Boundaries: An Old West Tale - 1. Chapter 1 Matador Hill

Matador Hill

Riding into the center of the tired-looking Texas town, Virgil Pruitt passed under an old, ripped banner. Flapping slightly in the easy breeze, it advertised a celebration dance for the seven year anniversary of the end of the Mexican-American War. Hard to believe the conflict had been over that long.

“Come One Come All”, it invited, but the dance had taken place months earlier, on February the second. Yet, the faded banner was still suspended across the street, and that told him plenty about the town of Matador Hill. Another thing what had him wondering—weren’t anything close to a hill in sight.

Looping his reins twice over the hitching post in front of the “Copper Hill Hotel”, he looked around. ‘Hill’ again? Where were these damn hills anyway? He chuckled to hisself as he took his time walking around Sally, his dappled grey mare. Weren’t the first town he’d been to whose name didn’t make a lick of sense.

Feeling his horse’s legs thoroughly for any heat, he also surveyed the town with a curious eye as he squatted down. Not much to look at, with peeling paint and patched window glass on many of the buildings along a street a mite too narrow in his opinion. He relied on his gut plenty, and his gut told him this town was not a happy one. Might be someone stole their hill? Chuckling again, he stood up, deciding Sally was cooled out and in fine fettle. Speaking a few soft words to her, he loosened her saddle some.

His booted feet made a clomping noise as he strode across the cracked and bouncy boardwalk and through the swinging doors. The left one hung on a tilt, likely from someone being thrown through it. The dim saloon was about half full, with only one lone customer standing at the bar. Virgil passed him by and took a place on the other end, putting one foot up on the brass kick rail. The big mirror behind the bar, old and smoke-dirty, gave him a good view of the tables and the men sitting at them. There were card games going on at six of them, while a piano and stool on the side beneath the stairs sat unoccupied. One saloon girl roamed the floor, slack-jawed and painted up like one of those sideshow clowns, and he figured she was forty if she was a day. He was being kind.

“What’ll it be, mister?”

“There be a choice?” he asked the baldheaded barkeep.

“Just whiskey if you want to clear the dust from your throat.”

“Whisky it be then.”

The man smirked as he poured half a glass from a bottle streaked with grime.

Virgil eyed the man’s apron, and couldn’t decide which was dirtier, it or the bar-top. “Much obliged,” he said before tossing the man a Liberty silver dollar coin. “That cover it?”

“That’ll get you the glass filled to the brim, and two dimes to boot.”

“Then I guess you should keep pouring, and you can keep those dimes for your trouble.”

“Thank you kindly. Where you from, mister? Ain’t seen you in these parts before.”

“No, reckon you haven’t. Just passing through, up from the south.”

“Not much south of here before you hit the border with Mexico. If you go outside and spit you could darn near hit the Rio Grande.”

Virgil snorted. “That ain’t far from wrong.” He took a slug of whiskey and swallowed. “Lord above, what kind of horse piss is this?” he asked when the burn finally let him speak.

The barkeep laughed this time, showing not more than five teeth in his mouth. No wonder he’d smirked when he poured. “Local brew, and we need be thankful for such. All we got since my delivery didn’t make it through—that’s the way it be lately—but it’ll do the job once you get it down. Second one’s easier.”

“Not sure that helps,” he said, eyeing the half that was left. “Reckon I’ll have to go back across the border if I want some finer drink.”

A shuffle and scrape to his right had him looking sideways at a bleary-eyed man. “You a Mexican?” the man asked, his features twisting ugly.

“Not that it’s any matter of yours, but happens I ain’t. Why you asking, friend?”

“You sure look like you are, with that black hair and the serape you got on you.”

“It’s a poncho.”

“Still Mexican,” the man said, his face getting uglier by the second.

“The U. S. army issues ponchos to their soldiers, don’t it? That make them Mexican? And what if I did happen to be one?”

“Then you’d not be welcome here, or anywhere near here.”

“Why would that be?” Virgil asked, ready to handle the fool who was unsteady on his feet when he pushed back from the bar.

“Lay off, Vern,” the barkeep warned. “He’s a paying customer which you ain’t, and besides, can’t you see he’s got blue eyes? How many Mexicans have them bright eyes?”

“Reckon there’s some.”

“Y’all didn’t answer my question, stranger. Why ain’t Mexicans welcome hereabouts? War’s been over for years, like your sign out there says.”

“Don’t matter it’s over. Don’t change they all be lying, cheating, murdering thieves who think this land and what’s on it still belongs to them.”

“All of them?” he challenged in a calm voice, but underneath he was feeling a fire in his gut.

“Yep. Not a one worth wasting spit on.”

“Quit your yammering, Vern.” The barkeep turned his attention to Virgil. “What he means to say is folks is mighty spooked round here. Been looting and killing and cattle rustling going on—horses too—and enough folks swear it’s a bunch of banditos what’s doing it. They’ve raided stock, grain, supplies like my whiskey, food we need, and anything else worth loading up on wagons—even ploughs and harness—and they’ve burned plenty of folks out once they got their spoils.”

“Makes us nervous about any of you people who show up in our town,” Vern said with an unfriendly scowl.

“You people? Already told you I ain’t Mexican.”

“Can’t blame us for being suspicious,” he said, turning his gaze behind them.

Virgil followed his gaze to see he was getting stared at. Some didn’t look friendly a’tall, but he noticed a boy or young man—it was hard to tell with the lighting—staring intently at him from the railing on the upper floor, and he had a different kind of look as their eyes met. It was one he recognized well, and fired up his curiosity. “Suppose you have reason for it, but raids are going the other way too from what I’ve heard.

“You accusing us?”

“Men take the law into their own hands all the time, especially after they have a belly full of liquor, is all I’m saying.” He held Vern’s attention with a glare. “Like I said… war’s been over for years.”

“Tell that to them,” the man said with lips twisted in a snarl, looking ready to draw his gun any second.

“I’m telling you, so don’t be getting riled enough it’ll cost you,” he said calmly. His eyes flickered to the boy at the balcony, and in that instant he saw him nod toward the table on the back right. There was trouble brewing. “What about the army? Can’t they do something?”

“Regiment ain’t had no luck tracking them down. They say they’ve tried, but just when they think they might be close to getting them, they disappear like wind. No doubt they haven’t the time or the men for us,” the barkeep said, not looking at all happy.

“Don’t seem right to me. One gang ain’t no reason to hate all Mexicans, but maybe your sheriff needs to raise a posse what tracks these men until they do find them.”

“We’ve tried that. Mexican soldiers wouldn’t let us cross the Rio Grande. They just say it’s not Mexican citizens doing the looting, so what can we do?” the barkeep asked.

“Seems like our government needs to contact the Mexican government.”

“Ain’t as easy as that. These murdering thieves got to pay, and we don’t cotton to people coming in our town and telling us what to do.” Vern’s eyes were looking plenty shifty, and Virgil got ready to protect hisself.

“Just a friendly conversation, mister,” he drawled. “Spent the last six months down south, and never met a bad Mexican. They’re a friendly, hardworking bunch what I’ve seen, and they don’t appear confused about borders. They’re just living their lives, far as I can tell. They ain’t your enemy. That gang of thieves is.”

Vern snorted, and then spit on the floor.

“Goddam, Vern. How many times you got to be told to use the spittoon? That’s what it’s there for!”

“What you yelling at me for when this fella is sounding like he’d rather be with Mexicans. Might be we should help him along.”

Virgil heard a chair scrape from the table he’d been warned of, and his Walker Colt was in his hand before a body could blink. “I wouldn’t do that, mister,” he said to the man with his hand on his gun, already inches out of its holster.

Vern was staring at him open-mouthed, likely at the speed of his draw, but didn’t move a muscle. The barkeep, showing at least he was level-headed, broke the sudden silence.

“Bring me you gun, Lucas, and then I want you to leave until you sober up. There’ll be no gunfights in my bar.”

“What about him?” the man asked, pointing his finger at Virgil.

“Well… maybe he has some views you don’t care for, but he ain’t doing anything but making sure he don’t get killed. I want your gun too, Vern. You can get it back in an hour, long as you get out and cool off. Maybe dunk your head in the trough and count your blessings you didn’t do what you were thinking on doing.”

“I weren’t thinking nothing.”

“Then you won’t mind passing your weapon over.”

Vern couldn’t match the barkeep’s stare so he pulled his gun from its holster, passing it slowly over the bar as Virgil watched him watching him. He knew fear when he saw it.

“Sick of this company anyway,” Vern said as he turned and stumbled out.

“You too, Lucas. Move slow so you don’t give this fella any ideas.”

The one called Lucas, a big, well-fed man of about thirty or thereabouts, looked around the room for support, but no one said a word, all eyes still on Virgil’s gun. With a surly expression, he advanced toward the bar. Only then did he touch his gun, passing it over the bar without looking Virgil’s way. He spoke with a slur after he turned his back. “A smart man would clear out of a town he ain’t welcome in.”

“I’ll leave when I’m ready,” he called out as the man walked unsteadily through the doors. Staring at the rest of the men in the room, he carefully holstered his gun. “I didn’t come here for trouble. Feel bad for your losses, truly. I’ll get me a good sleep, some supplies, and I’ll be on my way before the sun gets full high.”

Turning back to the bar, he finished his drink in one long gulp. “I reckon another would suit me, barkeep. Might help me sleep.” The noises of men playing cards started back up, but Virgil kept his eyes on the mirror. The brown-haired boy was still staring at him, and didn’t stop until their eyes met again. Virgil tipped his hat and smiled, and that’s when he moved out of sight. Turning his head slightly, he saw him carrying a bucket past the top of the wooden stairway to the rooms along that side.

“Y’all got some touchy folks round here,” he said quietly to the barkeep while he was pouring. “Thanks for your help.”

“Don’t thank me… nobody but me ever pays when things get broke.”

“You own this place?”

“Had a partner once, but yeah, I own it and run it by my lonesome now he’s dead and gone. Used to be a lot busier when there was more money around. You really fixing to move on in the morning?”

“By noon, I expect.”

“Between you and me, that’s a wise thing.”

“Why’s that?” Virgil asked after swallowing more of the godawful rotgut.

“You’re right about folks being touchy. Had some Mexicans disappear over the past year; ones I considered friends.”

“You think they were murdered?”

“Not saying that, no, but they might have been run off. You know… get a visit in the night telling them they’d be safer on the other side of the river?”

“You don’t say. War turns folks inside out, don’t it?”

“Surely does, and folks tend to forget they’re over. A woman who lived here twenty-five years, long before the war happened, got killed a year ago… no, close to two now I reckon, right after the raids got to being regular. Fine lady she was, but some never were happy she was hitched to a white man. Sheriff decided she fell from her buggy and hit her head, but I don’t believe it for a second. She could handle that buggy at any speed, and her gelding was a steady one. Heard enough talk to be suspicious… I think she was scared right to death. Her boy works for me, and he’s a target too, mark my words.”

“What about the father?”

“They dug a musket ball out of him, more than ten years ago now. Word was it was an Indian what did it, but I got my suspicions there too, though there’s been no talk outside of he deserved it for taking a senorita for a wife.”

“This sheriff… he a decent man?”

“I’d say so, yep, but he’s getting long in the tooth. Does what he can, though, despite he can’t sit a horse long.”

“The boy… he the one I saw up the stairs?”

“That be him. Wyatt Burnham. Lucky for him he got lighter hair than his ma and his pa’s features, though that man was a big one.”

“You really think someone’s looking to kill him?”

“Can’t say for sure, but he’s been beat bad since his ma was found dead on the road. Shows up with bruises and cuts too many times to be accidents. Their house burned down too, and nobody knows how it happened because there weren’t no fire going at the time, and there weren’t no lightning for days before. So, don’t reckon I give him good chances if he stays in this town—and I’ve told him so—since scared folks tend to get nasty to hide away their fear. Getting eyed by yonder, and I need to keep the peace,” he said softly as he surveyed his customers. Virgil noticed it was getting quieter behind him, like some were trying to hear their conversation.

“So, barkeep, you got rooms here where a man might get some rest before he hits the trail?” He made sure his request carried out over the room.

“Surely do. Plenty left to choose from. Two dollars for one night. A dollar more will get you a washtub and hot bathwater brought up.”

“Well, might as well spend my little bit of money while I can. Got a long way to travel.”

“Where you headed, mister?” he asked just as loudly as Virgil had spoken.

“As far as Oregon, I reckon, and maybe farther,” he said before gulping his whiskey down quick. He put four dollars on the bar to cover the room, bath, and his second glass of whiskey.

The barkeep placed a key on the counter after talk from the tables got loud again. “Top of the stairs, turn right and go to the end of the hall. Room twelve. Quietest room I got, and ain’t no one else on that side. I’ll send Wyatt up once he’s got the water heated. Try not to splash too much on the floorboards.”

“I’ll do my best. Much obliged.”

There were two doors at the end of the hall—one facing him—but the one on the left had the right number painted on it, so he used the key to enter. It weren’t fancy, but it would do. He’d spent the previous three months sleeping on hard ground with nothing but a blanket between him and dirt, and some of those nights were damnable cold. He and the other vaqueros knew it was their lot as cowboys, though, moving one herd of cattle south, and then another one north.

It’d been mostly hot and dusty work during the days, but he’d been paid well, and cows were something he understood and could get along with. With this town having lost herds to rustlers, he decided to keep the fact he’d been moving cattle to hisself. Vern and Lucas for sure would jump to conclusions with those bean-sized brains they had.

The bed squeaked something terrible when he laid hisself down, but the mattress had some thickness to it. Sighing happily at being off his feet, he looked around. Flowery, yellowed wallpaper was peeling in the corners, and the faded curtains on the one window sagged on the string what held them up. The washstand bowl was empty, but he had hot water coming, something he considered a true luxury. All in all, it was a typical hotel room, with a chair in one corner and a chamber pot in the other. He should have brought his saddle bags up with him.

A soft tap on the door had him sitting up. He moved so he had easy access to drawing his gun. “Come in.”

The door opened, and a brown-haired head appeared. “You paid for hot water, mister?”

“Yep. A dollar. You’d be Wyatt?”

“Yes, sir.” The door opened further and the young man carried a big, round, metal washtub in and set it in the middle of the floor. It appeared clean enough. “Water’s heating out back. You get two pails first, then two more pails for rinsing or warming the first water up again. Any more I have to charge for. Twenty-five cents. Will that do you, mister?”

“Suppose it’ll do fine. Name’s Virgil.”

Wyatt nodded. “You be needing soap?”

“I reckon I do. How much will that cost me?”

“Not anything. I have some good soap what won’t even turn your skin red unless you scrub too hard. I’ll bring it up with me. Don’t smell terrible bad either.” He smiled just a little, and Virgil was struck with how pretty he was. Damn pretty. His features were fine and his skin clear, and his whiskers looked to have some of that shiny gold though them what his hair did. The bar owner was right… he didn’t look Mexican, despite his blood, though his skin was a mite darker than Virgil’s. He appeared short of a few good meals, though, but that might have been his youth. Still, he looked strong enough.

“Well, Wyatt, I don’t mind paying you for it.”

“No, sir, I won’t take your money. Beholden to you for what you said about my people.”

Staring into big, honey-colored eyes caused a flush in the younger man’s cheeks. He had a shy streak for sure. “Weren’t nothing but the truth I told.”

“And I’m obliged to hear it. No one cares for Mexicans around here, and certainly not a breed like me.”

“I figured. That Vern seems to have a burr under his tail.”

“Not just him. Lucas and some others are ones to steer clear of, especially if they’re full of drink like today.”

“Appreciate you pointing out he was trouble afore it happened. Heard about your ma… and your pa.”

“I saw you and Murray talking. He’s a good man. He tries to keep me safe, but there’s only so much he can do for someone like me.” Blushing again, he turned to the door.

As he reached for the handle, Virgil stood. “Why do you stay in Matador Hill then, if’n you don’t mind me asking?”

He turned around at the question, and Virgil read the desperation on his face. “Where else would I go? Ain’t nowhere else for me right now, so I make do.”

“Any place is better than a town what scorns you.”

“Easily said for you,” Wyatt said, his gaze now on the floorboards.

“So you choose to stay, and maybe get beat bad again… or worse, killed next time?” He wasn’t sure why he cared so much, but he felt the concern to his bones.

Wyatt’s eyes rose, giving him a look he’d seen before on a few men’s faces. It showed his shame, and Virgil felt bad for asking. “I reckon Murray told you that. I don’t plan on letting anyone that close again. Should have known better than to trust someone in this damn town.”

“Who did you trust?”

“Someone I believed was my friend. Someone I thought liked me, no matter I’m not white.” His expression hardened, and Virgil saw he was done talking. Sometimes a man has to hold his pain private.

“The fire’s burning hot so the water should be about ready. Don’t want to be scalding a paying customer.” His smile was flat, and he took it with him as he left the room.

Virgil heard another door open and then footsteps going down. There must be a back staircase behind that end door.

Stepping around the tub to the window, he looked out the space between the curtains as he removed his poncho, and then his holster. He’d been right this town wasn’t a happy one. The whiskey had made him a mite sleepy, so he kicked his boots off and laid his body down.

He didn’t have to wait long before he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, but it was enough time for his eyes to grow heavy. Another knock, and Virgil got up to open the door this time. Two pails sat on the floor, filled to the brim. Wyatt must have a steady hand because there weren’t no water spilled. Steam rose from the buckets. “Need help with those?”

“No, sir, it’s my job… beats dumping shit and piss out the chamber pots and scrubbing them.”

“I suppose it does at that. Not a job I’d want, to be truthful, but honest work is honest work.”

He stepped aside to let Wyatt enter. The man twisted carefully so both buckets cleared the door frame, showing he’d done this many times before. “Not one I want either, but I need to earn my way. You want me to pour the water over you, slow like? Most men do, but I can you leave you be if you’d rather?”

“I surely do want you to pour it,” Virgil answered as he closed the door.

“I can suds up your hair and scrub your back if you want. Some men pay me for it, but I don’t want no money from you,” Wyatt said, suddenly seeming more nervous than shy. His eyes darted around the room as Virgil shucked his shirt and dropped his britches.