Rhizomania, or The Cavalry Gun

“Your brother works for Sayre,” said Doran. “Sayre pays Cesario good because my brother can speak Spanish and English both. Cesario keeps the Mexicans behaving like Sayre wants. But what Sayre don’t realize –” Jorge grinned, swaying, and wagged the forefinger of his damaged hand. “What he don’t re-al-ize, is that a Mexican man is a smart man. How he think we got all the way up here from Cuernavaca and Guadalajara and Tijuana? That’s a long way.  The Mexican man is a smart man, yes he is.” Jorge hiccuped. “Cesario sees all Sayre’s tricks. Animals got sick, and Sayre’s men put them through the fence and they say the steer was poisoned.” “That’s how he done us,” said Shorty, thoughtfully. “He’s going to send me a bill for some of his expensive Dexters that he thinks we gave poison to.” “See his way?” said Jorge. “This was he don’t lose money on the sick ones, if he can make you pay, and then when he tries to get your land, he feels it is a right thing, because you have att...

“Our families go back a ways,” said Shorty. “And I know your mama and daddy. We got some of the same problems, wouldn't you say so? We all get shoved around by the ones that have the money and the big say-so, ain’t that true?” “I guess,” said Jorge slowly, squinting and trying to focus. I’m going to rely on you,” Shorty said.“I know you’re the kind of man who will give me the honest word if I ask for it.” “All us Lujans are honest,” said Jorge, looking down at the broken matchsticks scattered among the tufts of prairie grass. “Everyone around here knows that's the truth," said Shorty, looking at Doran. Doran nodded. "So," Shorty continued, "you don’t think your brother was the one that jumped him” — Shorty indicated Doran with a callused thumb — “last night?” “Cesario never hit nobody in his life,” said Jorge. “He don’t believe in it.” “He don’t  believe  in it?” asked Shorty. “That’s right,” said Jorge. He cleared his throat and spat, ...

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...

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, ...

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 ...