mind, and nor might I—but it was only fitting, I guess. For a second, as he fell, I fell, too. I felt the whole world go black. In an instant—ended before it began—we were one and the same. I knew everything. Felt all of him. Every part I had taken away. All his pain. All his joy. Heaven only knows if he had a junior back home to be punished for both our sins. When I’d set out with Uncle, I knew what I was in for, so I thought. But I could never have known this. Ain’t no gold in the world could repay such a debt.

A cool breeze rolled through, and I tossed on another log. I watched the fire as the flames grew then looked to Uncle where he lay, snoring with his grey Stetson over his face, his heaving chest rising and falling with his hands crossed over his gullet. As I watched him sleep so sound and solemn, I wondered what amount of liquor a man might have to sustain to cull his baying conscience, or if for some men, men like Uncle, the bells just never ring at all.

Back when we were wrangling rustlers, I looked up to him in such a way that, in my eyes, he could do no wrong. Somewhere along this dark and winding road he’d wandered astray, and I followed heel-toe with every step. God damn him. God bless him. Without Uncle I damn sure wouldn’t have made it this far. But without him a whole other life waits for me. A life I might never lead. Uncle taught me all I know. He taught me so well, in fact, I knew in my cold heart there was only one thing for me to do. And it’s exactly what Uncle would do had our cards been flipped.

Without another thought, I stood. The flames roared and whipped a savage dance, cast shadows. Uncle snored. I hovered just above. Some rage I’d never known boiled deep inside me, and my hand trembled down my hip and my grip tightened before I questioned if I might really do it. And what I did next might be both my greatest sin and the best I’d ever abided by my own gut. You see, sometimes only the devil himself can deliver a man to God. And all gold is a dry and crusted sanguine in the eyes of a fool. I folded Cody’s portrait and placed him in my breast pocket, removed my hat then clutched it to my heart and hung my head in silence. I took one long last stare at Uncle where he slept and gave the sign of the cross. “God bless your soul, Uncle. And may the liquor flow like a river through hell.” I fired one shot straight through his head, my teeth clenched, my wrist jerked and a terrible jolt of sick satisfaction, or maybe relief, coursed through my bones as blood spurted up and leaked down his temples slow. He passed silent, with barely a grunt, and his hat fell from his face with one final twitch.

I stooped down on one knee and traced my palm along his face, made sure his eyes were shut tight, then plucked the gold, bundled in its blood-soaked rag, from the pouch strapped on his belt. I placed his grey Stetson hat in his hands clutched over his belly and convinced myself that he’d finally be at peace. Then, with the heel of my boot, I snuffed the coals. I set the second horse free and broke off at a trot down the road toward El Paso and eventually, the town of Juarez, all before the new sunrise.