Nowhere Ch 4 - Trouble with the Stage

The Swing Station was a pile of mud bricks with a thatched roof on the east side of the Mule Mountains. The windows had no glass, only torn curtains that would flutter in their mud sockets on the rare occasions that there was a breeze. But there was no breeze today, and the Bisbee-Grantham station baked in the sun. Give it another hundred years of days like, thought Miguel, and the Bisbee-Grantham station would turn into a proper brick building. The only things that separated the building from a ruin were the large corral of strong horses out back and the telegraph line running through the station and on to Grantham.Miguel’s job as Station Agent was to mind the horses, see that the place had plenty of water, and operate the telegraph. Which meant that most of the time, he sat in the heat of the station waiting for that angry piece of metal to clack to life. All day long, he would listen to it tell tales of coaches traveling up and down the line. Two hours ago it had told him that a stagecoach with four passengers had left Bisbee headed this way. He has spent those two hours staring at the fat flies chasing the smell of the morning’s fried beans. They flew in slow clockwise arcs around the room while Miguel and the mestizo kid who helped with the horses endured the heat. There was a book open next to him on the desk, but in the heat of the day, the thought of turning the pages was ridiculous. It was all he could do to sit at the desk, chin propped in his hand, and breathe through his mouth.When one of the flies dropped dead on his desk with a fat plop, Miguel nudged the mestizo boy, who was asleep next to the desk. The boy rubbed his face and looked at Miguel. Miguel said, “Sais” and the boy nodded and went outside.There were twenty-three horses in the corral. The boy cut six out and formed them up into a team, moving the huge animals, and rigging the harness and yoke with ease and skill. When he was done he took the long reins and walked behind the animals as he moved them around to the front of the station. The stage would be here soon, and if it was to keep the schedule, it would need this fresh team of horses.As the horses stood waiting, the boy walked around with a bag of oats giving each of them a handful in turn. It was a long run from here to Grantham. This was the last station on the line.Inside, Miguel closed his eyes and drifted somewhere just on this side of consciousness. Even as he dozed, he was aware that something was wrong. The stage should’ve been here by now. He struggled to open his eyes and check his timepiece, but he told himself it didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do about it anyway. If something was wrong, he should be rested for when trouble came.At the first sound of the far-off stagecoach, his cheek slipped from his palm and his face dropped onto the desk, causing the dead fly to bounce. In a minor miracle, the fly came back to life long enough to buzz off the desk and drop dead on the dirt floor. Miguel jumped bolt upright and rubbed his chin. That sound wasn’t the stage. It was coming from the wrong direction and was two horses at most. He could hear the boards of an empty wagon ringing from the jolts from the road. He walked to the doorway and fought to shove it open against the accumulated dirt.On the road from Grantham, he saw a man in a broad hat driving an empty wagon. The man waved hello as he pulled into the yard and Miguel waved back. The mestizo boy only had eyes for the horses.Miguel recognized him as the owner of the Miller general store. What was his name again, Virgil? He remembered Virgil’s pretty wife and son working with him and his even prettier daughter that argued with all the customers with the innocent mayhem of a six-year-old girl.“Mr. Miller!” said Miguel.Virgil opened his mouth to return the greeting but just then, they heard the rumble of the stage coming down the hill from Bisbee. The first blast of the horn might have been mistaken for a trick of the wind. But the horn kept sounding and sounding its urgent call.Everyone stared uphill in anticipation of the stage’s appearance on the road down out of the mountains. The mestizo boy cinched one of the horses tighter. The stage always blew the horn for fresh horses. The boy and the animals were both well-conditioned.The horn and the clattering of the stagecoach grew louder and louder. Just over the next rise now. Then the boom of a shotgun echoed off the hills. The horses' heads jerked up. Miguel stepped back through the door and grabbed his rifle, cocking it as he re-emerged. “Get inside,” he said to the mestizo boy who hitched the team to the rail and did as he was told.“Mr. Miller, I do not know what we are about to receive,” Miguel called from the doorway, “but I think you should step inside.”As Virgil ran to the building, the horn fell silent. The stagecoach burst over the rise with a thunderous clatter. It came down the grade at a hideous speed, lurching wildly, tottering on the left wheels and then the right, in danger of tipping over at any moment. They saw the driver fighting to control the panicked animals, but no one was riding shotgun. Behind the stage were three Mescaleros, ragged–looking, but on fast horses and riding as if they had been born in the saddle.As the stagecoach roared passed, the driver looked to Miguel with fear-filled eyes, the silent plea of a man who has seen death gaining on him. The Stage hit the flat in front of the station and bounced hard before settling back to earth with a crash.Miguel put the rifle to his shoulder and fired at one of the Mescalero’s. A miss. Before he could fire again the lead Indian shot the driver from the top of the stage. As the driver’s body pinwheeled into the dust and scrub, the stagecoach hurled, driverless, downhill towards the plain. Miguel fired three more shots out of frustration. None of them had a chance of hitting.Miguel heard a clatter from the corral and saw Virgil riding after the stagecoach on Miguel’s horse. As Virgil disappeared down the road, Miguel yelled at the boy, “Goddammit, saddle me another horse!” ~ ~ ~Virgil lashed the horse with the reins, shouting encouragement to the animal as he rode. he hadn’t had much experience with chasing people. In his old life, he had been the one being chased. As he rode through the dust kicked up by the stagecoach, he had time to feel the fool. Of course, a stagecoach getting robbed was bad for all business, general stores included, but stopping robberies was the stage line’s business first, the Law's business second and none of Virgil’s business at all. But Virgil could do no other. He had seen a glimpse of terrified faces in the window of the out-of-control stage as it roared by. Lost souls if ever he had seen them. His heart had gone out to them. It wouldn’t have happened when he was younger, but now that he had a family, he looked at strangers and instead of seeing threats and opportunities, he saw sons and daughters, fathers and mothers, each a patch in the quilt of humanity.Them as he used to ride with, would have said he had gone soft, and mark him for a shopkeeper. But that wasn’t true. When he was younger, he had been driven by anger and by fear. Now he was surprised to find he was driven by love. If desperate men were allowed to do this to strangers, one day they might do it to someone he cared about.Besides, that station agent didn’t stand a chance. Playing with that rifle, wasting shots. A rifle was an honest man’s weapon and no good at a gallop. A man should only fire a shot that had a chance of hitting, especially with a fancy repeating rifle like that. When things went bad, ammo was always scarce. Miguel was a sportsman; a hunter, no killer of men.The Mescalero’s had pistols, but now there was no one left on the stage for them to shoot. They thought they had won their prize, and just needed to run it to ground.As Virgil came over the next rise he could see the bandits racing along with the stage, trying to find a place in the narrow road to get alongside. But the road was winding downward through the foothills with a cliff on one side, and a steep drop on the other.As Virgil came up from the rear, none of the Indians looked back. There must’ve been more of them to start with, thought Virgil. The man riding shotgun would have gotten a few from the stage, and now these Mescaleros were too angry to let it go.Virgil saw that the road bottomed out and opened up ahead. He took the reins in his teeth and drew both of his heavy pistols. He pointed them both on the same side of the horse’s head. Less likely to shoot the poor animal out from under himself that way. He had a moment to hope the horse wouldn’t spook at gunfire in his ear.As the stagecoach bottomed out on the flat, Virgil came within in range of the first man. He brought the Army revolvers to bear and cocked them. He stabilized his hands, doing his best to let them float free as his body and the horse flailed along through space.Virgil fired four shots as he swung the guns in an arc through the path of the Mescalero back to front. The first shot went wide the second and third hit. The fourth would’ve had a chance, but the Mescalero was already dead and falling from his saddle.As Virgil galloped past the riderless horse, he heard gunshots from up ahead. The second Mescalero was alongside the stagecoach firing back at him. Beyond him, Virgil saw the third Indian lifting his pistol to fire into the stagecoach team.Virgil had just enough time to think it was a cowardly thing, and not what proper Apaches would do. They could be fierce and cruel, but the ones Virgil had known had prided themselves on their horsemanship, and the care of useful animals. As Virgil shot the second one from his saddle, the one in the lead shot two of the stagecoach horses in their traces. This slewed the rest of the team around to the left. It happened so suddenly that the Mescalero couldn’t get clear. His horse was knocked sideways off the road and he flew from the saddle.Horses screamed, leather and wood snapped. Dead animals and shattered tackle ground into the Earth as the stage skewed left, then capsized. The Coach smashed into the earth, and shuttered to a stop, scattering trunks and luggage and debris as it went. Virgil slowed his horse and shot the third Mescalero through the head as he writhed on the ground, struggling to catch his breath. The horses were ruined. Piled up in rope and leather, and broken legs. One screamed intermittently, and the other two survivors panted, wide-eyed, in pain, resigned to death in that infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering way that all horses seemed to have.Virgil dismounted and shot them one a time, careful not to miss. He heard moans from inside the stage but took the time to reload his pistols before he went to help. His hands were practiced, and he slotted the cartridges home, without looking down, keeping his eyes locked on the Bisbee road, looking for more marauders.From the stage, he heard a voice say, “I hope you’re not going to do that to me.” Virgil turned and saw a badly battered man in a tweed suit drop down from the side of the capsized stagecoach. The man struggled as if he was drunk, but maintained his footing. He reached into the inside of his jacket, pulled out a bottle of patent medicine, and took a long swig. Then he added, “although, under the circumstances, it might be a blessing. Dr. Aloysius Krupp at your service.” He reached up to tip a hat he wasn’t wearing, lost his balance, and fell down unconscious.Virgil shook his head and squinted at the road. Still no one on the ridge. He finished reloading the second pistol and walked to the coach. Along the way, he stepped gently over Dr. Krupp, who was snoring quietly in the sun. He climbed up the side of the stagecoach and looked through the broken window at the human wreckage inside.In a pile, there was a large man in a black suit, a hat with a fancy silver hatband, a carpet bag, a lady’s hatbox, a man with a preacher’s collar, a young woman in a fine pink dress, a tattered Bible, and a deck of cards scattered around the compartment.The man in the fine black suit moaned. Virgil guessed it was because the other two passengers were sitting on him. He said, “Mister, you okay?”The question was answered with a louder groan. The woman came to her senses, swiveled her head around and tried to make sense of her predicament. Virgil asked, “Ma'am, can you rise?”The woman looked up at him and scowled in displeasure. But it was not meant for him. She removed one of the Preacher’s hands from her bosom and then slapped the unconscious man across the face saying, “No free rides! Not even for a man of the cloth!” Then she looked up at Virgil and asked, “Sir, can you extricate me?” As she shifted her weight in an attempt to rise something in the pile dug into the man in the suit, who groaned even louder. This in turn woke the freshly slapped preacher who exclaimed, “Has the Lord God Almighty seen fit to deliver us from the savages?”“Aw Christ, give it a rest,” said the man in the suit. “And would somebody get their elbow out my balls!”“Hang on,” said Virgil.He dropped down, cut some of the reins from the shattered team, and collected his horse. He looped one end of the severed reins around his saddle horn and then rode alongside the stage. He tied a loop in the far end and dropped it into the broken window. Then he pounded on the side calling out to the survivors within, “One at a time.”The first one he extracted from the stagecoach was the lady... if she could be called that. She had dark hair and green eyes. As she emerged from the wreckage she revealed herself to be an expensive beauty. Virgil helped her down, trying not to look at her cleavage so he would not feel the guilt of it when he thought of his wife.Next came the preacher, who cried out overmuch for deliverance and fell to his knees in loud and effusive prayer. The last man, in his dark suit, replaced the hat with the silver hatband on his head, held his handkerchief to his broken nose, and leapt down with surprising agility for a man of his size.Dr. Krupp recovered consciousness and took another swig from the flask. He offered it to the Preacher, saying, “A most remarkable tonic for the nerves and spleen. It will settle you right down after an ordeal.”The preacher broke into a hymn, and the man with the silver hatband shook his head and looked to Virgil. “Nevermind God,” he said, “Thank you, sir. We’re lucky you came along.” Virgil tipped his hat and looked back to the road. Still nothing.Virgil felt exposed, but they only had the one horse, so the group wasn't going anywhere very fast. As he listened to their chatter he began to think that *having* rescued them would be more difficult than just rescuing them.The lady picked her way through the luggage that was scattered behind the wreck of the stagecoach. The Preacher continued, hammer and tongs, praying “And for your deliverance, oh Lord, in your benevolence you sent a mighty champion, who slew the Philistines!”Dr. Krupp barked,” you blathering charlatan! Those weren’t philistines, those were savages. Fearsome Indians!”There was a clatter of hooves and Virgil looked up and saw Miguel, riding the left horse of the fresh team. Miguel looked at the dead horses and the dazed passengers and he said, “Verga.” He looked to Virgil and asked, “Señor, did you kill all of the Indians?”Virgil said, “I got two of ‘em. The third one got tangled in the horses when it went over. But they’re not Indians. They just look like Indians. Maybe that one’s purebred, but they’re all border trash. Rustlers more than Indians.”“How can you be so certain, sir?” asked the man in the dark suit.Virgil shrugged, “Look at them. That one is a straight cowboy. And there’s not so many Indians left. These as call themselves Mescaleros, but they’re not much more than desperate men coming from across the border to raid and fall back. Besides, Apaches steal horses, children, women. They aim to take scalps, count coup. They don’t just steal money. They don’t have much use for it.”“What’s your name, sir? How do you have a knowledge of the savage tribes hereabouts?”“My name ain’t important, we need to get you people off this road.”Dr. Krupp staggered over and said, “Mr. Miller, as a token of my gratitude, allow me to present you with a bottle Doctor Amadeus Bartoleermeer the 2nd’s All-Purpose Miracle Cure. The 9th Wonder of the medieval world — thought to be lost to the ages — known to the Greeks as Panacea and among the ancient Pharaohs as…”Virgil look at the bottle from the man’s outstretched hand and asked, “you a real Doctor… Bartoleermeer?”The expensive lady snapped, saying, “No, he’s just a salesman.”“A Doctor of Philosophy. And a customer, a patient first and foremost! Let me tell you of my treatment and my miraculous results with this marvelous elixir.”Miguel climbed up and checked the strongbox that was still chained to the top of the stagecoach. Then he inspected the wheels and the axles and found that all of them were unbroken. He said, “I’d call it a miracle except for the two men who were killed. By rights, all the passengers should be dead and this coach should be kindling.”“And the horses,” Virgil said.“And the horses,” allowed Miguel. “Give me a hand and we’ll put this rig to rights.” Then he cut the tangle of harness holding the dead team to the stage. With Virgil’s help he backed the fresh team around and made it fast to the top of the wagon axles. Then Miguel stood beside the team with the reins and snapped them over the horses with a whistle and a click.As the team pulled, Miguel set his boot heels in the dirt and gave drag on the reins so the horses would not lunge forward, snapping the tackle. The load came on little by little. The ropes creaked, and the stagecoach groaned, but it came up on two wheels. It tipped past its center of gravity and crashed back onto all four wheels. Though it rocked back and forth violently, the battered coach held together.After they had hitched the new team and salvaged what they could of the baggage Virgil quietly asked Miguel, “Leave me out of tellin’, if you would.”Miguel was confused “But you are a hero, and the passengers - they will talk no matter what I say!”Virgil shook his head. “They didn’t see anything. When they tell it, it'll the both of us. When you’re asked, just say I rode with you. I was first to the wreck. Lotta confusion, can’t be sure who did what.”Miguel shook his head. “I don’t understand, but I will do as you ask.” They shook hands and Miguel drove the stage on to Grantham. When the stage was over the hill, Virgil looted the bodies for cartridges. He refilled the empty spaces in his bullet loops and filled another belt besides. Only then did he ride back to collect his wagon, and head on to tend to his business with the flour merchant in Bisbee. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit patrickemclean.substack.com