Wild (8 page)

The boy ran to his father and untied the ropes that bound him. The colonel’s breath came in rough, halting gasps. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Matt knelt beside them.

“Take care of my boy,” he said, grasping the collar of Matt’s shirt and struggling to pull him forward. “Yayauhqui, the priest, brought enough gold for five men to live on forever.”

“Why did he take you and Henry?” Matt asked.

“He said I—”

Henry tugged on Matt’s shirt and pointed at the
hechicero,
who had rolled a small leather pouch towards the campfire.

“Shit!” Matt leapt to his feet, pushed Henry into the grass, and threw himself on top of the boy.

Everything exploded.

EPILOGUE

1886, El Paso, Texas

The knocking woke Matthias up; loud and impatient-sounding, as always. He kicked back the rough linen sheet and looked over at Henry, sleeping on the cot he’d set up beside his bed.

“Mister Jacoby, you in there?” the baker’s boy called.

You’d figure he’d be
more
scared of me now that I’m back from killing wizards and dead folk and the like
. He chuckled as he reached for the door. He squinted as he opened it; the rising El Paso sun was still harsh as ever, but at least this would be the last morning for it. He kicked the door open wide and stood aside for the boy to bring in the coffee, water, and towels. A bright slab of light fell on Henry. The orphaned teenager mumbled and rolled over into his pillow.

“Time to get up, son,” Matt said. “Need to get washed up. Train to catch.”

He handed the baker’s boy a few coins and splashed his face with hot water as the kid let himself out. The razor still felt like heaven even though he’d returned from Las Cruces a couple days ago; almost as good as the hot bath he’d had the night he got back. When he was finished, Henry stumbled over, grabbed a cloth and scrubbed his face. Matt reached under the bed and dragged out a long, linen garment bag, pulled out his best Sunday suit, and got dressed.

When Henry was dressed, they packed up their few belongings and trooped downstairs to the front of the bakery. Juan was waiting outside with a small wagon and two horses.

“Ready,
señor
?” he asked, jumping down to help Matt and Henry with their bags. His left hand was wrapped in clean, white linen.

“Absolutely. No sign of infection?”

“Not at all,” Juan said. “Good thing I didn’t shoot off my whole hand. I thought about it for a second.”

“That would have made it harder to pack your bags, that’s for sure,” Matt said. “You
are
still coming with us?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,
señor
. Besides, I’m still writing my book, and I believe you have a lot more interesting stories to tell.”

“There’s a couple, I suppose.” Matt grinned and pulled himself up into the wagon. Juan helped Henry, then climbed onto the driver’s bench and grasped the reins. The train station was only a short, dusty ride away. The engine ground to a halt at the platform just as Juan pulled the wagon beside the small depot. The doctor whistled, and two porters ran up. Matt and Henry passed their bags down and leapt to the ground.

“Matt! I’m glad to have another chance to thank you before you leave.” Deputy Kearney strode up with Rose, Henry’s aunt, and grasped Matt in an awkward, one-armed hug. “This is the Sheriff’s train, and I’m meeting him. You’re going to Boston from Louisiana, right?”

“Yeah. The colonel’s nephew up in Massachusetts runs a boarding school, and with the boy’s share of that Aztec gold, a good education at Harvard won’t be a thing. Going to be a lawyer like your father, right?” Henry blushed, and Rose swept him into her arms.

“You take care of him now,” she said over the boy’s shoulder. Matt nodded. “And you make sure to write, and come see us.” Henry mumbled something into his aunt’s shoulder, and she released him, apparently satisfied.

“They should be loading your money into the bank car now,” Kurt said. “You’re not going to have to take another case like this for a long time.”

“Neither are you, for that matter,” Matt said. “I’ve half a mind to sit in the car and guard the money myself.”

“You need to get some rest before you catch your death,” Rose said. “I swear, you men don’t know when to take a load off.” She shot a mock-angry look at Kurt and pulled him close to her. Matt tilted his head at the deputy and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Kurt asked. “We had some time to get to know each other while you were gone, what with her nursing me back to health and all. She’s a smart girl; doesn’t take her long to realize a good catch when she sees one.”

“What are you going to do with yourself now?” Juan asked.

“Help Rose around the farm, mostly. Maybe dispense a bit of justice here and there. The sheriff already knows what happened. Telegraphed me before he left New Orleans, said he was likely to retire in a year or two anyhow, and that I’d stand a fair shot of being elected to replace him.”

“I’d tend to agree,” Matt said. “After all, we did put a good dent in the local outlaw population.”

“Sure did.” Kurt laughed. “No more Oliver Gang, Black Tom Catch is
finally
in the ground, and I swear, the thought of Fancy Jim Davis shoveling cow shit for his cousin has done more for my health than anything except for Rose’s chicken soup.”

“I still can’t believe I misjudged Tom,” Matt said. “I knew he was going to turn on us; after all, his reason for joining us was wrapped up when the Oliver Gang got killed. I thought for sure he’d wait until after we’d killed Yayauhqui, though, instead of trying to tackle him alone.”

“Your problem was crediting him with the same brains as yourself, pardner,” Kurt said.

Passengers began to disembark from the train, and Henry hugged his aunt one last time, shook hands with the deputy, and jogged to the counter to show his ticket and find his seat. Matt watched Kurt scan the line of passengers pouring across the platform. His eyes rested on a tall, gray haired man with a close-cropped beard.

“Sheriff,” Kurt called. The sheriff shook hands with Kurt and Juan and kissed Rose’s hand. He stopped short when his eyes lit on Matt.

“Sheriff Scott Jackson,” the sheriff said, holding his hand out to Matt. Matt took it after a moment. “Pleased to meet you,” Matt said carefully. “I do believe we have a train to catch, Kurt. It’s been a pleasure.”

He and Juan said their goodbyes to Kurt and Rose and climbed aboard the train. Henry was sprawled out across two seats with his feet up on another, and moved aside for the two men to sit down.

“Good kid,” Matt said, smiling. Juan sat down across from him, with a curious look on his face.

“Do you have a question, Juan?” Matt asked.

“Several,” the doctor said. “The sheriff, for instance?”

“Definitely a story for another time,” Matt said. The train’s whistle sounded as the engine pulled away from the platform. Matt looked out the window; Kurt and Rose waved goodbye, and Sheriff Jackson stood like a statue beside them, staring at Matt.

“Well, I don’t plan on going anywhere unless you ask me to leave,” Juan said. “So what
can
you tell me?”

“For starters,” Matt said, kicking his boots up on the seat beside Juan and leaning back in his chair, “I’m not really a cowboy.

About the Author:

Lincoln Crisler is the author of two short story collections, and his work has appeared in a variety of print and online venues. He is a noncommissioned officer in the US Army and a three-time veteran of the War on Terror. Lincoln currently lives in Augusta, Georgia, with his wife and two of his three children. In his spare time, he enjoys playing music, cooking and dispensing justice by moonlight.

You can read insightful essays, reviews of genre works and order signed copies of Lincoln’s work at
http://lincolncrisler.info
Photo by Clark Fox

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