One Cup

A Story by Naylor142

A hard gambler in 1880 Arizona territory faces a terrible choice.

One Cup

By J. Arthur McGee

Consciousness dawns slowly. Intense heat comes with it. My body burns as though I’m next to a raging fire. The heat constricts my chest. I can only take shallow, wincing breaths. Slowly, I open my eyes. I blink against the bright sun. Shimmering before me is a vast, barren landscape.

Closing my eyes against a pounding headache I struggle to piece together what happened and where I am. Images and sounds flash, like lightning through my mind.

Boots scuffled on a hard-packed dirt floor.

Parlor tunes and a square piano.

The ace of hearts.

An Angel? No, Angel Springs. And I remember.

I choose towns with the easy pickings of miners, cowboys or soldiers. These men easily fell victim to my skill with cards and guns governed by a hard soul with no mercy. Five card draw was that night’s game. As my stack of money grew, a lanky cowboy from across the table leaned forward, put his fist to his chin, narrowed his eyes, and glared at me. After a moment, his eyes widened with recognition.

“I’ll be dammed!” he exclaimed, “You’re Barlow Kindcaid!”

At that name, the easy talk around the table turned to deathly silence. Tanned, weathered faces with eyes suddenly turned cold as January bored into me. I’d been in these situations before. With a steady hand I pushed the brim of my hat up and calmly stared back. Saying nothing, I slowly stood with my palms out then eased my hands forward for my money. The corner of the ace of hearts was visible beneath my cuff. The cowboy drew first. I was faster. Guns roared. Men fell. Acrid smoke fogged the room. A bullet slammed hard on my right hip and turned me. I lunged toward the open door. Mounting the first horse I came to; I raced toward the mountains.

Now, with my back to a boulder, the stolen horse dead and bloated beside me, tongue thick and cracked, and emboldened by the circling vultures, I shake the cobwebs from my head, I need water!

My lower right torso throbs. Gritting my teeth, I peel my stiff, blood-soaked shirt away from it. The bullet had entered low in my right side then exited out my flank. The skin around the wound is red and tender. A wave of nausea ripples up from my stomach. Sand, rocks and sky mix in a storm of dizziness. Closing my eyes, I lay my head back against the rock and wait. After a few moments I can open my eyes. Searching the area in front of me I can make out a low ridge about two miles away. Grimacing, I use the boulder as support and ease up till I’m standing. Panting and feeling faint, I slowly add as much weight as pain will allow. It’ll hold. Pulling my hat low over my eyes, I limp out into an endless sandy abyss.

Approaching the ridge I stagger to the crest. Just before I’m exposed at the top I ease down onto my stomach. Predators and prey alike seek water in a dry country. Peering over the top, my stomach tightens. Stretching toward the sinking sun is mile upon mile of arid emptiness.

From my vantage point I look in all directions and weigh my options. I couldn’t ride far from Angel Springs. The horse had faltered as I rode out. It’d been gut shot with dark blood seeping from its torso. I might have made it 10 miles east of Angel Springs. Bisbee’s 20 miles south and east. I might make it. I try to swallow and can’t. It’s late June in southeast Arizona. The scorching season. If I don’t make Bisbee, I’ll be dead in two days.

I stumble down the far side of the crest. Stopping at the bottom I’m puzzled to see wagon tracks trail off to my left. I follow them hoping for water from a kind traveler. The tracks lead to an outcropping of larger boulders forming a horseshoe shaped area. In the middle is a wagon. The sand has many tracks of horses going in, and horses with livestock going out.

Why would so many tracks be here?

The Southern immigrant trail isn’t too far from here. That explains the wagon. Fort Bowie and Apache pass is near enough too. So, the tracks could be troops on patrol or Apache’s foraging for food. Pulling my guns, I cautiously lumber forward. In the distance the yips and howls of a pack of coyotes fills the dusk.

“Hello, the camp.” I say.

My voice is raspy and weak. No answer. The need for water pushes down a rising sense of dread. I continue walking toward the wagon. Arriving at the back, I peer in. A man and woman lay side by side. The thick, putrid odor of sickness and death is heavy. No scavengers yet, but they’ll come. Meals that don’t fight back are a luxury in these parts.

The settlers’ clothes are loose and hang on them. They look sickly and overly thin. Dysentery. They’d followed countless other fools seeking riches in the west. They must have wandered from the trail seeking refuge to heal up. Instead, death found them. Leather creaks as I holster my guns.

Should have stayed back east.

Water barrels! I lunge for the side of the wagon. But my legs buckle and I sag to my knees. Fragments of splintered wood are all that remain. Searing pain erupts from my parched throat as I try to swallow.

No aces up my sleeve now.

Clinging to hope, I fight against the stench in the wagon and enter. Pilfering through boxes and items of clothing, nothing. In the front right corner, I notice a mound of bunched up calico. Reaching over I push it aside then sit back, “Good God,” I mumble, as I stare into the face of an infant.

Its face is round with smooth pale skin. Curly blond hair covers its head. It wears an empty, small white flour sack with holes cut out for arms and the bottom cut out for legs. And there, next to it, is a canteen. I grab the canteen. Holding it to my ear I hear a swish of water. One cup, that’s about all it contains.

It’s darker now but my eyes have adjusted to faintly see outlines. The infant begins to whimper. and cry.

It’s alive!

I refuse to look at it. Sitting with my back to the headboard, I consider my options. Weak from blood loss and with only one cup of water, we won’t make it to Bisbee. We’d both die in the sand. It would suffer if I left it.

I know what I have to do.

Slowly, I pull my gun, and place the barrel over its heart. It startles at the loud click as I thumb the hammer back. I hesitate on pulling the trigger. The gun begins to shake in my normally steady hand. My chest heaves as my heart races. Closing my eyes, I tighten my finger on the trigger. The infant suddenly whimpers. The gun slips from my suddenly weak hand. I can’t do it.

Moments pass. The infant continues to mewl. I twist the cap off the canteen, bring it to my lips and let a small amount of warm, brackish water caress my cracked lips. It’s a brief respite from what awaits. I twist the cap back on, retrieve my gun, release the hammer, and place it back in my holster. I stare out of the back of the wagon. The open desert awaits. I notice dark, lithe silhouettes slink across the sand. I lean forward, “Coyotes!”

They hit with a rush. I draw both guns and fire as they leap in. Hellish yellow eyes glow in the flashes. I fall forward as one hits me in the upper back. Teeth tear my flesh. Turning as I fall, I shoot again. A second one is sinking sharp teeth deep into my shoulder. I yell in pain. Putting the gun to its head, I fire again. Rising up, ears ringing I fire till empty. Deep savage growls and ripping sounds as they feed on the settlers. Blood, bits of skin and chunks of tissue slicken the wagon bed. Another goes for my neck. It pins me against the side. Blind rage erupts in me. Pulling my boot knife, I drive the blade deep into its chest and throw it from the wagon. I sit up. Another bites deep into my upper right arm. It yips and death-quivers as my blade sinks deeply into its brain. Animals all around me. Wildly I slash left and right. Hot blood washes over me. My coarse yells are as savage as their ravenous growls. One goes for the child. The blood-slick knife slips from my hand. Bones crack as I grip its neck and twist. It goes limp. Using its carcass as a shield I push another from the wagon. Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s over. Yips and whelps as the remaining ones run into the night. My panting, and the whimpering infant, are the only sounds.

A full moon rises over the rim of rocks. Light filters into the wagon. Pools of dark crimson lay on the bottom. The white canopy is splashed with blood. Four coyotes lay dead. The settlers are disemboweled, and chunks of flesh are missing. I look toward the baby. It appears un-injured.

I have to move. If I don’t, I never will.

Kicking away the dead animals, I roll over and out of the wagon. Dizzy and breathless, I grab a wheel and stand.

I need a fire. Under the wagon is a suspended sheet of cloth, it’s used to gather dried animal dung and small bits of wood to use as fuel for a fire. A good supply is there. In a short time, I have a small blaze going. Removing the baby from the wagon I gently lay it on a pile of fabric I’ve placed near the fire. I start inspecting it for wounds. Removing the flour sack I see it’s a girl. She’s not wounded so I turn my attention to myself. My shirt is shredded, and my pants have ragged holes. Blood seeps from numerous open wounds. Tearing strips of cloth, I bandage my wounds as best I can. The baby watches my every move. I look away.

Hearing suckling noises, I look back. She is sucking hard on her fingers. Rummaging around in the wagon I come up with some oats and sugar. Grabbing the canteen, I gently tilt it to pour water in the cup. Hesitating, I take a long, thoughtful look at the girl. I realize for the first time that she has blue eyes. My Ma’s eyes were blue. I pour half a cup of water then heat the mixture over the fire. Holding her to my chest, I feed her. She coos and makes little bubbles with her spittle. Her eyes widen with surprise as one pops. My heavy shoulders rise and fall in a deep chuckle.

Unfamiliar emotions arise in me. Pa farmed the rocky soil of southwest Missouri near the Arkansas border. Ma tenderly cared for my sister and me. They were God fearing and kind people. In the spring of ’66, at 15, I was wounded and orphaned when border bandits slaughtered them. I headed west. Over the next 14 years I developed a skill with cards and a violent reputation with guns. The harshness of life out west suited me. My life centered around the company of rough men, smokey saloons, the clink of money on a table and the painted eyes of the ladies. This baby with eyes of spring-sky blue seems to have unearthed something I thought had died long ago. Something wholesome, something pure.

The baby startles at the sound of a coyote raising its mournful howl toward the moon. Her eyes settle on mine. I begin to hum Amazing Grace. After a few moments, she calms, her eyes grow heavy, and she sleeps. Ma used to hum that when I was afraid as a child. That song always eased my fears.

A hand has been dealt me. To save little blue eyes I must return to Angel Springs. It’s the nearest town. Wood pops in the fire. My eyes follow the swirling mass of yellow-orange embers upward. I watch them rise and seem to blend in with the stars. They'll hang me there.

I lay the baby down. Returning to the wagon, I pull out some cloth and fashion a rough Indian papoose carrier. The girl continues sleeping as I slide her into it, then slip it painfully over my shoulders. She rests against my chest as the wound on my back will not allow her to rest there. Wetting my lips from the canteen again, I hobbled into the night.

The moon went down some time ago. “How long have I walked?” Stubbornly I place one foot in front of the other. I shiver against a rising fever. The baby begins to cry and squirms against my chest. We need rest. Seeing the outline of a large rock, I move toward it and sit. Removing the baby from the holder I lay her on my lap. Looking at my surroundings I figure an hour or so till dawn and Angel Springs.

I remove the cap from the canteen and pour the last few drops of water for the girl. To my right, an ominous rattle fills the darkness. I grab the girl and turn to my left just as sharp, stabbing pain hits just above my right wrist. I lift my arm. Dangling and writhing there is a rattlesnake. Its fangs buried deep in my lower arm. I reach over my wrist and grip the neck. The rattles grow louder. Squeezing just behind its triangular head, I pull up and back to free the snake from my arm. I then use a quick jerking up and down motion as I squeeze harder. I feel bones separate. The rattling stops. The snake goes limp. I throw it to the ground and stomp its head.

Quickly I move back to the girl and place her back on the carrier. My heart is racing. The faster my heart beats, the quicker the poison spreads I take deep calming breaths. Gritting my teeth I head as quick as I can toward town. An hour to live.

My jaw hangs limply open. Each breath is ragged and raspy. Heat radiates from deep inside me. I lean forward and stumble, dragging a foot with each step. The baby has long since stopped crying. I’m comforted as I feel the rise and fall of her chest against my chest. Must save Lil’ Blue Eyes. Keep, pushing, on.

Dawn comes and I can make out the outline of some buildings. Is this real? I blink as my mind wanders. At the edge of town is a general store, I gently lay the child down in the shade of the porch. Stumbling out into the street my legs give way. Falling to my knees I rock slowly back and forth. I raise my right hand to block the sun as it slides over the horizon. I wonder why my hand is so swollen. The world swims before my eyes. “The girl, then darkness folds over my mind and I feel myself fall forward.

Soft thud of boots on sand and gravel.

Distant, ghostly voices.

“Is he alive?”

Am I alive?

Several hands gently move along my side. I’m rolled onto my back. I hear gasps.

“Good Lord, he’s all tore up. Someone, get the doc!”

“Will, Will! Who is it?” An excited, high-pitched voice asks.

Shade passes over my face. The strong smell of stale tobacco hits me as someone looks closer at me.

“Forget the doc. Fetch me a rope instead.” the one called Will yells out, “This is Barlow Kincaid. Get him to the hanging tree.

Boots scuffle on dirt. The dark murmur of disembodied voices as more hands roughly grip my arms. They drag me. Gravel and dirt tear into my back. I try to speak. All I can manage is a barely audible rasp. The dragging stops.

The one called Will sits me up, he puts a knee in my back to steady me. “You stole my money and nearly killed my brother.” His dank tobacco breath is hot on my face. “Throw that other end over that limb and tie it to my horses’ pommel” he commands. A noose slides over my head then tightens around my neck. My eyes open a little and I see a thin man with sharp scowling features sneering at me. His gun is drawn and pointed skyward.

“Any last words, gambling man?” Will spits tobacco juice on my chest.

I look toward the store. As consciousness slips from me, I raise my left arm and point to the store, “The girl!”

A scream. The sharp bark of a gun. A strong tug on the rope. My breath is choked off. Then all goes black.

The soft rustle of curtains awakens me. Curtains? Opening my eyes I see soft blue billowing material as a cool breeze enters through a window. I’m in bed in a small room. Yellow flowers in a vase to one side of me. On the other and old man. He sits with arms crossed over his chest. One eyebrow raised and deep-set eyes with almost childish curiosity stare at me.

“Well, you lived.” A soft chuckle comes from deep inside. “Seems I cut that rope just in time. Touch and go for a few days there.”

He nods at the question in my eyes.

“Six days. You been out six days young man. I don’t know what kind of hell you went through out there. Not even during the war had I ever sewed on anyone as much as I have you. Whatever ripped that hole in your arm saved you from the snake bite. That wound in your upper arm seeped out enough poison to only give you a small amount. You’re tough as they come, Son. You surely are.”

“Oh, almost forgot. Someone here to see you.” He raises his eyes and looks toward the open door. Elizabeth, bring in the visitor.”

What little hope of life I had fades. Must be the marshal. Surely, I’m going to hang. The floor creaks. I turn my head. Blond hair like an angels. Blue eyes like a spring sky. Elizabeth lay the child next to me. She nestles into my shoulder, looks at me and smiles.

The End