yourself,” she replied, spitting a thick stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of a copper spittoon. “And don’t Ma me. Use my Christian name or put your scrawny halfbreed ass back on the trail.”
“All right, Annie May.” Hatchet Jack picked up a bottle of whiskey from the table and took a long pull, then handed the bottle to Zebulon.
“You got some big fat cojones comin’ back here,” Annie May continued. “Last I heard you was down on the Brazos rollin’ steers and makin’ mischief.”
“No future in steers these days,” Hatchet Jack said.
“I’ll vouch for that,” Zebulon said, pulling off his bloody shirt and dropping it on the dirt floor.
“I’ll just bet,” Annie May said, shooting him a weary glance. “Vouchin’ bein’ a particular specialty of yours. That and poochin’ stray women.”
She turned her head toward Hatchet Jack. “What brings you here?”
“I need to get square with Pa,” Hatchet Jack said. “I mean, Elijah. Finish my account with him.”
“You gone to Jesus, or just loco?” the old woman asked.
“He’s become a healer,” Zebulon explained.
Annie May cackled, slapping her arthritic knees with her palms. “Well don’t the sun just shine. You’re too late, Mister Healer-Dealer. He took his sorry ass to Californie. Who knows where? Now you got me to deal with.”
“It ain’t the same.”
“The hell it ain’t. The horse and traps you stole were mine the same as his. By rights I should plug you for thievery and be done with you.”
Hatchet Jack shrugged. “That’s up to you. I still got a horse to give back, even if I lost the traps.”
“We’ll eat,” she said firmly. “Then speculate.”
She sighed, shifting her gaze to Zebulon, who was slicing up a pair of his pa’s pants with his bowie knife.
“To think you’re all I spawned,” she said. “All that I care to recollect anyways.”
She picked up the bottle of whiskey, studying his bloody chest. “What happened to your pump?”
“I guess I been shot.”
“You guess?” She hobbled over to him and poured the rest of the whiskey on his chest, an act that made him howl more from witnessing the last of the bottle than from the acute pain. He shuddered as she carefully wrapped a strip of pant leg around his chest.
“How come there ain’t no bullet hole?” she asked.
“I wondered about that,” he said.
“Might be the slug passed through you. Who done it?”
“Most likely a pecker-head sneakin’ a card off the bottom.” He nodded at Hatchet Jack. “That’s what he says, anyway.”
“You was there?” she asked Hatchet Jack.
“I come in after the show was over,” Hatchet Jack said.
Satisfied with her nursing skills, Annie May stood up. “Don’t neither of you burden me with your sad stories,” she cautioned. “Or what you done or ain’t done or what you’re goin’ to do. I’m too old for that bullshit.”
She took down a tin of biscuits and a slab of jerky from a sagging shelf. After she dropped the food on the table, she sat down, lit up a curved ivory pipe, and watched Hatchet Jack and Zebulon eat.
“Raise many pelts this winter?” Hatchet Jack asked, chewing hard on the jerky.
Annie May shrugged, then let loose another streak of tobacco juice, missing the spittoon by a foot. “I floated my share of sticks, but the haul was damn thin. Not much beaver, a few muskrats and otter, the odd fox. Hardly worth the trouble. Far as I’m concerned, the mountains be finished. Leastways for this old sow.”
They passed around a second bottle of whiskey. When the bottle was empty, Hatchet Jack and Zebulon lay down on a pile of pelts, too tired to pay attention to the rats sniffing across the floor for crumbs.
Annie May closed her eyes and continued to smoke, enjoying the smell and presence of two snoring men. When the memories of a newborn son and a mountain lover who wouldn’t quit threatened to overwhelm her, she stumbled off to her own bunk in an add-to behind the stove.
~ ~ ~
The next morning Zebulon cleaned out a weasel nest underneath a rafter while Annie May sat by the window, watching Hatchet Jack sort out her meager display of pelts, then cinch and slap them over the backs of two emaciated mules.
“Never thought I’d see both of you at the same trough again,” she said. “Not after what Hatchet pulled with your pa. Not to mention your pa with him.”
“He’s askin’ forgiveness, Ma. That ain’t easy.”
“Forgiveness ain’t in my possibles bag. If your pa was here, he’d give him a taste of forgiveness upside the head.”
Zebulon opened the door and threw out the weasel nest, looking at Hatchet Jack, who was kneeling on the ground, carefully shoeing one of the mules.
“Hatchet’s pulled me out of a few scraps and shoot-outs,” he said. “I owe him for that.”
Annie May shrugged. “You always were a sucker for idiot kindness. Truth is, your heart slammed shut when Pa brought Hatchet back and he tried to drown you in the river. I had to pull you out by your hair. Ever since then, you’ll take any bone thrown to you.”
She sighed, not remembering how much Zebulon had been told about Hatchet Jack.
“I’ll tell you some things Hatchet picked up from your pa,” she said. “Dealin’ off the bottom of the deck. Settin’ someone up and draggin’ him to hell and then tellin’ him he done the opposite. For spite and pleasure.”
“He’s slick all right,” Zebulon acknowledged. “I’ll give him that.”
“Never mind,” she went on, as if she was having second thoughts. “He’s still kin. I raised him almost the same as you, a fact that calls for some measurement, if not in the eyes of the Lord, then from you and me. Poor lost-and-found half-breed bastard.”
She took a deep breath before she finally said what was really on her mind: “Tell you one last thing, son. After I sell my pelts, that’s it for me. I ain’t about to wait for my last days stretched out in a low-rent room over some dumb flatlander’s store.”
“Maybe I should pack you down to old Mex,” Zebulon suggested. “Let the sun warm your bones. Fix you up in some little hacienda with a front porch and a cantina down the street. There are worse ways.”
“What the hell would I do in old Mex? Chew my sorry cud with all them bean and chili-eaters? Nossir.
