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  “Judge Creighton? Judge Samuel Buford Creighton?”

  “The same.”

  “I heard about that fucker. Whole back country’s heard of him.”

  “Yes,” Marwood said. “He’s a bastard, and so am I.”

  The town marshal hired two men to dig up the grave. They lifted the body wrapped in sixteen-ounce duck canvas, choking back their vomit as green putrefaction dripped from the head and feet of the corpse.

  “Unwrap him.”

  They did and backed away, handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths, eyes watering from the rot fumes.

  Marwood knelt beside the dead man. He got back to his feet.

  “Not him,” he said.

  “What do you mean that’s not him?” the town marshal asked.

  “Clete Stride has his right hand, not a stump. He pulled one over on you, Marshal. Probably paid those hunters to bring in this here beggar.” He looked around the spare field. “Where is Lewis Spaw buried at?”

  “Under that scrag bush, yonder.”

  Spaw had a wooden peg hammered into the ground for his marker. Marwood walked over and looked at it a long time. He could smell the wild sage and cilantro from the surrounding fields.

  “I thank you for offering me your dun horse,” he said low.

  He stood another long minute, and turned away.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ninety-seven days after leaving Montana Territory, John Marwood rode into Nogales, Arizona, on the Feast of Saint Valentine, 1874.

  A group of lawmen waited for his arrival outside a Wells Fargo bank. They sat under black walnut trees lining the main street, smoking cigarettes and eyeing Marwood with resistant stares.

  “You got the warrant?” the sheriff of Santa Cruz County said.

  Marwood tapped his coat pocket. “Right here.”

  The sheriff held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”

  Marwood tossed it down. He waited for the sheriff to verify his legal authorization to take possession of Clete Stride.

  The sheriff folded the warrant and handed it back. “I’d rather jail Stride here.”

  “Take that up with Judge Creighton,” Marwood said. “He figures he’s making enough concessions having Stride rot in Yuma territorial prison instead of hanging him in Montana Territory.”

  “What did Stride do in Montana Territory?”

  “Shot an Indian buffalo hunter.”

  “Hell, is that all? Stride’s been running stolen cattle across the Mexican border down here every winter. He’ll steal them in Arizona, sell them in Mexico, then steal them back and sell them with a running brand to the United States Army.”

  Marwood stuffed the official warrant back into his rough pile coat. He folded his hands over the saddle horn and stared at the sheriff. “Not my problem,” he said.

  The sheriff viewed Marwood with increasing suspicion. He had seen the scalps hanging from his saddle and they unsettled him.

  “You rode damn near a thousand miles to take Stride to Yuma prison?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did, Sheriff. Now are we going to bring this man in, or jerk our pizzles here in the street?”

  “He’s out there,” the sheriff said. “Let’s go get him tomorrow morning.”

  They went out early morning and rode abreast onto the property mentioned. It was a poor estancia abutting the Santa Cruz River. To the west were the cactus-encrusted flanks of the Sierrita Mountains, and farther on from that a long blue line of cordilleras.

  They moved for position through thorn brush and chaparral while the sky lightened behind them. The house was mud-adobe, with a low sagging ceiling and a tin pipe for a chimney.

  They burst through the front door. A Mexican woman stood bare legged in the cocina lighting a wood-burning chimenea. She turned from the clay stove with the lucifer smoking in her hand.

  The sheriff shot her through the breast. She slumped against a clay comal, upsetting a water jug. Marwood had already turned at the door and moved at angle for the only other entryway in the room.

  Beyond the open doorway was a small bedroom. A man’s legs were miserably tangled in the yellowed bed sheets. He was trying to get to his feet and reach a loaded gun on the dresser.

  Marwood kicked Stride’s legs out from under him. The man sat heavily on the floor in his long drawers, his hair tousled.

  Marwood looked down at the man. Stride had a blunt face and heavy jowls. His eyes were brown, hair thinning.

  “I have to agree with the sheriff,” he told Stride. “Riding a thousand miles to kick your stumbling ass out of bed was hardly worth it.”

  Stride was held in cárcel for two weeks. This went a long way to salving the sheriff’s pride while the legal paperwork was routed through official channels.

  On the last day, Marwood took custody of his prisoner. He had a horse waiting for Stride.

  The sheriff met him outside and the prisoner was formally exchanged.

  “Do you mean to say you’re not taking a stage to Yuma?” the sheriff asked incredulously.

  “I’d rather ride it,” Marwood said.

  “It’s across the Sonoran Desert.”

  Marwood had had enough of this punctilious government man. “I thank you for your help, Sheriff,” he said. “You can get back to sitting under your walnut tree and smoking cigarettes. Let’s go, Stride. You got prison chains waiting on you in Yuma.”

  “You are the most uncompromising sonofabitch I have ever had the displeasure to meet,” the sheriff told Marwood. “I will be glad to see the back of you.”

  “I appreciate the compliment.”

  Marwood touched his hat brim with his forefinger. He and Stride rode out of the city of Nogales. The sheriff watched them leave.

  Marwood had Stride manacled on a black mare outfitted with a wooden saddle hull. Stride’s hands were locked tight behind his back. Iron chains ran through eyelets on the saddle to a thick iron ring around his waist.

  Stride complained about the primitive saddle. “This iron gets too hot in the sun. I’m blistering up terrible.”

  “Your comfort is no concern of mine,” Marwood told the prisoner. “Remember, you decide to run, I will put a ball in your back.”

  “I can’t run nowhere in these here iron chains.”

  “That’s the only thing keeping you alive,” Marwood promised him.

  They camped under cottonwood trees at the Quitobaquito Springs. Stride said, “Carlene sent me a wire you was coming. I take it she wanted me to dry gulch you. Had every intention of doing so, but you were so long in showing up I figured you to give up on me.”

  Marwood wasn’t particularly surprised Carlene had tried to warn Stride. “Long in coming?”

  Stride nodded. “That sheriff was right about you. You are hard to figure out. Most men would stage down from Montana Territory. Even out to Yuma. I got tired of waiting on you, mister.”

  “I’d rather do things my way,” Marwood said.

  They rode through a broad reach of Joshua trees. The land was hard and stark, and the distant crumpled-paper hills riffled in the growing heat. A polvo diablo blew through their path, whipping their clothes and horses. It moved across the bleak desert, an undulating spindle of whirling sand, flake rock, and cactus needles.

  Ten miles out of Yuma Marwood stopped at a natural hueco to water the horses. He let Stride off his horse for a piss break. His hands were cuffed in front of his body.

  When Stride returned from the saguaro he had visited he saw Marwood sitting his horse, a gun in his hand.

  “I figured it would be like that,” Stride said.

  “You figured right.” Marwood rolled the hammer back.

  “Is this here about Carlene?” Stride asked.

  Marwood thought. “It’s a lot of things, Stride. Half of which you could never guess.”

  “I ain
’t crawling on my hands and knees for you, Marshal. You and every motherless lawman can suck a pig’s tit.”

  Marwood levelled the gun. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  Ten miles away, on the clear open desert air . . . he heard bells. Church bells peal from the town of Yuma. The tiniest toll of ringing brass. But there was no other sound in the desert clear that could have stopped him at that moment.

  Marwood holstered his gun. “Get on your horse, Stride. Lock those cuffs back around your waist or I’ll kneecap you with a rock.”

  Stride opened his mouth, closed it. He licked his dry, sun-blistered lips. “You ain’t going to burn powder on me?”

  Marwood looked at the bright desert and listened to the bells. “No,” he said. “They’ve granted you a pardon.”

  There were three telegrams waiting for him in Yuma.

  TRANSFERRED NEW MEXICO TERRITORY STOP TAKING YOU WITH ME STOP NO LONGER DEPUTY MADE FULL MARSHAL CONFIRMED U.S. WAR DEPARTMENT STOP

  The wire was dated seventeen days ago. The next was more recent. It read:

  EXPECT YOU STAGE YUMA HYPHEN MESILLA FOLLOWING PRISONER REMANDED YUMA PRISON STOP AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS STOP

  The last wire had missed Marwood by a single day. It had come in while he was out on the desert wide, listening to the bells:

  NEW POST HAXAN STOP SANGRE COUNTY STOP MEET YOU THERE COMMA GOOD WORK STOP

  Marwood sold his horse and took the Butterfield Stagecoach Line to Mesilla on the government’s dime. The coach stopped outside the La Posta Compound within the week.

  Marwood stepped off the stage with the other coach passengers. He strode wearily across the dusty plaza, working his way stiffly through the Camino Real freight caravans, which had shut down for the night. He walked through a massive wooden gate with his war bag.

  The sky burned late fire—a waxing moon. The Organ and San Andres Mountains bracketed the bustling border town like the arms of a sleeping giant.

  He followed a zaguán into a wide patio with green plants and dribbling water fountains. Three Mexican children husked corn in a corner of the patio. He asked for a table and was taken into the main restaurant.

  A waiter brought over a chalkboard with the night’s menu. Marwood ordered porcina and frijoles.

  “Qué quieres tomar, señor?”

  “Café, por favor.”

  The waiter poured his coffee and Marwood looked up. And there, across the room’s divide, sat Captain Botis, watching him with summer eyes.

  Part VII

  . . . the Ashes of the West

  CHAPTER 28

  Marwood stood beside the table. “Captain,” he said.

  “Have a seat.”

  Marwood scraped a chair out, sat at the other end of the rounded table with his gun hand clear of the wall.

  The waiter caught up to him and brought his meal. Botis worked on his own plate of fried turkey and greens.

  “What brings you to Mesilla?” Botis asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” Marwood said. “We didn’t get to many towns when we were riding together.”

  “No,” Botis agreed. “We did not have the opportunity.” He scrutinized Marwood’s face, his clothes. “I heard you took the badge up north.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How far you willing to ride that river?” Botis waited.

  “You are a wanted man, Captain. There is paper out on you.”

  “Son, you and I are beyond the simplicity of paper,” Botis said.

  “Yes,” Marwood agreed, “I believe that is so. What are you doing here in Mesilla, Captain?”

  “I had to be here. It was ordained.”

  Both men bent to their plates and ate. After he finished eating Botis lighted a black cigarillo. He sat with one hand on the table and the other on his knee.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. The cigarillo was cocked between his fingers. “Why did you ride with me?”

  Marwood’s voice was thick with reflection. “Because I liked it,” he said. “It was the one time I remember being truly happy. When we were killing our horses and drinking their blood on the Llano, I was content.”

  Botis nodded. “Yes, even then. I saw that light in you the first time we met.” He plucked the pince-nez spectacles from his vest pocket, squared them on the bridge of his nose with his accustomed ease. “But, now when I look at you, I see a wholly different man. A man I do not recognize.” His voice was without warmth. Not accusatory so much as evaluative.

  “I suppose I have changed in ways,” Marwood allowed. “I won’t say they’re all for the better.”

  A young man began to play a Spanish guitar on the far side of the restaurant. The song was “Lágrima.” Men stood around him, listening to the music, keeping their thoughts to themselves. One of the men wiped his eyes.

  Botis turned from the scene. “Every man’s life whittles down to a point,” he said. “When a man is at this crossroads he has to decide whether he goes forward or back. It is a decision every man must face at least once in his life, if he wants to be considered a man. Most men choose the easy path. It is a choice they regret when they are sitting alone in a darkened room and the weight of their decision has them by the throat.”

  The young man on the guitar played an arpeggiated minor chord. A woman who worked at the restaurant climbed up on a chair and began to sing a sad corrido. The man who had been crying was now smiling.

  “Then there are those men who choose the second path,” Botis said. “These are the men history remembers, or the men who write the histories themselves. But there are yet other men. Men like you and men like me. Those men who don’t choose paths. Men who never turn back or go forward but stand in one place and challenge all who come before them. And it is from these challenges, and these successes, that the paths other men take are made. Without these men there are no paths to be had, no choices to make. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I think so.”

  “Yes, I believe you do.” Botis flicked ash and drew on his small cigar. “It’s a shame we cannot ride together like we used to. They have all gone under. Did you ever notice how everyone in my company started dying when you came aboard?” He stubbed the cigarillo out. “So turns the world into kingdom night.”

  “You still have that horse?” Marwood asked.

  Botis wiped his mouth with a napkin. He folded it, placed it aside, and rose from the table. “Yes. Acheron awaits our presence.”

  They walked side by side, turning the corner at the Corn Exchange Hotel. Then they followed a dirt street past the Basilica of San Albino and down a winding path edged with ocotillo, purple nopal, and sporadic clumps of wiregrass. Moonlight glittered on the quiet acequias while bats flitted between the stars.

  At last they went through a squeaky iron gate and entered a quiet cemetery.

  Cairn headstones and iron bedsteads served as markers for most of the unknown graves. They were out a ways from the central plaza of Mesilla. Someone had been burning leaves during the day; the wind had taken the ashes and scoured them all over the graveyard. It was peaceful yet somber, the way it always is in the desert wide when men are prepared to die.

  “I love this land,” Botis said. “My God, I love it with my life.”

  Acheron, blue marble carved, stood under the pale moonlight, swishing his tail back and forth. His eyes were black fathomless pits. He shook his head and the metal bits of his bridle jingled. Botis had unsaddled the horse; it rested at the foot of an unmarked headstone.

  They walked up on a freshly dug grave. Botis removed his hat and threw it onto the turned mound of earth. He started to undress. Marwood did the same.

  Botis stripped to his waist. His fat muscles were like stones beneath his oil-sweat skin. Marwood glimpsed the running brand scrawled across his back—a single word of lingua lost in time. A name
unspeakable; an ancient power.

  He saw Marwood’s scars. “Ah,” he said, “now I understand. So does the circle close upon two Lone Men.”

  Both stripped to just their trousers and boots. Botis pulled his knife. The blade gleamed. Marwood flicked out his skinning knife and locked the blade.

  “Do you think you are the only man to come west, searching for something he lost?” Botis asked.

  “No,” Marwood answered. “But I have found it now.”

  “Then let us down into the killing bottle.”

  Botis jumped into the open grave. Marwood followed him. Their world turned into a rectangle of scarred earth, dangling cactus roots. Night-sky black, powdered with star frost.

  There wasn’t much room for killing, but killing was all they had left between them. Botis lunged. Marwood parried the thrust with the haft of his knife. He raked at the eyes of the man with the nails of his left hand. Botis leapt back to avoid being blinded. Loose sand and rock spilled from the sides of the grave, and choked them both.

  They slammed into each other and grappled. On the desert, Marwood had watched two Gila monsters fight each other to the death—black and red beaded bodies, their limbs straining, lungs pumping, each waiting for the other combatant to tire under the grueling sun.

  That’s how Marwood and Botis fought. They remained locked and intertwined at the bottom of the grave as if frozen in amber—one man lying half on top of the other, legs wrapped and straining, arms struggling to hold knives away from heart and throat. Sand spilled from the edge of the grave—a coarse rain. There was no air. Botis moved an inch, seeking an opening. Marwood counter-moved, tried to shift his weight to leverage his arm under Botis’s throat. Botis used a knee to anchor himself against the grave wall, fend off the attack, and avert disaster.

  They were dying for want of air, and both men knew it—they were already half-buried as it was. Primitive instinct, the great leveller of science and reason, took hold in a sudden frenzy of will. They became snarling, circling demons lying in the bottom of the black grave, with wintry things awakened full in their hearts, roaring and uncoiling in hell-flame fury. In paired nisus they fought while the window of life narrowed along twin lines of convergence.