- 3 -
She found him at the livery, and when she saw him securing the bedroll behind his saddle, she knew the day she dreaded had arrived. She glanced at the canteen that hung from the saddle horn, then at the Winchester and the Sharps and a short, stubby shotgun in their scabbards. The big horse looked ready for war.
He finished with the bedroll and turned to her. A serape draped his shoulders; a sombrero hung on his back by the neck loop. Low around his waist was the black leather Buscadero rig. He rested his right hand down on the ivory grip of the Schofield.
She went to him, reached up and cradled his face in her hands. Tears were in her eyes. “Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?” she said.
He took her hands. Bringing them down and holding them, he looked into her eyes for a few moments, then he pulled her in close and held her tight. Her face was snug against his shoulder and he felt her tears on his neck.
“No llores, pequeña,” he said. Don’t cry, little one. “For awhile, we helped each other out.”
He pulled back and held her gently by the arms.
“In my way,” he said, “I said goodbye. There are two saddlebags under the bed upstairs. What’s inside is yours, but throw the bags away.”
Her eyes were puzzled behind a film of tears. Gently, he wiped one off her cheek with his thumb.
“Quémalos,” he said. Burn them.
“Estancia,” she whispered. Stay.
He turned to the bay. He took up the reins and led the horse out of the stable and into the sunlight. He looked back at her.
She stood forlorn in the shadows and half light of the stable, rigid but a little crumpled, clasping her arms around her.
Cole Matthews smiled a sad smile. He had been here before. Would no doubt be here again. “Bien, mi pequeña amiga,” he said. Be well, my little friend.
He stepped up into the saddle.
~
He rode north and, after about an hour, came to a fork in the road. There were two signs. One pointed to the left and read, Torreon 117. The other pointed down the dusty trail to the right: El Paso, Los Estados Unidos 412.
He took off the sombrero and wiped his forehead with a shirt sleeve. Glanced up at the sun. He looked at one marker, then the other, down one road, then down the other. They were equally forsaken. Equally desolate.
He put the sombrero back on and brought it down low on his forehead. The day was hot and without even a breeze, so he didn’t cinch it beneath his chin.
He reined the bay to the right and nudged him gently forward.
– El Fin –
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