I’m Nobody! Who are you?Are you – Nobody – too?Then there’s a pair of us!Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!How dreary – to be – Somebody!How public – like a Frog –To tell one’s name – the livelong June –To an admiring Bog! _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The ghostly silence of the late night was broken only by the creak of saddle and clip of hooves as Ramos cantered out of town. His lantern swayed along with the motion of Captain, casting flickering will-o’-wisps against the dry earth as it bobbed up and down. Through the brush he charged, returning to the perimeter of the O’Noone ranch; but he would not wake the cattle-keeper, nor would he set foot on his land. He sought out the elusive
Guillermo, the transient Californio who had been lingering on the cusp of Amistad long enough to make his name known. Rarely, however, did the slippery drifter rear his head in public, ‘least not in the daytime — mostly kept to himself out in the scrubland, ‘cept for the occasional visit to the
Kiskadee Cantina. He’d been one of a few individuals that Ramos had made sure to keep a mental note of. Amistad was the type of place men went to hide; from society, from the law, or from the life they had before. Ramos was no different; he came to this dry little corner of the world because it suited him; because he needed the distance. Just about everyone else who passed through had their own story, but seldom would visitors arrive who weren’t lost — in one meaning of the word or another. Guillermo, Ramos suspected, had good reason that he kept to the periphery of civilisation, and there was a good chance it was a reason he’d prefer to keep a secret.
As Amistad disappeared behind Ramos, a figure materalised out of the Texan night — a silhouette, half-hidden by the night’s embrace, mounted and approaching. Both parties drew their reins, slowing to a halt; facing each other from about twenty-feet apart. The Californio’s dog, who was following the trail at his rear, began to bark protectively, and seemed ready to pounce as the sheriff should things get dicey. Ramos raised his lantern with one hand, allowing its light to dance upon the rider’s form, creating slender, exaggerated shadows behind him. His other hand was poised near his holster, but remained still.
"¿Qué idioma?," he spoke out, examining the drifter’s countenance; indeed, it was the man he was looking for. The suspect had a restlessness about him. Ramos found it curious that he wasn’t settled down at such an hour.
Guillermo’s hand slipped from its grasp upon the reigns, fixing the bandana that lay stagnant on his neck to up to the tip of his nose.
”¡Callate Jorge!” His focus spread as his eyes darted around, scouting the land he had but mere moments ago paid but little regard to for paths to dart if things got too hot. Although he didn’t put much merit in the belief by nature he was still a cautious man. The land beyond the town borders had been mostly flat plains, all he could do was the toss the dice roll that was luck and ride off into almost any direction.
”We’re in the land of the states ain’t we? English’ll do just fine.””Mhm,” Ramos replied, still sizing up Guillermo. He relaxed his gun-arm, holding out a peace-offering to the mutt in the form of a down-angled palm.
”Little late for ridin’ the trail?””Do I look like much of’a townfolk to ya? Just’a drifter, like most of the come an’ goers.” Guillermo’s hand brushed against the handle of his six-shooter beneath the poncho. This old Colt Navy revolver had got Guillermo out of many a sticky situation in the past since the day stole it from the armory down on the coast, and if this one turned awry it certainly wouldn’t be his last, lest his own blood was spilled upon the ground but his record doesn’t present an instance of such occuring. As his eyes looked around he noticed the hand stuck out to the dog, who had stood his ground. While a simple gesture by most men testing the waters, Jorge had still released a low growl that could still be faintly heard from the maw of the dog.
”He ain’t one much for strangers.” A statement never more true as the men they have encountered upon these lands have been naught but the robbing and slaughtering type.
’Just’a drifter’, Ramos thought. How many times had he heard that? There was always more to the story. He retracted his hand, but sought to maintain his non-aggressive body language. He observed Guillermo. He was no fool; he could see how the Californio held himself; face obscured by a bandana; hand tucked away, likely inches from an iron — a poncho to keep it concealed. But Ramos wasn’t about to dispossess a man of his last resort: not if he wanted him on his good side. Folks out here found comfort in their weapons, and this drifter didn’t seem the type to draw ‘lest he needed. After all, if this feller had an itchy trigger finger, one of the two of ‘em would be laid out dead in the dirt by now.
”An’ I could say the same ta you, lawman. The night don’t wait for no soul,” Guillermo continued, his eyes trained carefully upon the mad before him. And while Guillermo was not one particularly skilled in the art of reading human body language, he could through the posturing of the sheriff and his word oh so kind, a nicety not often provided by those within these lands and often one wrought with a backbone of sole malice. However, whether this was the sheriff’s intention was a thought he could not land upon in his mind.
”Well, you know how it is, if there ain’t no rest for the wicked, then there ain’t no rest for me,” Ramos replied casually.
”You got a moment to talk?””Whatever’ll yet ya off my back faster.” Guillermo’s free hand had moved back to grab the reign, emerging from beneath the confines of the poncho to drag the string beneath it’s cover as well. Out in these lands on could never stay too safe, even from a proclaimed lawman, even those type hid their skeletons in the closet. The revolver on his hip stayed attached to his hand like it was glued. He wasn’t one to take a life for no reason but if need came he was not afraid to let his lead blow. His aim was one that was not recounted, as a dead man told no tales.
Ramos cow-turned Captain, and began to ride in the direction of town, slowing a little to allow Guillermo to ride beside him — he wasn’t fool enough to let a suspect breathe down the back of his neck. The ride was quiet, for the most part, aside from a brief exchange.
”Care to put a name to a face?,” Ramos asked, though he knew damn well the answer.
”Guillermo,” said the Californio. His words were short, Hell, he couldn’t give too much away. The silence stood stagnant within the air as they followed down the dirt path to the town, it felt tense — well at least to Guillermo it did, like an eternal face-off betwixt the two lasting the duration of that grueling ride. His mind couldn’t help be veer off the train of thought of escaping and onto one of questioning why he even found himself in this situation. One could only wonder what would bring the sheriff out in the wee devil’s hours of the night to find a drifter for what? A bit of questioning? It all felt like a house of card ready to fall.
It seemed like the ruckus at the Kiskadee was successfully neutralised, with Amistad’s usual late-night hum restored. The clatter of the two horses faded as both riders dismounted out front the office, hitching their respective steeds to the post. Ramos unlocked the door, glancing back at the dog, who waited ardently on the porch, eager to defend his master. Ramos stepped inside, casting a brief glance back at Guillermo, who lingered at the threshold.
”Take a seat,” Ramos said; half-offer, half-demand. He gestured over to the ol’ faithful whiskey bottle on the desk as the door rattled shut behind them both.
”You a drinker?,” he asked; his first loaded question.
Just what kind of a drifter are ya, Guillermo? The down-and-out drunkard? The headhunter? Somewhere in between?
”Who ain’t one nowadays?” Ramos scoffed dryly, pouring himself a short glass, and passing the rest of the bottle, which was ninety-percent empty, over to the Californio.
“So: you’ve been around these parts a short while now? Seen a fair bit of the goings on?””That one way ta put it.” A solitary hand slithered from beneath the poncho and onto the bottle before him. He caught the sheriff glancing down, trying to catch a glimpse of his gun-arm, but it was well concealed. With the bottle hand he used a single digit to bring the stained bandana down from his mouth, pressing lip of the liquor bottle to his own. The sheriff had been a bit too friendly for his liking, one truly unusual experience.
“That’s how it’s been these last few years; a crossroads. Drifters comin’ and goin’. You ever think they leave more than just their dust behind ‘em?” Ramos smirked a little as he spoke; an unsettling smile, not quite friendly; but casual. He hadn’t a chance to eat til’ now, so he retrieved some dry crackers from a drawer in his desk. He wolfed at the biscuits unceremoniously; a deliberate impropriety. The less formal this interaction seemed, the less threatened Guillermo would be.
”Do ya ever really know the motive behind a man? Can’t say I can give ya an answer. I really only ever go ta the saloon and general store, not one for knowin’ too much of the folk.” Guillermo’s hand sat the bottle back down upon the table after the last few drops of liquor dripped into his mouth.
What is he tryin’ ta get at? the words flashed across his mind as his eyes wandered upon the sheriff’s smile, it reeked of something he just didn’t like.
Indifferent, Ramos brushed crumbs from the desk, pausing between munches to speak.
“Someone has to try out here,” he said, watching as the Californio briefly tugged down his bandana to imbibe.
“You mind keepin’ that down? Think it’s polite to regard a man face to face.””Ain’t much of a difference with it on or off, but I’m an honorable man.” The bandana that was one upon the tip of his nose now lay around his neck, exposing the face he had often hid beneath.
“Thank you,” Ramos replied.
“You seem like a busy man; you do any work ‘round these parts? Ranchero? Cantero? Or just passin’ through?””I hunt. An’ not the bounty kind. Some of the meat ya see McRiley cooking down over at the bar he buys off me.” “Takes a tough son of a gun to make it out in the brush. You fight in the war, by chance?””In’a way. Those days ain’t somethin’ I really want to talk about though.”“I understand,” Ramos said, raising his hands placatingly in a Gallic shrug.
“Just thought I might ask you a few things, help me get the lay of the land with some business. You live not far off O’Noone’s ranch, correct? How well y’know him?””O’Noone? Ain’t really much to say about him and me, sometimes he’ll pay me to hassle up some of his animals that get out. Not much beyond that really.””And the Tejano kid he’s got workin’ for him,” Ramos continued. He watched Guillermo’s face attently, looking out for any signs of panic or deceit.
“You work alongside him when you were a’russling?” ””Kid? I ain’t sure I really seen a kid out there. Usually only talked to O’Noone, and I work by myself.” Guillermo’s mind scoured hard in search of recollection of a kid ever working on the farm, on the times he had visited, O’Noone had met him alone, and he had never truly seen the deeper parts of the ranch. One of his eyebrows rose as his eyes met with those of Ramos.
What the hell is this line of questioning?Ramos wrinkled his nose. Either Guillermo was ice-cold, or he really had no idea why he’d been roped into the sheriff’s office this night. Didn’t seem to be much reason in beating around the bush any longer.
”I’ll cut to the chase, then, Guillermo,” Ramos sighed. He’d give a little information over; see if it coaxed out any memories. He wouldn’t mention the
multiple killings, though; if word got out, there could be a panic on his hands.
”There’s been trouble at the ranch, the boy’s wound up dead. Haven’t got a chance to fully assess his wounds, but tryin’ to strike while the iron’s hot; chase up any suspects. Ain’t got any reason to put blame on you, other than your proximity — but from where you camp out, it’d be hard to miss folk comin’ back and forth from the town. Hasn’t been any quarrymen through lately, to my knowledge, and I’m good ‘n sure O’Noone has no reason to kill the kid…. So if you seen anythin’, it’d be mighty helpful for you to let me know.””Now I can’t tell you I done see a lot. The only lights I’ve seen passing in and through the town as of late had been from the caravan not so far off.”The caravan, Ramos pondered. That would’ve been his next port of call anyhoo.
”But I can tell you that somethin’ aint right. My dog barkin’ at odd hours of the night into the darkness. Hell even durin’ the day my old horse get spooked. Ya ever notice silence? Has the night ever been silent? There might be somethin’ out there, 'cause in the wee hours like now Jorge doesn’t get all antsy for no reason.”Ramos knew what he meant, and he’d felt it too. Out on the ranch, he’d been waiting for something to leap out at him, a shadow on his periphery — but nothing came. It was an unpleasant, foreboding sensation. He felt he hadn’t much reason to doubt Guillermo’s word, for now at least. One would assume an old gunslinger, one with wartime experience no less, would be smarter than to kill some folk and dump them in his back yard. Nonetheless, he’d need to keep him at arms length.
”Well that just about aligns with where I’m at,” he nodded.
”Now, listen, Guillermo. I don’t see any reason why I should—”A metallic ‘bong’ sound reverberated from nextdoor, along with a thud.
”Shut it!,” he yelled. Probably Jim thumping his head against the wall, tryin’ to exorcise the drink out of him.
”I don’t see any reason why I should have to lock you up, the way’s I see it, you don’t seem to have much dirt on you. But I am gonna’ have to ask you to stay in town, ‘least for a couple days. Got some boys out of town coming in to help, and they might want to question you further. That alright with you?,” he asked, though he sensed it mightn’t be alright with the Californio. One of the few reasons a man lingered out in the marchlands was due to a
difference of opinion with the law. But if Guillermo was smart, he wouldn’t run — it’d implicate him in the killing of Gustavo, along with any others who might wind up dead to the nameless killer.
”Can’t say I got much of’a reason to say no,” said Guillermo. The lie flowed through his teeth like water down a stream. He knew that staying around to be questioned by God knows who with a particular bounty laying around his head was naught but a terrible idea but run would as good putting the knife within his own hands. For now all he could do was to hope to whatever created this terrible land to send him a miracle, he had been out long enough evading death, he could surely do it in the face of some lawmen.
”Now if that is all ya got left to say I’d like to see if I could catch a drink at the bar if ya won’t mind.””Quite alright, compañero,” he dipped his head politely.
”I thank you for your acquiescence—”Another loud
thump.
Ramos kissed his tongue, irritated.
”If you’ll excuse me.” He stood, striding first to the front door, which he opened for his
guest, tipping his hat in good grace.
”Take it easy. This world ain’t kind to any soul upon it.” Guillermo did the same in a good-faith gesture, finally releasing the death grip upon the firearm upon his waist as the door to freedom had been opened at last. He exited the building with his head held high and thoughts swirling about within that brain of his, he had something to take care of.
As the door closed behind Ramos, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Tonight was just getting started, and thus far, he wasn’t much closer to identifying a culprit. Least of all his worries were the idiot drunks in the cell, but they were a worry nonetheless.
”Now Jimmy, you better not be causin’ ruckus in there!,” he called out as he strode across his office, opening the door to the jail.
His look of mild disgruntlement quickly evaporated as he entered the jail, regarding the scene before him.
”Ay, caramba…”
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