Charlie Martz and Other Stories (3 page)

“I've met funnier guys.” She was turning on a bored look, but still didn't adjust her uniform.

“I'm not joking, Gloria. This is official business. You're looking right into the eyes of the grim reaper.”

She didn't get it. “You wrestle?”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Now you're getting funnier.” She laughed, low, but at me, not with me. “You're in the wrong ballpark, sonny. You couldn't even tie Marty's shoelaces.”

“I'll bet I could untie yours though.”

We probably would have waltzed around a couple of more times, but two sharp raps on the door ended the bout.

I grabbed her by the wrist. “Open it, but act nice. No signs.” I
moved to the right of the door and flattened myself against the wall.

Gloria had been in the game much longer than I had. She opened the door without a word, but not more than three inches before she was telegraphing like hell with her eyes, with a faint nod in my direction. The door slammed. Pulled from the outside. With the bang of the door there was a louder noise. In fact, a few, but they all mixed together and sounded like one big bang. Something ripped through the door, and the lamp on the end table shattered. Gloria broke from the door, took a few steps and then jerked, clenched her fists tight to her sides and fell next to the lamp.

For a second it was quiet. In almost one motion I had the door open and was out in the hall expecting to see Carrito's back heading for the stairs. That's when I made my mistake.

I felt the hot, sharp pain between my shoulder blades the same time I heard the shot. I turned on my way down and opened up; I don't know how many times. Carrito was running down the hall, his back to me, and was almost at the end when I fired. I expected him to freeze and fall backward. Then I thought I had missed . . . until he crashed into the wall. He lay sprawled on his back and didn't move.

I was on my hands and knees. I tried to move my arms, but couldn't. I felt paralyzed and sick to my stomach. Then I don't know . . .

A
GUY IN A
white coat was looking down at me like he was trying to figure out what I was. Cops were all over the place, but mostly around me. I moved my hand up to my chest, underneath the blanket, and was surprised that I was stripped to the waist. An elderly man in a blue-gray suit bent over me.

“You've done us a favor, son, but I don't know if you've done yourself one. Want to tell me about it?”

I looked up at him. “It's a long story. How about later on?”

“Suit yourself, son.” He turned to the white coat. “Get him in a talking mood as soon as you can, Doc.” He yawned, walked away, and the policemen around him followed.

The doctor said, “The wagon will be here soon. Just lie still.”

Next to him another guy was standing with my coat on his arm. For some reason I tagged him for a newspaperman. He waited until the doctor walked away and then said:

“You don't have too much to worry about. Self-defense written all over the place. By the way—this your coat?”

I nodded.

“You doing the puzzle?”

I nodded again.

“No wonder you couldn't get going. You had the first one across filled in wrong.”

I heard him, but didn't pay much attention. Fine time to discuss crossword puzzles.

He was still talking. “I guess it was a natural mistake, though, with you. Must have had a lot on your mind.”

Another guy, with a camera, came up to him then.

“Got 'em all, Jerry. That all?”

“Yeah, that's all. Hey, wait! Want to see something funny?” The reporter brought the crossword puzzle out of the pocket.

“See this guy is doing the puzzle, then he finds that he's stuck. Know why? Look at the first one, across. It's a one- two- three- . . . seven-letter word for corpse. You know what this guy has written in? CARRITO! The guy's a prophet!”

I
N MESILLA IT WAS
the hour of the siesta. The small square that marked the center of the adobe settlement was void of any sign of life. Only the glare of the bleaching southwestern sun danced about the dry fountain in the middle of the square, and against the crumbly, baked-sand walls of the adobe buildings fronting the square. The tall, sandstone Mission bordering the eastern end stood desolate and alone. Occasionally could be heard a faint, hollow clang as a hot wind swept though the arch of the Mission belfry to nudge the massive bell. The bark of a stray dog, the slam of a screen door—only these sounds broke the bright-glare stillness.

Across the square, directly opposite the Mission, stood the Exquisita, Mesilla's only saloon. Its adobe surface was the same bleak structure as the other buildings in the solitary row, except that above the wide doorway, and the width of the building, a supported tin-roof structure extended, awkwardly, eight or ten feet, providing the only shade on that side of the square.

A thick, untidy man wearing a collarless shirt and white apron lounged in the doorway of the saloon. His body was loose and relaxed, leaning against the doorframe, but his face bore a puzzled expression. His eyes were half-closed, squinting against the glare, in the general direction of the Mission. He was the first and only one to see the rider walking his horse slowly up the middle of the narrow street bordering the Mission.

As the rider reached the square, his horse balked slightly, but the rider urged the horse along at the same slow pace. The man in the doorway squinted harder, but there was no recognition on his face. He walked out the few paces to the end of the shade as the rider reached the rail in front of the saloon.

“Howdy, mister. You sure pick a hot time of day to come callin'. You come far? I see you must've come from Orogrande say . . . that's a killin' ride this time of day. Come on in and fresh up. I got a boy that'll take care of the sorrel.”

The rider had only nodded his head in greeting. He dismounted stiffly, unbuckled his chaps, and threw them over the saddle horn before he looked up again. “Just have your boy give her some water. I'm not sure if I'm through ridin' or not. I know I'm ready to have a drink, though.”

“Sure thing, mister. Hey,
niño
!
Aquí
!” He waited a few moments and was about to yell for the boy again, when the young Mexican came running around from the side of the building. The man in the apron said a few words in Spanish, then followed the rider through the doorway, eager to be of service, yet not sure what kind of man he was going to serve.

“Finest saloon in Mesilla.”

“The only one, ain't it?”

“Well, yeah, but that don't make it not the finest. Just ask Smitty there.” He beckoned to the sole customer in the saloon. A heavy, balding man in a tight, tan-bleached coat was standing in the middle
of the bar. One hand was on the brim of a limp Panama lying on the bar, the other hand was reaching for a bottle in front of his empty glass. He eyed the stranger curiously, but answered the man in the apron.

“I cannot argue with you, Martin, when you are the only saloon within thirty miles.” He spoke with a faint German accent. “Come over, my friend, and let me buy you a drink. Every day I have to look across the bar to Martin's homely face. A change will do me good.”

“Set it up, mister. You got a taker,” the rider said as he walked over.

The German studied him eagerly as he approached the bar. He saw a sun-scarred, dust-streaked face beneath the dirty, narrow-brimmed, white sombrero. The face was young, but at the same time old. Maybe just past thirty, but more likely closer to forty. A sandy-colored mustache drooped around the corners of his mouth. The middle part was stained slightly from tobacco juice. His arms hung limply, his left hand almost touching a holstered revolver that hung low on his left hip. As the rider came up to him, the German saw part of the butt of another revolver protruding from his open buckskin jacket. The second gun was under his right arm. Approaching the bar, his strides were long, slow, but noticeably stiff . . . he'd been riding for a good many hours.

“Friend,” said the German extending the bottle, “you walk like you have been riding for a week straight. Come far?”

The rider shifted his position at the bar, facing the German more, but only poured another drink.

“If you have been riding far, from the east, like you came into town, then you must have come through Mescalero country. Word reached town the other day that some of the bucks jumped the reservation and got themselves up a little war party.”

The German stopped and waited eagerly for the stranger to take up the conversation . . . but he had not even looked up from his drink.

“I don't blame you for wearing all those guns, friend. If I went riding through Apache country this time of year, which you can be sure I would not, I'd even get me a few more. Now, what did you say you—”

The rider slammed his glass down on the bar with a loud rap that made the German jump back with surprise.

“Mister, for all them questions you're asking you're going to have to pour a whoppin' lot more drinks down me to get all the answers.”

The German relaxed visibly as he saw a slight smile under the rider's straggly mustache . . . then he smiled himself as he saw the rider's grin broaden.

“And I might just let you pour all you want,” the rider finished.

The man in the white apron had been standing still just inside the doorway while the German had unsuccessfully tried to open the conversation. He had taken the rider's silence as a sign of hostility, so he had been more than reluctant to approach the two men and take the chance of getting in the way of an argument. Especially the kind he had seen so many times in front of the same bar. Now he hurriedly stepped around behind the bar to serve the two men. He let go with a hearty laugh, but it wasn't very convincing. His nervousness had not altogether subsided.

“Take another, gents . . . on the house. Seeing my patrons enjoying theirselves is worth a drink any old time.” He filled the two thick glasses almost to the brim. The bartender was feeling more sure of himself now.

“And so's we won't be strangers drinking together . . . this old dude here is Adolph Schmidt. My name's Martin Huber. Mr. Schmidt meet Mr. . . .”

“Bill.”

“Mr. Bill?”

“No,” said the rider with the same faint smile, “just Bill.”

“Kinda short, isn't it,” said Schmidt, his curiosity returning.

“Smitty, it's long, short, or any way you want to look at it . . . but you ain't given me near enough likker yet. Bill I guess'll be good enough as long as I always come a runnin' when the cook yells it out.”

“Smitty sure is curious about you, Bill,” put in the bartender. “Bet he thought you was some gunny when you first come in, but I could tell right away that you was . . .”

“Look, Mister, you don't know who I am . . . you probably never will know. I could be Billy Bonnie's daddy and you'd never know one way t'other. Now if I was a gunny like you say, you'd be sure using an unhealthy way to find out. What you say we just all stick to our own business?”

“Don't mind Martin or me, we're just kind of starved for knowing what goes on outside the Territory. Like I said before, we heard about the 'Paches jumping reservation, but haven't heard what's happened since. Charlie Martz was in—”

“Charlie Martz!” The rider stiffened and almost shouted the name, but relaxed immediately, as if to hide his excitement. “You mean to tell me old Charlie holes out around here! Well, I'll be go to hell!”

The German again eyes him with interest. “You a friend of Charlie's?”

“Hell, Charlie and me are real old friends. Known each other since about '71. Why he's one of the reasons I'm around this part of the country. Found out he was in the south part of the Territory, but didn't know where for sure. Hell, old Charlie . . . what's he doin' now anyway?”

Martin broke in before the German could answer. “Charlie Martz is the law around here, Bill. He lives up to Doña Ana, but you never find him home. Most time he's up in the hills huntin' or fishin' or somethin', but he comes—”

“Charlie Martz is the law! You don't tell me.” The rider smiled broadly.

“He comes in quite regular lately,” Martin went on, “about once or twice a week for the past month. He does enough movin' around, but he sure don't do much tendin' to the law. Bet the folks up to Doña Ana get rid of him pretty soon.”

“I'm afraid Martin is no respecter of age. Charlie is getting along in years and doesn't have all the enthusiasm that Martin has. He doesn't have all the worthless talk either.”

“What do you mean, worthless—”

“Never mind what it's worth,” interrupted the rider. He looked back to the German. “I've come a long way to see Charlie. Think you can tell me where he'd be about this time?”

“My friend, you are in luck. I can tell you exactly where he is. As a matter of fact, he is coming to my place sometime this afternoon. If you'd care to accompany me home I'll present you to Charlie in the flesh.”

“Smitty here's makin' over a gun for Charlie,” Martin put in eagerly.

“Makin' over a gun?”

“If you please, Martin,” said the German with a show of dignity. “Most of my life I worked as a gunsmith . . . in the east . . . now I have a few cattle, very few, and some crops I raise. Just enough for Flora and me to get along on, and maybe a little more. But my first love is still guns. It is a pleasant pastime, and I take great pleasure in my work. Just ask anyone if my work is not the best.”

“What's Charlie want with a new hawg leg?” the rider asked with more than a little interest.

“Must want it just for huntin', as far as I can see,” drawled Martin. “He sure don't do no work. Like I said, the folks up to Doña Ana are goin' to have his job if he don't do a little sheriffin' once in a while. I bet he ain't throwed down on a wanted man in three, four years.”

“Ach, Martin, you talk and talk and talk!” The German turned from the bartender disgustedly. “Come, Bill, it is time we go . . . thank God!”

The two men walked their horses across the square in the direction from whence the stranger had come. They passed down the street bordering the Mission, then turned right abruptly as they reached the open plain, urging their horses to a trot. In the distance could be seen the alkali flats. The heat still clung forcefully to the bleak, dry land. Both riders pulled their brims down closer to their eyes to afford as much protection as possible from the glare.

“It is only three miles and a half to my place. There I know it will be cooler. We have a stream close by, dry only a month or so of the year. The stream starts up in the peaks of the Tularosas and then slowly . . .”

For the last few seconds the stranger had been looking back over his shoulder toward the town they had just left. The Mission bell tower could still be seen, just over a slight rise in the ground behind them. The rider turned to the German. The faint smile was on his mouth again.

“Charlie ever go to that church back there?”

“I think . . . yes, I am sure he has. I have seen him go in more than once. But what he does inside is something I do not know.” The German chuckled at his own attempt at humor. “But why do you ask?”

“Well, Smitty, I just thought it would be right nice if old Charlie was familiar with the church he's goin' to be laid out in.”

“Ach, Charlie is not that old. He has many good years ahead of him. Charlie will not lie in state for a good while yet.”

“Mister, if you call tomorrow a good while yet, then you'll be right.” The rider no longer wore the smile. He unconsciously shifted the position of the gun and holster under his arm and stared hard at the German. Not a muscle in his face moved.

Adolph Schmidt knew at once that it was not a joke. Still, he tried to smile. Tried to laugh. Better to let the rider believe he thought it a joke. But his pretense collapsed. His companion's eyes were too cold. This was not the atmosphere for laughter.

“What are you goin' to do about it, Smitty?”

“You ask me what am I going to do, and I don't even know what I'm supposed to do about what?”

“You
sabe
English, Dutchman. Don't play dumb. I'm goin' to throw down on our old pal Charlie Martz and old Charlie's goin' to drop dead right at your big feet.” The rider seemed to relax slightly. “No reason why I shouldn't tell you now, seein' as you're goin' to be there anyhow. I got no fight with you, Smitty, long as you act well brought-up and don't do nothin' dumb. I've had my picture in the Express Office too many times to waste words on you if you do somethin' dumb . . . like reachin' for one of your hobbies.”

The German looked at him, bewildered. “But you said that Charlie was an old friend; that you used to know him years—”

“I knew him years ago, but I only met him one time. That was about thirteen years ago up in Colorado. Durango. Sure was sleepin' that day. I come backin' out of the Wells-Fargo Office with an armload of dust bags, and I back right into Charlie's shotgun. Charlie was right pleasant takin' me to Canon City, but the ten years I had to squat there wasn't so pleasant. Yep, Charlie sticks a shotgun in my back one fine day and I lose ten years of my life. Well, I'm goin' to stick my Colt in Charlie's middle this fine day and he's goin' to lose ten years of his life.”

“Ten years?”

“Yeah, I figure Charlie ain't got much more'n ten years to go anyway. Too bad I didn't find him sooner . . . taken me almost three years.” The rider looked up suddenly and saw that they were only a short distance from a small cluster of farm buildings. The house was
neat, clean-looking, freshly whitewashed; but the outlying buildings were in a state of dilapidation.