Edge: The Loner

Within moments hoofs rattled and another young soldier appeared, holding four sets of reins in one hand, three in the other.

“What’s your name, hombre?” the Mexican asked, coming closer, peering with great interest across the fire into Joe’s face.

“I didn’t know there were any Mexicans in the war,” Joe countered.

The man grinned and shrugged, “A few. I was the best.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously in the firelight as he watched the man finished tethering their horses and move across to poke among the saddle and bedroll at the foot of the tree. But he looked no further than the clothes piled on top of the heap, gave a startled yell of surprise that could not have communicated greater pleasure had he discovered the two thousand dollars in the saddlebags.

“He’s a priest,” the man said excitedly, and the others glanced at him briefly before returning their attention to Joe, eyeing him with renewed interest.

“Well what do you know,” the man in command said, and the Mexican crossed himself.

“Put away your guns,” the one who had found the clothes said sharply. “A priest will not harm us and we have no right to treat him so.”

The rest of the men looked towards their leader and after a moment’s hesitation, he struck his own gun in his belt and the others lowered their weapons. Joe saw the tension escape from their expressions, but he remained keyed up.

“You are a Catholic, father?” the Mexican asked reverently.

Joe shook his head.

The Mexican shook his head. “It does not matter. I think you can get dressed now.”

Joe looked at the older man, received a nod and stood, finished his coffee unembarrassed by his nakedness and crossed to where the man still stood holding the cassock. Actually, he was a boy, no more than seventeen, his beard a mere white down that gave his face a vulnerable look. But in his eyes was mirrored a multitude of pain and brutality.

“We are sorry, padre,” he said. “If we had known …”

Joe had seen many such men during the war, tender in years but aged in bitter experience, often more frightened by the authority of an officer’s uniform than the guns of the enemy.

“But you didn’t know, son,” Joe said, feeling nothing for him but injecting softness into his voice.

Out of respect the boy turned his back while Joe dressed, and he acted as a screen for the others, who had squatted around the fire, all apparently discomfited by their elaborate precautions and disrespectful behavior towards a harmless man of the cloth. He was thus able to put on his concealed weapons without arousing any suspicion. Fully dressed, including his hat, he moved back to the fire, accompanied by the boy, who seemed to feel some kind of profound rapport with Joe.

“Mind if we use your fire to boil up some coffee ...?” the older man asked, letting the sentence hang in the air as if unsure of how he should address Joe.

“Certainly,” Joe said and one of the men got hurriedly to his feet, went to the horses for a pot and carried it to the rivers edge to fill.

“Have you ridden far?” Joe asked to end a lengthy silence during which they all glanced furtively at him, except the boy who appeared constantly on the point of posing a request but lacked the gall.

“Twenty miles or so,” the Mexican replied. “We are going home from the war.”

The older man nodded. “That’s right. Jose here to Baja California for some more fighting in the Mex army and the rest of us out to Salt Lake country. We figure to start ranching there. Seems some people can’t get killing out of their systems.”

The man had returned with the water filled pot now and set it alongside Joe’s pot of peas. He wore a puzzled expression, but refused to meet Joe’s eyes.

“How do you mean?”

“Ran into a bunch of five cavalrymen this afternoon,” came the disgruntled reply. “Raiding a stage station. Wearing the same uniforms as us and killing innocent people for a few lousy dollars.”

“We were only fooling when we crept up on you,” the Mexican put in hastily and the older man was suddenly embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s right. Wanna get to a nice part of the country and live peaceful like.”

Joe hardly heard what he was saying. “Five cavalrymen?” His tone was sharp and seven pairs of eyes examined him. He fought a smile on to his face. “I am sorry. I have been a long time riding alone. News is scarce and I am interested.”

It satisfied all save the one who found Joe a constant form of bemusement.

“Real tough, mean bastards … Pardon me. Led by a sergeant. And one was a busted corporal. We chased them out of there, I can tell you. But not before they killed the liveryman and raped a woman waiting for a stage.”

“Which way did they go?” Joe asked, forcing his voice to maintain an even tone. “I wouldn’t like to run into them.”

“This way,” the man answered as the Mexican shoveled coffee into the pot and stirred it with a knife. “They had fresher horses than us and there was nothing in chasing them. Probably came through this part of the country. Heading southwest. Just got killing in their blood, I guess.”