The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

45

LEE’S SHOVEL, STRIKING stone, echoed louder than he liked. Though the desert stretched away empty below him, only scattered mesquite and boulders to conceal anyone observing him. And who would be out there on the empty land alone? But he kept watch as he dug at the base of the tall rock formation, shale falling back again and again so he had to scoop out the hole with his hands. There: his hand stroked hard leather. Quickly he uncovered the saddlebags, hauled them out and dug feverishly into the two pockets.

The stash was there, the packets of money, solidly wrapped as he’d left them. Pulling out several packs of hundred-dollar bills, he found none of them crumbled or torn as if rodents had been at them, no corners chewed by marauding ground squirrels. He tucked a thousand dollars in his left boot, folded a thousand more in his pants pocket, left the rest in the saddlebags, and tied them shut. He covered the hole, scattered sand and debris across so the ground looked untouched.

Carrying the saddlebags, he headed down the mountain, sliding on his heels in a couple of steep places. At the Chevy he shoved them under the front seat, slid into the warm car, and drove on down, thinking again about the gray gelding.

He knew he couldn’t take the gray with him, that was kidding himself. But he’d like one last look, like to know the gray had found a good home, know he was all right. Easing the Chevy on past the old barn, he turned in the direction of the lone ranch, the old Emerson place.

It wasn’t far, a couple of miles. A pair of stone pillars supported a wrought-iron sign: J. J. EMERSON. Parking the Chevy across the road, he slipped in through the gate, shutting it behind him, and headed on foot up the long, rutted drive. Strange, even with all the hill-climbing and digging, his lungs weren’t bothering him too bad. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush of having the money safe. Rocky hills rose behind the ranch house, sparse with brown winter grass. A herd of Hereford cattle was being moved, worked slowly down toward the corrals that surrounded the faded ranch house. He saw the gray, a kid was riding him, likely one of the rancher’s boys, a slight youngster of twelve or so. The three riders pushed the herd in between board fences that funneled them into a catch pen. Lee watched the kid spin the gray to turn back a reluctant steer, hustling the steer on through the gate but never tightening the reins. He watched the way the gelding moved, loose reined and easy, and the sight put a grin on Lee’s face. He hungered to have the gray back, to have him for his own.

The two older riders began to separate the cattle, moving the younger steers into a long chute. The gray’s rider moved away as if their part of the job was done, eased the gray into a small corral without lifting the reins, dismounted, pulled off the heavy saddle and slung it on the fence. Reaching up, the rider took off the wide-brimmed hat that provided shade from the desert sun, releasing a cascade of long blond hair, bright and clean looking. Lee watched the girl pull off her Levi’s coat, revealing a slim female form beneath her Western shirt. A child of maybe thirteen, a little older than Sammie. A child living the life Mae had wanted to live, the life Sammie had never been exposed to, and that was a pity. Lee watched this young girl doing what she loved, doing what she was meant to do. He watched her remove the gray’s bridle, slip a rope halter on him, and tie him to the fence.

She left the corral, returned with a bucket and carrying a sponge and rags. Lee watched her fill the bucket from a tap and hose next to the fencepost, watched her sponge the gray, starting with the sweaty saddle mark, sloshing the sweat off real good, the gray flicking his tail and tossing his head with pleasure. He liked it even better when she turned the hose on him, sloshed him all over, washed his face and wiped out his eyes, the good gelding snorting and shaking himself and asking for more. Lee looked him over, the good shape he was in, well fed but not fat, his hooves neatly trimmed and shod. The girl knew he was watching, but she gave no sign. She swiped the excess water off the gray’s back and rump and neck with a rounded metal tool. She hugged the gray, soaking the front of her shirt, hugged him again, removed his halter, slapped him on the rump, and laughed as he spun away, running the length of the corral.

At the far end he lay down and rolled, twisting this way and that, making a muddy mess of himself. When the girl turned to look at Lee, her gaze was wary, questioning. Lee knew what she was thinking: This horse had appeared at the ranch running loose, no brand, no mark of an owner. They’d taken him in, a nice horse like this. Maybe they’d looked for the owner, maybe not.

Did she think Lee was the owner, that he’d found the gelding at last, after all this time, and had come to claim him?

It was strange they didn’t know where the gray came from. Lee had bought him not that far away, out on the other side of Blythe. Ranchers, horsemen, they knew every horse for miles.

Or maybe these folks did know who’d owned him? Had old bowlegged Rod Kendall, who’d sold him the gray, had he for some reason not wanted the gelding back? Didn’t have the money, or the man’s health was failing? The girl watched Lee, assessing him, her look far older than her youth.

“Rod Kendall died last fall,” she said. “You the fellow who bought the gray from him? Smoke. I call him Smoke.” Lee was silent, watching her. “He’s not for sale,” she said. “I don’t know how you lost him or why it took you so long to come for him. I figure, you abandon a horse like that for over a year, it’s finders keepers. He’s not for sale.”

Lee laughed. “I didn’t come to buy him. Where I’m headed, the way I’m traveling, I couldn’t take him with me. I just wanted a last look, see what kind of shape he’s in.”

Her look eased. The gray trotted back across the corral to shake mud over her, but when he saw Lee he nickered and trotted over, leaned over the fence nuzzling at him, stirring a pain in Lee’s heart. Lee scratched his neck, scratched under his forelock and behind his ears, then gave him a little push, moving him back toward the girl. The gray laid his head on her shoulder, pushing mud into her pale hair. She scratched his ears absently.

“Just came for a last look,” Lee repeated. “Have to be on my way.” He looked the gray over good, filling up on the sight of him. He looked hard at the girl, wishing Sammie could live like this, with a good horse to love, free of the hard times, free of the haunts that plagued her.

“Means a lot to me,” Lee said, “that you love him, that he’s with you and cared for.” He reached through the fence and they shook hands solemnly. Then Lee turned away, walked back up the road, got in his car feeling old and alone, and headed for Mexico.

He wasn’t alone long when the ghost cat settled beside him, warm and purring, and Lee knew, hoped he knew, that the spirit cat would stay with him for a while, maybe continue to move between Lee himself and Sammie for as long as he remained in ghost form. Who knew how long that would be, until Misto must return to the world of the living? However long, Lee was glad for his company.

So it was that Lee and Misto worked their way south until they crossed the border to travel along the Mexican side; skirting Arizona, moving down into Sonora, Lee looked south across sage and mesquite to the distant gulf, imagining a small village right on the shore, a little empty hacienda waiting for him.

Each night he slept in the locked car, gun at hand. On a night when he’d parked beneath a grove of tamarisk trees, as he lay dozing, the moon filtering light down through the lacy branches, the ghost cat brought him awake, rubbing against Lee’s face. “Just for a little while,” Misto whispered. And he disappeared, gone into another element. Only his last words lingered. “Sammie’s lonely, too, she needs a snuggle, too.”

MISTO WOULD RETURN to ride with Lee, watching over the old train robber as Lee headed at last where he longed to be. And though sadness filled the ghost cat that the old man traveled alone, he knew that could change. This night as Misto departed, willing himself back to Rome, slipping beneath the covers into Sammie’s arms, she woke and hugged him. “Lee’s all right?” she whispered. “You’ll keep him safe, you won’t leave him for long?”

He pressed his nose against her warm cheek. “I will return to him, I will travel with him, just as I will be with you.”

“I saw him dig up money,” she whispered. “Lots of money. Will that put him in danger? Will he be all right? Oh, Misto, will he be safe? And happy?”

“The gods willing,” Misto said, “I will tell you how he fares, and I can bring him messages. Will that please you?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered, hugging him tighter. “But what happens when you must be born again? Then what will happen to Lee?”

“My life on earth is but an instant, in the eternal warp of time. But always, as spirit, I am with you and with Lee, I can move anywhere, into any time. Always I will be with you, we belong together. Wherever I am, my spirit self is near.”

Yawning, Sammie kissed Misto’s nose. Holding him close, she drifted into dreams where for a few moments she felt herself a part of eternity, was lifted up into an incomprehensible freedom that buoyed and strengthened her. “Wherever I am in endless time,” Misto repeated, purring, “I will be with you, forever I am with you.”