Welcome To The Bullpen
Mesquite and Hard Rain
By Matthew Wanniski
John Lull sat on the porch of his sun-drenched adobe looking west as the sun set behind the Davis Mountains. He finished his coffee and struck a match, holding it up in salute to the last rays of daylight as they fled the land. Then he lit a cigarette and leaned back to smoke. Night on the plateau was a lonesome thing for some. You felt like the only person left in the world. It was hard when he first arrived, but he didn’t mind it any longer. The solitude was comforting, and the night brought a degree of relief from the endless summer heat.
It wasn’t an easy place to make a living, but John was satisfied with the life he’d made there. More than satisfied, he was content, perhaps for the first time in his life.
There had been plenty of trial and error. He first tried his hand at cattle ranching, but found he hadn’t the knack for it. Goats proved easier to manage, and they were tougher than the longhorns with which he’d struggled to raise.
It was in farming, though, where he’d had the most success. Over the years he’d established a decent farm, growing cabbage, onions, carrots, cantaloupe, peanuts, and even some tobacco, some of which he traded with the local Apaches. Their acceptance of him was an unexpected blessing. He knew their reputation and tried to be as adaptable as they.
John finished his cigarette. The chair creaked as he stood up and tossed the dregs of his coffee out into the growing night.
It was cooler inside. He lit a few lamps, took off his boots and settled into his favorite chair. He took up his Bible and turned to the page he’d marked with a strip of leather. A reading from Proverbs, it said “A king’s rage is like the roar of a lion, but his favor is like dew on the grass.” What he wouldn’t give to find dew anywhere come morning. But the heat had not finished raging and roaring just yet.
He couldn’t recall a worse summer and feared he’d have nothing to show come harvest time. The hardships weren’t his alone. Word in Fort Davis was that the ranchers of the Trans-Pecos had been hard hit by severe winters and summer droughts, and had lost much of their herds. John knew several who lost all they had and had to pack up and move on to better pastures.
John stayed. It might have been foolish of him, but it was his choice and he was determined to make the most of it, come good or come ill.
Outside the window he heard the soft tinkle of bells from the goat pen and in the distance, the wavering cry of a lone coyote. The drought had made them bold. He didn’t begrudge them, but he hoped they’d stay away from what remained of his stock. His rifle stood ready in the corner, but his home was decorated with enough of their pelts.
He raised his eyes from the page to a piece of stone on the mantle. It was no ordinary rock. He’d found it while panning for gold in the western foothills. Embedded in it was a seashell. It was impossible to believe that where his house stood was once an inland sea, yet how else had the shell gotten there? Before he went to sleep, he prayed for rain. He didn’t expect an ocean; a puddle would suffice.
The sky was an angry blue as he mended the fences along the edge of his modest property the next morning, the better to keep the coyotes from getting after his goats, the ones that hadn’t yet dropped from thirst. His crops were withered dry as death. There was not a drop of dew on the grass. Lord, let me have some rain today, he prayed. Or soon my meals will be dust and stones, he thought. All around was desolate, open country.
And where is that fool boy? He promised to help me with this fence today.
He finished setting a new post as a rider crested a distant hill. A dark, shirtless figure stumbled along ahead of it. A rope trailed from his hands to the rider.
“What do you think, Cotton?” he addressed his horse, a lazy old plug the color of dried clay that was grazing on the other side of the stubbled field. John wished he had his rifle that hung from the worn saddle.
As the two drew near, he could see the horse was a big bay and the rider a stocky young man in dusty boots and plain, faded denim. Something about this man scratched at John’s memory.
The other he knew well.
Well, there you are, boy. Been waiting for you all morning, he thought when he saw the wiry young Apache he knew as Crowing Rain. The boy was between hay and grass, but would make a man soon. For now, though, he looked miserable and every bit a child. Fear flickered in his wide eyes, eyes the color of burnt coffee. John did his best to look relaxed, but couldn’t help but wonder what sort of trouble had found him.
The rider spoke from under the shadow of his hat. “I’m looking for John Lull.”
John leaned tiredly against the post he’d just finished driving into the parched earth, calculating how long it would take to reach his rifle, an old “Yellow Boy” Winchester that had made him a hero at Chancellorsville, half a lifetime ago. He’d try to be ready if things somehow got out of hand, though the odds weren’t in his favor. Cotton was too far away, busily nosing through the thin shrub grass.
“Afraid I don’t know him. He a friend of yours?”
“That’s not what the boy says,” spoke the rider, giving the rope a tug. “Says he’s you.” He looked expectantly at the boy, who cringed in fear.
“Does he now? Well, an Indian might say that, seeing how ‘John Lull’ is a white man’s name and I conveniently happen to be a white man.”
The rider continued on as if he hadn’t heard. “His English ain’t so good, but he knows you and I know you’re hiding something, probably out yonder somewhere,” he finished, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings.
“Now, you can show me where it is, or…” he trailed off, and aimed a big Army issue Colt at the boy, who stood trembling as far back as the rope would allow. “It’s your choice, John.”
John didn’t want to take this man anywhere, but neither did he want to see the boy harmed. Again, he gauged the distance between him and his rifle. Cotton had moved closer. He thought he might just be able to reach it.
When John didn’t answer, the rider said, “You don’t remember me, but I know all about you, John. You came around our house in Pecos often enough. You was sweet on my ma, weren’t you? But she said pa never did trust you.”
John recognized the boy now, but continued to stall. “I ain’t never been to Pecos,” he said. He could see Cotton out of the corner of his eye as the horse moved closer to him.
“Don’t lie to me, John Lull. I know it’s you. Let’s get going. It’s too hot to be standing around like a couple of mules.”
“I ain’t going nowhere“ John answered, rushing to his horse. He had one hand on the bridle and the other on the butt of his rifle when a shot rang out. Cotton’s eyes rolled. He reared and bolted, badly wrenching John’s shoulder and pitching him onto the ground. John came down hard on one knee and got up slowly, rubbing his shoulder.
The rider cursed. The Indian was gone. Good for you, boy. You run. Sometimes it’s all you can do.
“Now you’ve made things harder for yourself,” said the rider. He wasn’t pleased, and he turned his Colt on John.
John shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I don’t want no trouble.”
“Trouble happens whether we want it or not, John. This ain’t my doin’,” the rider said. “It’s all on you. Can’t beat the devil ‘round the stump this time.”
John’s memory twanged again like an old guitar string. His old partner’s wife Molly was always saying things like that.
“You’re Will McDonough’s son?” he asked. “Micah, is it?”
“Nice of you to remember,” sneered the boy. “Reckon it’s a little late now, though.”
John agreed.
“Why’d you leave, John? You and pa were friends! And then, when he got himself caught, you up and run away like a jackrabbit with all the money. Turned your back on us. That ain’t right.”
“Had to,” answered John. “We had a plan. I was waitin’ for when he got out.”
“Yeah, well don’t you worry, John. He didn’t give you up. You might have played him for a fool, but ma knew what you was really like. Said ‘that coward’ll run first chance he gets.’ Said you asked her to go with you once.”
Fine job you did raising your son, Molly, thought John. Couldn’t turn Will against me, so you got Micah to hate me instead.
“Start walking,” Micah ordered.
John didn’t move. “Where we going?” he asked.
“Ma said you liked hiding things near trees. Where’s the tree, John?”
John gestured at the empty and bruised land around them. “Ain’t no trees close by here.”
“I can see that, John. But I know it’s somewhere, and I aim to relieve you of what’s buried under it. Can’t have an old man hoardin’ what other folks be needin’.”
“By ‘other folks’ I’m guessin’ you mean you and your ma,” said John.
“Well, ‘course I do, John. Maybe you ain’t as smart as pa claimed you were.”
“That was a long time ago,” John said.
“Reckon it was,” Micah agreed. He regarded John with a wary eye. “You’re an old man now. Make it easier for both of us. I don’t wanna have to hurt you to get that money.”
It pained John to admit it, but the kid was probably right. My best days are behind me now.
“Let’s go, John.”
“What about my horse?” John asked. “It’s a ways off.” Cotton nervously watched in the distance.
“Forget your damn horse!” Micah shouted. “I’m not standing around in this heat while you try to catch that spooked ol’ nag of yours.” He looked sweaty and tense. “Start walking.”
John did as told. Micah watched him like a hawk as they silently crossed eastward over the arid plain. Behind them, thunderheads dragged their leaden bellies against the somber peaks, looking murderousa blue norther on its way. John anticipated a heavy rain, but Micah didn’t appear to notice the approaching clouds.
A pebble scratched at John’s heel, and he took his time emptying it from his boot. The heat was unending, and the air was growing heavier by the minute. John wished he had the canteen of water from Cotton’s saddle bag, or at least his hat. He felt dizzy. His shoulder and his knee both ached. The sun was in his eyes, and he thought he saw sudden shapes in the shimmering air.
After an interminable time under the baking sun, Micah said, “I ain’t seeing no trees, John. You better find me the one soon.”
“We’re almost there,” John panted. Least I hope so. Haven’t been out here in ten years or more. The heat was making it hard to gauge distances.
Just when he felt he couldn’t go another step, he saw the lone mesquite tree next to the dry creek bed, a minor tributary off the east-west curve of the Barilla Draw. The branches of the tree drooped heavily under the sweltering sun.
“We’re here,” he gasped. Then, glancing at Micah out of the corner of his eye, he added, “Would’ve been sooner if you had let me get my horse.”
“You’re the one jumped for that rifle,” said Micah. “Pa said you were always too ready to shoot. But then he’s the one who got himself caught, not you. Ain’t fair. How many men you kill, John, and then put the blame on pa for it?”
John didn’t answer. Will had preferred to use intimidation rather than violence. It was why he carried around that big old Colt that Micah now held, flashing it like he knew how to use it though he’d only shot it once in his life. Micah, on the other hand, had the look of someone who woke up every morning and practiced shootinga real curly wolf. He turned a hard look at John.
“Start digging.”
John wiped sweat from his face. “With what?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Micah said. “Use your hands.”
John scuffed at the ground beneath the mesquite with his boots.
“It ain’t here,” said John tiredly.
“Start digging then,” Micah ordered.
“I said, it ain’t here,” John repeated. “It used to be, but I gave it back.”
“Youwhat?” Micah stared at him, disbelief in his narrow eyes.
John sighed. “I told you, I gave it back. I gave it all back. What did I need it for? My wife died before we had any kids, and I got no other kin. And when your pa died, I dug it up and gave it back. All of it,” he said. “I got a lawyer and made a secret deal with the bank that said if I gave the money back they’d let me be.” He picked up a handful of sand and watched it fall through his fingers.
Micah jumped down from his horse so quickly it spooked. He drew the big Colt and stalked down the creekbed. John rose to his feet as quickly as his aching body allowed.
“What kind of trick you pulling, John? Don’t you be lying to me. Where’s the money?”
“No tricks, Micah,” John said. “I didn’t rob them banks for their money, like your pa done. I did it for the thrill, and to prove I could. I only saved it for him. So when he died, I gave it back and got my name back and a chance to start over.”
The boy swung his pistol at John. “You’re a damn liar!”
John didn’t like the desperate glint in the boy’s eyes. He knew he was afraid to tell his mother the money was gone. He backed away with his hands out. Over his shoulder, distant thunder rolled.
“I ain’t lying to you, Micah,” he said. “It’s gone. All of it. It didn’t belong to your pa any more than it belonged to me. And your ma wasn’t going to get one cent neither. So, you see, there ain’t nothing here to take.”
“You leave my ma outta this,” said Micah. He blinked and frowned at John, flexing the hand that held the gun.
“Boy, your ma is at the heart of it. She’s why I’m here!” John was losing his temper. His head hurt, his shoulder throbbed, and his anger, once as carefully buried as the stolen money, now lay exposed.
Micah looked confused, struggling with the knowledge that he was his mother’s pawn.
“I never asked your ma to leave with me. She asked me. Begged is more like it,” said John. “I couldn’t do that to your pa and I told her so.”
“John, if you think“ Micah began.
“Shut up and listen! You need to hear this.”
Micah closed his mouth and began pacing, pausing every few steps to glare in John’s direction.
“Your ma knew which bank we were hitting the day your pa got caught. She set us up. It was her way of getting back at me for saying no to her. Only I got away, and she got nothingshe knew I’d only share the money with Will.”
Micah’s face filled with rage and hate.
The sun disappeared behind a ragged, iron-gray cloud, driving a stiff breeze before it. John turned his face to it and breathed it in. It smelled clean.
Behind him, John heard the hammer cock on the Colt. There was a sharp crack! It sounded oddly dampened under the storm-heavy sky.
John spun around and saw Micah collapse to the ground.
Thirty yards away, Crowing Rain sat astride Cotton, John’s rifle in his hands. He nodded to John. John blinked uncertainly at him. He looked back at Micah lying beneath the tree, his blood soaking into the thirsty soil. John ran to his side. Micah’s eyes looked glazed. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Though the air had turned noticeably cooler, John was sweating fiercely as he knelt in the sand and took Micah in his arms. Dark clouds were moving in quickly overhead, so low they seemed close enough to touch.
“Hush now, don’t try to talk,” he said. “You’ll be all rightShhh. We’ll get you back to the house, get you fixed up. You’ll be okay, you’ll see. Let’s get you up. Come on, now.”
Micah made no effort to move.
“Get up, now! Can’t leave you lying out here in the dirt. What would your pa think of that?”
Micah didn’t answer. He was no longer breathing.
The day grew darker by the minute. A bitter wind blew at John’s back while fat drops of rain pattered heavily against his faded shirt. He dragged Micah’s body up the embankment and, using the remaining strength in his aching body, he got him onto Micah’s horse.
Crowing Rain hadn’t moved. John stumbled over and grabbed the Winchester from him. He’d never struck a child before, but he was of a mind to do so then. Instead, he took Cotton’s reins in his tired hands and coolly said, “We’re going home now, boy.” He climbed into the saddle of Micah’s horse and looked into the heart of the storm. I got one last thing to return to Pecos, he thought resignedly. He spurred away from the lone mesquite, relishing the hard rain washing over him.
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