and tobacco, but also of some sweet tonic. A bright red bandana was tied around his head, Apache-style. He was a fierce-looking desert peacock. And a nervous one. For a second, Baldwin had the feeling he might flee.
Maggie was setting a platter of biscuits on the table and laughing at the little dog, when the old man stepped inside. She looked up with a welcoming smile. Then, as her eyes met the stranger’s, her face suddenly changed, the smile disappearing. Lily had stepped backwards and stood with a hand to her throat.
‘Maggie, this is Samuel Jones.’
Maggie Baldwin continued to support herself against the table, a crucifix swinging slowly from her neck.
‘Maggie?’
She straightened up.
‘Ama,’ the old man said shakily.
Maggie studied his features. Then, in a quiet voice that Baldwin had never heard before, and never wanted to again, she said, ‘Get him out of this house.’
‘Maggie?’
‘Get him out of this house!’
Samuel Jones left his flowers and fled with his little dog.
At the sound of knocking, Maggie turned toward the open bedroom window, staring out into the darkness and slowly rubbing her hands together as if they hurt. She knew her husband was in the doorway behind her. She didn’t turn.
She was remembering things she hadn’t thought of in more than twenty-five years, and she didn’t like the fact that she was thinking about them now. She rubbed her face, then ran her hands through her hair.
‘He’s not Indian,’ Baldwin said.
‘I know.’
‘He called you Ama.’
She just shook her head.
Baldwin waited a while before he spoke again. ‘Who is he?’
She didn’t respond.
‘Maggie?’
‘I don’t want to talk.’ The words sounded as if they hurt.
‘Maggie, this is silly.’
She turned and looked up into his face. ‘Please. Don’t ever tell me that anything related to that old man is silly.’
Jones and Mannito had guns out when Baldwin walked back into the barn. This was becoming a bad habit and Baldwin didn’t like it. The Mexican was crouched near the stranger’s saddlebags, his ancient scattergun pointed up at the man at an angle guaranteed to separate the top of the body from the bottom; Jones stood with a small silver-plated parlor gun in his huge fist, a brutal scowl on his face. Baldwin was surprised to see the old man carrying a ‘hideout’ gun. He was full of tricks – and though aged and sick, Baldwin sensed he would be tough to take down.
‘The Mexican was in my bags,’ the old man said in a deathly quiet voice. Then he began hacking hard.
‘Bandito,’ Mannito remarked.
‘None of your funeral,’ Jones said, trying to catch his breath.
‘Put those damn guns down,’ Baldwin snapped.
Baldwin watched to see where the old man carried the little pistol, but Jones turned away and slipped it into hiding without Baldwin ever spotting where. He was slick. ‘Mannito – leave us alone.’
‘Mucho mierda,’ the Mexican called back over his shoulder.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t give a damn what it means.’ Baldwin paused. ‘Who are you to my wife?’
The old man ignored him, squatting and repacking the belongings Mannito had pulled from the saddlepack, his backbone and shoulder blades sticking painfully through his shirt, his neck thin and leatherlike. There was a raw dignity to him, and Baldwin felt sorry for him. He didn’t know why. He knew he wasn’t going to tell him anything about Maggie. And for some reason, Baldwin liked that about him.
‘You can stay a day or two – just keep away from my family.’
Somewhere in the darkness outside, a horse whinnied. Baldwin cut the lantern flame and stepped into the night, wondering at his own sense of misgiving. Something he couldn’t describe was triggering a nagging thing in his brain. He heard a hammer cock behind him. Jones had slipped out of the barn, staying back in the deeper shadows of the doorway where he couldn’t be seen. Nobody’s fool, Baldwin thought. The battered Sharps was resting in the crook of the man’s arm, natural like.
Mannito came next, shotgun at the ready, stepping close beside the towering old giant, sharing the shadow. Whatever was bothering him, was nibbling at these two as well, he figured. They looked crazy side by side: ill-matched and ancient warriors – pointedly ignoring one another. The old giant’s countenance was as fierce looking as any Baldwin had ever seen. Standing there watching him, Baldwin wondered again if he was just show. He turned back to the darkened pasture.
The big bay had her ears cocked forward, staring out intently toward the night. Her foal was looking in the same direction. Baldwin couldn’t see anything, but he was fairly certain there was a strange horse out there somewhere.
‘Hello?’ he called into the darkness.
Silence.
‘Come in and have a hot meal,’ Baldwin hollered into the night. No reply. But he sensed something out beyond his vision. Maybe a rider, he figured, or maybe just a wild horse.
‘They’re out there,’ the old man said, the words sounding ominous.
Mannito nodded.
‘Something, anyway,’ Baldwin said.
The front door to the house opened and Maggie came out carrying her medicine bag. She looked tired and that bothered him, because she rarely got sick or worn out. She seemed to hesitate in the light that spilled from the house windows, then stepped off the porch and walked slowly through the shadows toward the one-room adobe sitting some fifty yards behind the big house. To folks in these parts the little building was known as Baldwin’s sickroom. Old man Jones turned where he stood and followed her with his eyes. Baldwin couldn’t figure him. Or Maggie.
Mannito moved off in the direction of the adobe, and Baldwin knew the little man would wait until Maggie was safely back in the house before he turned in. Jones drifted after him. Baldwin got his rifle, and went for a walk through the darkness. He found nothing.
Maggie had spent the night in the sickroom and she was kneeling beside the bed of the Mexican woman, trying to get her to take some broth, the woman refusing and turning her head weakly away on the pillow. The morning sun flooded through the door and windows of the adobe, making the room bright and clean looking, and reflecting off the rows of medicine bottles on the table.
Maggie mopped the woman’s brow, stroking her long damp hair for a moment, then moved to the children’s beds. A boy and girl, six or seven years old. They were thin and haggard, burning hot, their ragged clothes drenched with perspiration.
