Macon Ch. 01

Thanks to my team, who keep me from embarrassing myself any more than necessary. My editors are PapaKilo14, Hal, OldDave51,GeorgeAnderson, Girlinthemoon and Pixel the Cat. Harddaysknight is my mentor and gives me critical review. SBrooks103x also reads for me and gives me advice. I love you all and remain in your debt. This is chapter one. Thanks for reading, Randi

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The sky had been getting lighter for about an hour when he saw the first flame of the sun peek over the horizon. No doubt, it would be another hot one. The sun was kissing the tops of the Sierra Blanca range, lighting them with gold fire. He chuckled to himself. If only it were real gold. Macon Thorpe had tried his hand at mining, a time or two. He had made enough to eat, doing backbreaking labor from dawn to dusk, and he traded in his shovel and pan for saddle and a rope. He had made one find, and it became the basis for everything that had come afterward.

It was a giant red beryl, and Macon had been smart enough to know what he had found. He had traveled to New York, and the price he got had bought him his own little empire. At least, that's the way he thought of it.

He had arisen while it was still dark, stirred up his fire, boiled some coffee, eaten some two-day-old biscuits he fried in the grease from the bacon he fried and saddled up. It had been a long ride up from El Paso and he was looking forward to getting back home.

The sun was now a huge blood-orange ball and he could feel the heat. The dust puffed up beneath Laredo's hooves at every step and he found himself wanting a drink, already. He drew Laredo to a stop just before topping a small rise and scanned the valley on the other side of the rise. It was a habit. He'd developed it so that he wouldn't be silhouetted against the skyline before he knew what was out there.

He saw movement off to the left, some distance away, and couldn't make out what it was. He got his glass and looked. There was a dead horse, at least it appeared dead, lying close to some brush, and the vultures had gathered. Something was making them nervous, because they kept flapping away when they approached, as if startled.

Macon put his glass away, took his rifle off the saddle strings holding it and proceeded cautiously toward the dead horse. As he approached, the vultures took wing, flapping a short distance away and waiting with infinite patience. He noticed a small object lying beside the horse and grew even more cautious. He circled twice, keeping the brush between himself and the figures on the ground. Nothing moved, so he tied his rifle again, and drew his pistol.

Keeping the body of the horse between himself and the other object, he rode up and dismounted, leaving Laredo ground-tied. He peered over the dead horse, already beginning to bloat, and stopped, stunned. The figure on the ground was a young woman. Her right leg was trapped under the fallen horse and she was, obviously, unable to free herself. The horse had a broken leg and its head was twisted at an unnatural angle. Looking around, he saw the hole that had caused this scene. The horse must have stepped into the hole, breaking its leg and falling, breaking its neck in the process and falling on its rider.

He could see the young woman's chest rising and falling. She was alive! He hurried back to Laredo, got his canteen and hurried back. He knelt beside her, and she moaned. She waved one arm and croaked. That was what had kept the vultures nervous. She must have thought he was a vulture in her delirium and tried to wave him off.

"It's okay, Miss," he spoke. "Let me give you a drink and we'll see about getting you out of this jam."

Her eyes cracked open and he doubted there was anyone home in there. She had been there for some time, judging from the state of the horse, and was, no doubt, hovering on the brink of death. He cradled her head in his lap and held the canteen to her lips. She felt the coolness of the water and tried to grab the canteen. She was very weak and he easily restrained her. He gave her small sips, waiting a long while between, until the canteen was empty. He laid her back down and went to Laredo, taking his rope and tying it to the saddle horn. He tied the other end to the saddle horn of the dead horse and went back to lead Laredo into a pull.

The rope tightened and Laredo sank lower, easing into the pull. The dead horse began to slide and there was a shriek of pain from the woman. Macon kept Laredo pulling until the dead horse moved five feet or so, and he could see that it was clear of the young woman. He led Laredo back until the rope was slack and untied it, coiling it up and stowing it on his saddle again. He went back and checked on the woman.

She was unconscious. He thought for a moment, then drew his knife. He cut the leg of her pants up until he could see the injury. Her boot was in the way and he opened the seam, pulling the top down and removing the boot.

He had reason to be thankful for her unconsciousness, since that had to have been extremely painful. It was very swollen and bruised, but he couldn't find anything broken. That didn't mean that it wasn't; he was no doctor, but it was not displaced, only badly bruised, as far as he could tell. He thought again for a moment, went to her horse and took the saddlebags off it. He looked regretfully at the saddle. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship. The stitching was precise and patterned, and there was silver worked into it. He had no idea of what to do with it, so he took it off the dead horse and hid it in the brush, covering it so that it would be difficult to find.

She had a fine rifle and a belt with cartridges, which he tied on Laredo, along with the saddle bags. He went back and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her back to Laredo. She was very light, and felt like a small child in his arms. He laid her face down in the saddle and led Laredo away, looking for a place he could mount up, as well.

He found it in a large boulder, and he took the girl off the saddle, holding her and mounting. He tied the reins to the saddle horn. Laredo could be guided by knee pressure, and he fell into a little running-walk. It wasn't far to the Membres River, and they would stay there until he had some idea what to do.

They rode for an hour and he heard the trickling water ahead. Loredo's ears pricked forward and his pace picked up slightly. Macon rode along the river, looking for a good place for a camp until he came to a bluff, right at the water, with an overhang, forming a small cave-like area. There was grass for Laredo along the stream, and Macon managed to dismount. He carefully placed the girl in some soft grass, then took the gear off Laredo, leaving only a halter with a rope hanging from it. Laredo would graze around and drink, but wouldn't stray far.

Macon made a pallet with his bedroll and got the girl situated. He took his towel and soap to the stream. He washed the towel and his washcloth, got a pan of water and went back to the overhang. He built a fire and heated the water. The young woman was very dirty, and he washed her face, first. As the dirt and grime washed away, he realized that this was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen! She was, obviously, of Spanish extraction. Her skin was a lustrous dusky creaminess, and her hair was as black as a raven's wing. He bathed her swollen leg and she moaned. She seemed to be waking up, and he cradled her head in his lap again, letting her drink from the canteen he had refilled at the river.

Her eyes opened, and they were lucid. They searched his face, and he closed them so he could wash the crusted dirt from her eyelids.

He dried her face and she opened her eyes again. They were very dark brown, almost black, and she tried to speak. Her voice was a croak, and he gave her another drink.

"Quién eres tú?" Her voice was low and husky. He felt a thrill run through him. "Dónde estamos?"

Macon knew enough Spanish to understand that. "My name is Macon Thorpe," he told her. "We're on the Mimbres River. I found you trapped under your dead horse. Do you speak English?"

"Si, a little," she said. "Thank you, Macon Thorpe."

"Nothing else to do." He shrugged. "I couldn't leave you there. The vultures were coming for you."

She shuddered. "We fell," she said. "Podría tener algo más de agua?"

He understood the "Agua," and held her head up while she drank again.

"My leg," she complained. "It hurts very badly. Is it broken?"

"I don't think so," he said. "It's injured, bruised, swollen. I'm sorry, I don't have any medicine." He smacked himself on the forehead. "I have whiskey. Do you want to drink some whiskey?"

She chuckled. "Are you trying to get me borracho?"

"It's all I've got to help with the pain," he said. "I'll get you drunk some other time."

He grinned at her and she felt a thrill. He was very good looking, she decided. His hair was almost as dark as hers, and he had grey eyes. There was a scar on one cheekbone and his nose looked as if it had been broken. He was very rugged, and very handsome.

"I think I would wish to drink some of that whiskey," she said.

He slid out from under her head and rested it on a rolled up canvas. He stood, and she realized he was very tall. His spurs jingled as he walked over to his saddle. He rummaged around for a bit and came back, carrying a metal flask and a tin cup.

"Do you think you can sit up?" he asked.

She nodded. "Maybe for a... tiny while," she said.

He went and got his saddle, setting it down behind her, lifting her up and letting her lean back against it. He poured whiskey into the tin cup and gave it to her.

"I'll make us something to eat," he said. "Sip on that, but don't drink too much until you get some food inside you.

She sat, taking an occasional sip from the cup, and watched him as he moved around the fire. He mixed up drop biscuits and she could smell and hear meat frying. He got two cans and a leather bottle out of his saddlebags. He emptied one can into a pan, added a little water and some bacon grease. When the bacon and biscuits were done, he got tin plates and filled them. He also had forks, and he handed her one of the plates. The can had been beans, and she devoured everything.

He went back to the fire and split open two of the biscuits, frying them in the bacon grease. He brought them back and opened the stopper on the leather bottle. It was honey, and the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. After they ate the biscuit and honey, he opened the final can and they shared the peaches inside.

"You never told me your name," he said.

"It is Maria Consuela Shaballa-Rios," she said. "I am called Consuela. My mother is Maria, as well. That was a delicioso meal. I believe I shall drink whiskey now, if you do not mind."

He laughed and poured her cup full. The whiskey was mellow and smoky, and she soon began to feel as mellow as the liquor. She shared sips with him, and they were both a little tipsy.

They talked comfortably and she began to tell him about herself. After about four sentences she felt exhaustion overtaking her, and the pain in her leg faded to a dull ache.

"Macon, if you do not mind I believe I shall sleep now," she said.

He took the saddle away and she reclined on the rolled up canvas. "Where will you sleep?" she asked. "I have taken your bed."

He laughed. "Don't worry about me," he said. "I can sleep on a bed of cactus. There's some soft grass around, and I have a spare blanket. You get some rest and you'll feel better in the morning."

Her lids were so heavy that she couldn't keep them open, and she drifted off to sleep.

Macon tidied up around the camp, went and checked on Laredo and bedded down in the soft grass. He was looking forward to home and a bed in the worst way. 'I'm getting too old for this,' he thought to himself. He wasn't old, at 31, but he sometimes felt as if he was 71. He wondered how old Consuela was. He would guess her in her early twenties, but he was no expert.

He opened his saddlebag and took out his book. He was reading "The Lives of the Twelve Caesars," by Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. It was a translation by Dr. Alexander Thomson, and he was finding it fascinating. Macon had found it in a little book shop in London. He had spent a week there between his discharge from Company A of the Arizona Rangers, and his enlistment into the French Army of the Rhine. He decided he'd had enough of Army life, and returned to the States, attending the College of William and Mary, before drifting west.

After selling his beryl, he had purchased his ranch, and began importing shorthorn cattle. They were rare, and he had been building his herd for some years. The bulls were a gold mine, as other ranchers soon saw the value of the heavy frames of the cattle, as opposed to the ranginess of the longhorns they were running.

Macon drifted off to the sounds of Laredo grazing, and was awakened by a mockingbird the next morning. He got up and bathed in the river before starting breakfast. By the time Consuela awakened, he had coffee made and breakfast was ready.

He sat her up and she groaned. "The whiskey felt good last night," she murmured, "but not so good this morning."

He laughed. "Once you get something inside you, you'll feel better."

His optimism proved to be true, and by the time he had scrubbed out their dishes, she was feeling human again.

"What shall we do today?" she asked.

"I guess that's up to you," he said. "I know nothing about you, Consuela. What happened, what were you doing out here, where were you going and where are you from?"

"This is many questions." She smiled, her beauty giving Macon's heart a flutter, despite her rumpled and mussed condition. "I was on my way home from visiting my Uncle. My horse fell and was muerte. I was trapped, and could not escape. I had given up hope. The evil birds came..." She shuddered. "I have my home near Akela. I was returning there when the horse fell."

"That's a ways," Macon said. "Do you think you're up to traveling there?"

She moved her foot and grimaced. "Perhaps not," she said, wrinkling her little nose. "What was passing with you, Macon?"

He parsed her meaning, smiling at the quaint question. "I was on my way back from El Paso. I own a ranch about 25 miles away. Do you think you might come and stay with me until you feel up to the trip home?"

"Have you a large home?" she asked. "It would not be a... how do you say... a disturbance?"

He laughed. "It might be, but it's one I can stand. You're welcome to stay with me. Is there someone at home who might worry about you? Do you think we should send word? Do you live with your parents? Got a husband that's wondering where you are?"

"No, no parents," she said. "No husband, either. I have men who work."

"What do they work at?" he asked.

"They tend the sheep," she explained. "Two tend the rest of the workers. They will worry much. We must find a way to alert them of my direction."

"We'll find a way," he promised. "Since that's settled, are you ready to ride?"

"No, but we must," she said. "Help me to stand."

He did, and she winced as her injured foot came in contact with the ground. "It is damaged," she said. "Do you think it is broken, Macon?"

"I don't think it is," he said. "I'm not a doctor, and the nearest is a ways. If it doesn't start feeling better in a few days, it might be broken. We'll just have to wait and see. Not much we could do, anyway. I might make a splint. Do you think you need that?"

"No, I cannot walk on it, splinted, or no," she said.

"Well, I'm not walking 25 miles," he told her. "Laredo could carry us both, but it would take us forever. Hardy's place is about five miles. There's a store and a stable. He sells horses, and we can pick one up, spend the night somewhere and be home tomorrow. Sound good?"

"Si." She nodded her head and her hair, evidently held up by pins, began to come lose. "I must repair my hair," she said.

She leaned against a rock and extracted several hair pins. The mass of hair, which had been bunched in a large knot at the back of her head, came flowing down. Macon gasped. She was a tiny little thing, barely over five feet, and glowing ebony waves came tumbling down. It was very long, almost to the bend of her knees.

She felt his eyes on her and looked at him. "Que?" she asked.

Macon had a hard time getting any words out. "Your hair" he finally croaked. "It's... God, you're beautiful, Consuela."

She blushed. "Thank you," she said. "I am simply Consuela. I am inside. Macon understands?"

He nodded. "Yes, but the outside is pretty special, too." He watched as she eased her fingers through a few tangles and tucked it back into that knot. She put on her hat and he got their things together. He helped her mount and led Laredo in the direction of Hardy's store.

It lay at a trail crossing, and a rough road came in from the east, leading away to the west. A small community surrounded the store and stables, and stages occasionally stopped and changed horses there. There were usually a few hands from the local ranches around, and the inevitable loafer or two. There were half a dozen horses tied at the rail, and Macon looped Laredo's reins around the post, helped Consuela down and carried her to a chair sitting under the roof of the store's porch.

"You just rest there and I'll see what I can come up with," he told her.

"Macon, I have money," she said. "It is not proper that you should buy a horse for me to ride. I should buy it."

"Let's just see what we can dicker for," he said. He went inside and his eyes adjusted to the dimness. He was acquainted with Hardy. He was an old cavalry officer who had taken a arrow to the knee. It had become infected and was amputated, just below the knee. Hardy had come West, opened his store, and he was a well-known man in those parts. Macon liked him.

"My, God, it's Thorpe!" Hardy's booming voice met him. "What brings you down our way?"

Macon explained the situation and Hardy reached beneath the counter and poured them both a shot of whiskey. "I've got a half-dozen crowbaits, but nothing you would be interested in," he said.

"I'm not looking for race horses," Macon said. "Just something to get the little lady out to the home place."

Hardy thought for a minute. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll loan you that grey mare I have. She's as gentle as a kitten. You take her, get the lady home, and next time you stock up on provisions, you buy them from me. You can send one of your boys back with the mare. Sound like a deal?"

It sounded like the perfect deal to Macon, and they shook hands on it. "Now, take me to meet this little lady," Hardy said.

Macon turned toward the door, and just before he reached it, he heard the sound of voices. Consuela was speaking and there was some heat to her voice. He heard at least two men, and he quickened his steps.

When he stepped through the door, there was a young man standing on the ground in front of the porch, facing Consuela, and an older rough-looking fellow a few paces away and to the younger man's left.

He stepped out onto the porch. "Consuela, everything okay?" he asked.

"These... gentlemen were just leaving," she said.

"Now, that's downright unfriendly," the younger man spoke. "We're just getting acquainted."

Macon didn't recognize either man, but he knew the type. The older man was an old he-coon from the high country. It was easy to see in his every mannerism. The younger man was slightly built, had blond curly hair and had an air of someone who was used to getting his way.

Macon stepped quickly to Consuela, picked her up from the chair and put her on Laredo. The young man seemed startled by the quick action and stepped off the porch, now about twenty feet from Macon.