Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel Page 5

  Juan felt sick as he looked at the dead horse and considered all it had meant to him. “You have served me well, caballo, but could you not have lasted a few minutes more? Good grass and water not a hundred feet away and you die? What will the gringo think of me, letting my horse die of starvation?”

  Juan slumped cross-legged on the rocky ground, stared at the animal and lovingly stroked its head. He’d not given it a name. His friend Ramon had laughed at him when he’d first suggested naming the horse, saying you don’t give a name to an animal you may have to eat. Still, it had served him well and even if he had been one inch from death, he would not have, could not have eaten it.

  He had stolen this horse five years before during a raid on Palo Verde, near Saltillo. The whining old patron from whom he had taken it had cried, screamed and threatened as Juan rode away. The next thing Juan knew, Mexican troops were harassing his band. No longer mere bandidos, they had somehow become revolutionarios. The troops swore they would capture or kill them all. But this caballo was so fast it could outrun the best of the animals ridden by the soldiers. It had saved Juan’s life many times.

  Swearing softly, Juan crossed himself and rose awkwardly, his malnourished legs cramping in protest. He turned, narrowed and shaded his eyes to examine the man now emerging from the canyon. Juan clenched his teeth and uttered a barely audible warning. “Gringo, you’d better not get between me and that black stallion.”

  * * *

  Mobley stepped carefully from his position against the cliff wall, keeping his eye on the stranger while trying not to look obvious. He reached for Meteor’s rein, missed his first attempt and felt foolish waving his hand blindly about until he had the leather of it in his hand.

  The man did not appear threatening, but still, one never knew. Of medium height and skinny as a rail, the man held a long rifle in the crook of his arm as he looked down on his fallen horse. His face was dark, with emotion rather than race, Mobley judged, with lips a thin line under a mean looking mustache. He was obviously in distress, perhaps angry, but more likely because of the death of his horse. He made no threatening moves.

  Mobley straightened his back, adjusted his pistols in the wide double wrapped cloth belt at his waist, and nodded almost imperceptibly, acknowledging mutual eye contact. In a gesture of peace, he turned and shoved his rifle back into its saddle scabbard. The man visibly relaxed, but kept his legs apart, balanced for action.

  Mobley knew he was taking a chance, for he had yet to know the man standing before him, but someone had to make the first move and it was obvious neither of them wanted more of the fight. He turned and walked purposefully from the shelter of the cliff. Meteor followed several steps behind. Ten feet from the stranger, Mobley stopped and took time to assess what he saw. Honesty and a direct approach had served him well in the past. That was the way he would play it. In fact, he knew he could do nothing else. It was the way he was. The way of the lurk and plot were not in him. It just never occurred to him. Still, he knew a great many others saw the open and honest man as stupid or naïve. But that was their way. Not his. He accepted people at face value, but never forgave those who violated his trust. If, of course, he could remember what they had done to him in the past, for he generally did not bother storing up bad memories.

  Meteor skittered sideways, nervously sniffing the air already rank with the odor of dead horse and rotten men. She danced lightly from side to side, nickering, snuffling, and snorting. She took a short step forward, as if to nuzzle the stranger for sugar, and then quickly backed away.

  Mobley was taken immediately by the man’s ragged appearance. He was neither Indian nor buffalo hunter, although the rifle cradled in his arms was clearly appropriate for such use. A Mexican, by dress, his vest, pants, and sombrero were unmistakable and of good quality at some time in the past. He’d clearly been starving, but was not yet ready to roll over. His eyes were dark, slightly glazed, his complexion fair against the flush of emotion. The long curly black hair hanging in a plait from underneath his sombrero had not seen a shear in many months; his drooping mustache was full and bushy. The man was in desperate need of food, clothes, a bath and a barber. Still, his posture and the pistol carried and strapped low on his hip said he was not to be taken lightly.

  Mobley extended his hand. “I, sir, am Mobley Meadows, U.S. Circuit Court Judge for the Western Division of Texas. I am in your debt. That was some fine shooting you did from up there.”

  Mobley paused, cocked his head slightly and waited for a reply that did not come. Finally, “You look to be in need of some hot vittles and the company of another human being. I’ve got plenty of both to share, if you’ll join me?”

  Juan allowed himself to relax as he examined the man and admired the well worn and burnished buckskin jacket he wore. It was decorated with red and blue turquoise beadwork on the lapels that matched the band on his broad brimmed hat. A work of art.

  The man’s face displayed a big smile that would have melted the heart of any rational señorita, and was well placed on a large squared off jaw. A judge? The man was tall, taller than any man Juan had ever seen, but not gangly. His shoulders now seemed even wider than they had appeared from the top of the cliff, and his arms were thick with what could only be serious muscle. His hair was a dark curly brown with touches of gray about the ears. Steel blue eyes stared cautiously from within a prominent, intelligent brow, nose straight and narrow. Juan could sense the honesty of the man’s offer. A judge, yes; but the buckskin jacket with Indian beadwork? It did not fit the image. In Mexico, a man’s clothing defined him, a hat often told who he was, what he did for a living. Yes, many things were odd about this man.

  Juan nodded, dropping his head no more than necessary to carry meaning, accepted the big hand and returned its firm grip. He would allow the matter to play out until he knew more, but would stay alert. His response, in execrable English, would have caused his mother to shudder. While he spoke perfect upper class Spanish, he’d had to disguise his English to cover an aristocratic British accent. Border bandidos would not have allowed him to explain. They would have thought him a spy, or worse.

  “Bueno, señor. My name is Juan Antonio Lopez, and I accept your kind offer. My English is no so good, but if you will leave thees food with me while you go round up thee horses, I will prepare for us somethings to eat by the time you get back. What do you have, thees food?”

  Relieved by the man’s response, Mobley turned to his saddlebags. “Well, there’s not much variety, but I’d guess from that bony look in your eye, you’re not likely to be picky. Travelin’ food ought to do. There’s bacon and bean, salt, corn meal and flour, a little jerky. Might even be some hard candy left. You’re welcome to fix whatever you can out of that mess.”

  With a flourishing motion, Mobley untied the pigging string to his saddle bags, then dropped them into Juan’s hands and looped himself into the saddle. The Arabian horses had gathered, herd instinct compelling them to band together for safety, and all had drifted toward the grassy creek a few yards from the Brazos River brush. His mule was even nearby, a half mile or so back on the track. Mobley felt a rush of relief. The mule had panicked at the first shot from the attacking men and bolted for safety, but she apparently did not like freedom quite as much as she had previously thought. Now they would have plenty of supplies for the remainder of the journey.

  As he turned to ride after the animals, it occurred to Mobley that he was exposing himself to great danger. If the man he’d just met wanted to kill him, now was his best chance. But he knew, somehow, the man would not shoot him in the back. There was no tingle, no sense of danger, no fear creeping up his neck. He rode on without turning around.

  * * *

  Juan watched the man, this Mobley Meadows, this juez, his savior from starvation, ride off. He then looked down at the bags in his hand. He shook his head. What was a judge doing out here in the middle of nowhere, wearing a beautiful buckskin jacket that had seen better days, armed to the teeth, and one of t
he best shots he’d ever seen? There remained much to be learned of this character.

  He looked in the saddle bags, found several pieces of hard rock candy wrapped in a paper, licked one cautiously, and then gobbled it into his mouth. The surge of energy was incredible. He rolled it around with his tongue. Ooooh. Strawberry.

  * * *

  By the time Mobley returned, driving thirteen horses and his pack mule, the man he’d left was looking more alive. His dark eyes had lost that strange glazed look and he was steady on his feet. A small fire was burning in a rock-lined pit and a skillet full of beans simmered on a rock partially in the fire. A stack of thin, round, flat flour cakes, similar to some Mobley had savored in the Spanish Quarter of New Orleans many years before, had been carefully laid out on a flat rock.

  Mobley stepped down from his horse, conscious now of elbows and odd angles, not wanting to look the buffoon. He’d never mastered the art of stepping gracefully on or off a horse. Angus used to say he looked like a granddaddy spider feeling its way off a hot stove, but Mobley had just ignored him. His legs were too long for grace and he could do nothing about it. Without pausing, he unsaddled Meteor and released her to graze with the other animals, knowing instinct would keep them together until he could devise a system of hobbles. He eyed the flat cakes, mouth suddenly watering. He squatted across from Juan and snatched one of them up.

  “We’ve managed to come into some fine animals here, Juan. You can take your pick. I figure these old boys owe it to you as restitution for your loss. I’m declarin’ the rest of them forfeit to the court as penalty for their owners’ crimes. We can sell them in Waco for court costs. I’m headed for Austin, but I figure to stop in Waco first. The company of a man as competent with a skillet as he is with a rifle would be a genuine comfort.”

  Mobley tossed the hot cake from hand to hand as he examined it and sniffed the steaming aroma. “What do you call this thing? It looks like somebody stepped on a potato and scraped it off’n his boot.”

  Juan smiled, nodded his acceptance of the horse and travel offer and found himself relieved. He would not have to kill this man for the horse. But ride with him, cook for him? Another matter he would have to ponder.

  “Ah, that, señor? It is just the finest tortilla you will have ever eaten, for it is said among my people that the flavor of my hand is the best in all Mexico. Of course, there is bacon and the frijoles are cooking, but it will be some time before they can be softened and fried.”

  Juan watched the tall judge bite into the soft, warm tortilla, close his eyes with pleasure and rock back on his heels. Juan slowly rolled and munched his own. He’d never been on good terms with a judge, anywhere. Further, he was not sure of this man’s intentions. He seemed honorable, but it was too soon to tell. Juan might still have to kill him. Perhaps he should do so anyway. The man was just another damned gringo like the ones who’d been chasing him. Why settle for one horse when fifteen could make him wildly rich?

  CHAPTER 4

  Juan suppressed his thoughts of murder, wondering at the same time how he could have considered such a thing. He’d never killed wantonly or without justification, but he’d been on the run, angry and hungry for so long, his mind had begun to fray. He’d fought a battle beside this judge, and they’d been victorious. They’d shared a meal. He had his black stallion without resort to violence or trickery. Now the man offered friendship. How could he refuse?

  Juan stiffened himself. He would accept the offer but maintain his language charade until the relationship grew beyond doubt. He looked closely at the judge, searching for information, something to reveal the truth. There were no signs. The man was just as he appeared, open and honest, if not a bit odd in dress and height. Juan had never known a man so tall.

  Juan coughed lightly, arms crossed upon his chest. “My name is Juan Antonio Lopez, señor judge, and I am of a fine respectable family in Mexico. My mother was English, my father Spanish. You will not regret your kindness this day, for I am an honorable man. I repay all of my debts.”

  Juan paused as he considered his life and the extent to which he would relate it while he pondered his bigger decision. “It seems, however, the present leadership in Mexico considers my presence undesirable, and I am forced to admit I am not capable of representing my family in an appropriate manner at this particular time. At some time in the future, when I have regained my family honor, I shall appropriately return your great favors.”

  Mobley could see Juan was puffing himself. He was talking big, but his body language said he was holding something back. Mobley had seen the response before. People were nervous around judges. Those who feared the law feared the judge even more. Deep down, everyone fears a man with such power. It was one of the things that bothered Mobley about the job. He’d always been quick to make friends.

  “Well, thank you, Juan. But, I think I’m the one who owes the favors. If you hadn’t been up on that hill to pick off some of those varmints, they’d be squabbling over my liver right now. What’s more, the odds against either of us surviving were more than poor when you decided to join in. That took a lot of courage. I’m indebted, and I don’t forget.”

  Juan squirmed as he recalled his motivation for joining the fight. He hung his head. This was not right. There could be no more lies. It was decision time, again. Even as he’d thought how he would kill this man and take all the horses, he’d talked pompously of honor. That was the problem. Without honor, a real man was nothing.

  In that instant, Juan decided. Judge Meadows was a man to whom truth must be told. There would be no murder. Juan would opt for friendship, and there must be no deception between friends. Juan stood up, dusted his ragged pants, straightened his back, and let out a long slow breath.

  “Judge Meadows,” he said in the perfect accent of an English gentleman of means. “My name is indeed Juan Antonio Lopez, and as you can no doubt tell from my sudden lack of Mexican accent, I am not what I seem to be. In fact, my father was General Santa Anna, former dictator of all Mexico—the swine—but he does not recognize me as his son. He betrayed my mother and had me cast out after she died.

  I’ve traveled with hard men in revolution against the tyranny in Mexico, and given the chance to return and put the evil men who oppress my people to the sword, I shall most certainly do so. In the meantime, I am without means, impecunious, and have nothing. No one to talk to, no friends, nothing to be proud of in my life. I helped you because I wanted that black stallion and something decent to eat. If you still believe me courageous and deserving, then I must say you are an easy man to please.”

  It was a different man who stood proudly before Mobley Meadows. His shoulders no longer slumped and his defensive posture was gone. Though Juan had been less than truthful about family and heritage, his actions were understandable. There had been no violation of trust because there had been no trust. There was now. Mobley needed a friend and more. He needed help. This prairie was not like the hills of Tennessee. It was a dangerous place.

  “Heh, heh.” Mobley bounced up and down as he squatted, thought about rising, then stayed where he was, knees pointed sharply toward the fire. “Now, if that don’t beat all. I ain’t heard English spoke like that since my last visit to Boston. A nice old man from London, England gave us a lecture about something, but all I remember was how different he sounded. He claimed to be a barrister, or a solicitor, or something like that, and wore a weird white wig just to show us all how they dressed up in court over there. He sounded just like you here today.”

  Mobley paused as he directed his gaze on Juan, eye to eye. “Juan, my friends call me Mobley. There’s no need for honorifics, no Judge, no mister, just—Mobley. My old pappy used to call me Stretch, but he’s long gone and I don’t care for it much anymore. Don’t ever call me Moldy, even if I get to stinkin’ like a week old work shirt. Riles me. That settled, let’s go round up the rest of these bodies and see what we’ve got. Your rig’s a mite scarce. There ought to be one good set of clothes on all these
boys. We’ll let their dead souls make up for their living evil by providing for their betters.”

  Mobley picked himself up, stretched and scratched his belly. He then mounted and rode off to locate the dead men and drag them back near the camp—downwind. They were venting putrid gas something fierce and attracting flies by the millions, but there was no time to bury them before nightfall. The coyotes may have some fun with the bodies during the night, but that was just the way it would have to be. By the time he returned to camp, the sun was low on the western horizon.

  It took Juan somewhat longer to ride up to the high plain, locate the grazing horses of the two men he had killed, place the one remaining body on a horse and ride back down. When he returned, Mobley was arranging a variety of goods on a red and white striped five point wool blanket taken from one of the dead. There were thirteen new Winchester Model ‘66 .44 rim fire rifles, called Yellow Boys because of their shiny brass frames, miscellaneous goods, thirty boxes of ammunition for the rifles, assorted wicked looking knives, thirteen brand new fifty dollar gold pieces, and some mixed Mexican and American coins. Juan unceremoniously dumped his Indian on the ground, lined him up with the others and carefully placed another fifty dollar gold piece on the pile. He looked up.

  “Let’s not forget that one over at the bottom of the cliff.”

  Mobley nodded and both walked to where the Indian had fallen to his death on the rocks. A strange itch was tingling the back of Mobley’s neck, and it usually meant trouble, but this time he did not interpret it as such, just curiosity. Something was wrong with this whole scene, these strange men so well armed and mounted. He couldn’t make sense of it. He looked down at the dead Indian, and toed him in the ribs.

  “This one won’t be difficult to fold in a hole. Looks like every bone in his body is broke.”

  Juan did not respond.