‘What you drinking?’
The barkeep was close on six inches over six feet, with shoulders wide enough that his shirt was tugged open to expose a spread of hairy chest. The sleeves were rolled up on his biceps, revealing arms that were knotted with muscle that seemed to run down all the way to his stubby fingertips. He had a thick mop of black hair that curled over his collar. He looked big and strong.
The effect was broken by his lisp and the kohl that decorated his eyes. Even more by the paint on his nails.
Backenhauser blinked, gulping in surprise.
Azul said, ‘Whiskey.’
‘Here you go.’ The man’s eyes lingered on Azul’s face. ‘Good to see new people coming.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted the half-breed, picking up the bottle. ‘I’ll bet.’
He paid for the whiskey and Backenhauser picked up the glasses. Azul found a table.
‘I didn’t think you had men like that,’ said the artist. ‘Not out here.’
‘Takes all sorts,’ shrugged Azul. ‘I guess he’s the queen of the Silver Dollar.’
Backenhauser glanced at the barkeep, who smiled and began to wipe dust from the neck of a bottle. The Englishman frowned, shaking his head as he turned back to stare at the half-breed.
‘Why did you stay?’
‘Dumfries could be coming through.’ Azul sipped whiskey, not sure of his answer. ‘If he catches you, he’ll kill you.’
‘He’s not about to let you go free,’ said Backenhauser. ‘And I can look after myself.’
‘You got a gun?’ demanded Azul. ‘You know how to use one?’
The artist shook his head. ‘Never needed to learn.’
Azul sighed. ‘You can’t use a gun. You can’t ride a horse. You don’t know the country. You can’t hunt food, and you can’t build a fire. But you think you can look after yourself?’
Backenhauser chuckled. ‘I guess you’re right. Is that why?’
‘Something like that,’ grunted Azul. ‘So I’ll wait around for the stage.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said the artist. ‘I guess I owe you.’
The half-breed’s eyes got cold. ‘You don’t owe me nothin’. I’m doing this because I figure a greenhorn like you deserves a chance. And Dumfries picked the fight. That’s all.’
Backenhauser looked embarrassed: ‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I guess that what I meant was: thanks.’
‘De nada,’ said Azul. ‘Forget it.’
Behind them, the Negro on the piano began to play the same tune for the third time.
‘Do you really think he’ll come this far?’ asked the Englishman. ‘San Jacinto’s a long way.’
‘Not that far,’ said Azul. ‘A man on a good horse could cross the Zunis in two … maybe three …weeks. We got slowed by the storm an’ the fact that you can’t ride worth a damn.’
‘I stayed in the saddle,’ protested the artist. ‘Didn’t I?’
‘You didn’t fall off too often,’ the half-breed admitted. ‘But that don’t mean you can ride.’
‘No.’ Backenhauser shifted his weight on the hard wood of the chair. ‘I guess not.’
‘I killed Dumfries’s son,’ said Azul, trying to explain to a man accustomed to a different country, a smaller territory. ‘And Dumfries has a reputation to keep up. He owns most of the land around San Jacinto, from what that bartender told me. That means he owns most of the people. It means he fought for what he’s got. Not in law courts, but out in the hills. Doing it himself. He’ll have killed people to get what he owns. Killed them to hold it. He’ll have fought off Apaches and rustlers; land-raiders, most like.
‘He’s his own law, and I killed his son and his top hand. You helped. That means he’ll be coming after both of us. and if he finds us, he’ll kill us.’
‘With all these people around?’ Backenhauser frowned as the black pianist went into the same tune yet again. ‘Surely not.’
‘This isn’t England,’ said Azul. ‘There’s not much law out here. Not beyond what folks make themselves. Mostly it depends on how fast a man can draw a gun. And how accurate he is when he uses it. These people? They’ll stand and watch you shot down.’
‘But you’re one of them,’ said Backenhauser. ‘They wouldn’t let that happen to you.’
Azul chuckled cynically; and poured more whiskey.
‘I’m a half-breed. They’d cheer Dumfries on an’ spit on my corpse.’
‘Jesus!’ Backenhauser emptied his glass in one long gulp. Then: ‘What would you do? Your mother’s people, I mean?’
‘The same.’ Azul shrugged. ‘If a white man killed a Chiricahua, we’d go after him. Hunt him down and kill him.’
‘Like Dumfries,’ murmured Backenhauser. ‘What difference is there?’
‘White men chase harder,’ said Azul. ‘They keep on going when an Indian will get bored and give up, unless it’s something really important. Mostly an Indian will chase until he’s figured he’s chased long enough, then he’ll give up and forget it. Whites aren’t like that: they keep on going. They got a need to own things — that’s why they build houses and fences; parcel the land off and say, “this is mine, don’t trespass”. An Indian knows he can’t own the land: no one really owns the land. You live on it and with it; you don’t own it.
