Rhizomania, or The Cavalry Gun

Doran jerked his head toward the approaching rider, and looked at Shorty. “Ain’t he going to be trouble?”   At the same time, Doran also found that he rode a bit more easily now — probably because Redboy had settled down with Ben next to him, and the horses mostly blocked his view of the moving cloud of dust. He didn't know what to think.  “Jorge’s not a bed fella,” said Shorty. “He’s had a hard time getting along in life, that’s all.” Now, squinting, Doran could really see the middle Lujan brother, mounted on the bay mare and cutting across the rock-strewn, pitted field to meet them — or maybe to cut them off from the roadway? Shorty began to slow Ben down, and then he brought the sorrel horse to a standstill. Ben was glad to graze, nosing through the tough tufts of prairie grass in search of new stalks of wild alfalfa. Doran brought Redboy around to graze near the same spot. Ben stopped eating for a moment and relieved himself in large splashes, which bent the strands o

Shorty waited impatiently near the left-hand entrance to the Spanish Store as Doran took the gun case from his pocket and moved it to the other side, then buttoned the flap of the left pocket securely. When Doran looked up, Shorty was examining him.  “You done?” asked the older man. “Yes,” said Doran. He looked down at his new boots. Shorty entered The Spanish Store, and Doran followed. At the back of the cool, shadowed room was the substantial figure of Hortensia Lujan, who held a bit of torn brown paper and looked up at her middle son, Teo. Teo stood on a makeshift platform made from stacked wooden packing crates. Hortencia looked down at what Doran thought must be a list on the scrap paper. Then, looking up again, she used her hands to signal her wishes, and Teo shifted items on the uppermost shelf. Next, he carefully removed a few things, setting them down on the wooden crate near his feet. When Shorty and Doran entered, Teo didn’t turn but Hortencia smiled and said, “Cec

Doran thought of Shorty’s rifle, tucked into the sheath on Ben’s saddle, and he couldn’t decide if it was good or bad that he and Shorty had to rely on a broken cavalry pistol jammed against his sweat-soaked lower back. The gun was snapped into its oiled-canvas case, too, because he had no holster. Shorty rocked back and forth on his boot heels, the sandy ground gritting under the sturdy leather soles.  “Me and Doran didn’t come all the way down the road to talk about Teddy Roosevelt, Mr. Sayre.” He took the tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket, extracted a crumpled bit of wheatstraw paper and straightened it. “Your man Cesario called down to the Spanish Store and Cesario’s mama told my brother that there was inquiries about cattle. Wanting to know if they was on our side of the fence.” He dropped a pinch of tobacco into the center of the paper, smoothed it into a long dark line, then moistened the edge of the paper and rolled the cigarette into a tight cylinder.  “Why you think

Dropping the hammer into the dirt, Doran walked across the yard and into the stone house. He picked up the cavalry gun from the plank table. He had no holster, so he tucked the gun at the small of his back, where the long cold barrel against his warm skin bothered him until he shifted the gun up a little and got the grip hooked over the top of his leather belt. “What’s going on, Shorty?” Doran called as he came out in the late-morning sun, pulling the door shut behind him. “Frank told me that Cesario Lujan called from Sayre’s place down to the Spanish Store on that telephone system they put in,” said Shorty. He turned and began to stride toward the barn. “Cesario spoke for Sayre, and told his ma we’ve been cutting the fence and taking his livestock. Cesario’s doing all the speaking for Sayre now, Frank says.” “Sayre’s crazy,” said Doran, following Shorty into the barn. At the low wall where Ben had his long narrow face poked out into the straw-littered aisle, Shorty lea