Free Here by the Bloods by Brandon Boyce Page B

sack goes over his head. I cannot say as I mind the sentiment.
    All at once the Mexicans rest their hammers and turn toward the approaching sound of measured horse steps. The rattle of a wagon swells behind it. “There it is!” cries Jasper, pointing down the street at something not yet in view thanks to the scaffolding of the gallows. “I saw it cresting the ridge from the store. Never seen anything like it.”
    The gilded cornices of the coach bob into sight from behind the stacked woodpile, pulled in crisp undulation by a team of four true black Irish Draughts, a frightfully scarce breed in the territory. The only other time I have seen one was when I was a boy. I recall the Irish Draught huffing beneath the saddle of a visiting Army general who had little use for Indians. The thundering power of that Draught has not waned from my memory. Every elegant, obsidian-coated stride of the four horses restates the power and purpose of their meticulous breeding and the noble fortunes that funded it.
    The driver’s fine black suit makes him more undertaker than hired coachman. And the gleaming, black lacquered panels of the coach itself support that morbid assumption. But this is no hearse. No corpse could afford such stately and luxurious passage.
    â€œLordy mercy,” Big Jack says, slack-jawed. “That is not any stage I ever seen.”
    â€œNot a stage,” I say. “Private charter. Out of Santa Fe. Says so on the caboose.” I know the others cannot discern the city’s tiny flag painted above the fender.
    â€œWe will have to trust you on that,” Elbert says, squinting. The driver pulls the team to a halt in front of the hotel as every available eye in the Bend looks on. What he does next, not one of us has ever seen. His obedient team halted, the man descends from his seat and unlatches a heavy black box from the sidewall. Placing the box on the ground beneath the door, I see that the oddness of its shape comes from the three steps built into it. He inserts two rods into a pair of drilled holes on the side, snaps a third rod between them, and in a matter of seconds has assembled a tidy staircase.
    â€œWell I will be dipped in pig shit,” Elbert says. “A footman. An honest-to-God footman.” We move closer, edging down the boardwalk as the rest of the townsfolk similarly choke forward, compelled by their curiosity.
    â€œMust be the king of England,” Big Jack offers. The driver, now footman, unfurls a handsome parasol and takes his position attentively aside the stairs before touching the door handle.
    â€œQueen, more likely,” I say. No man, no matter how fancy, needs more that his own hat to walk ten yards. The footman gestures back at the hotel, and from within, Cookie appears, scurrying to the coach to receive some instruction from the man. All at once Cookie sets about unfastening the sizable trunks and cases that fill the hold. The coach door opens. A hint of red leather from a fine upholstered bench catches the sunlight. Then the man steps out.
    And quite a man indeed. The striking cream-colored suit, impeccably paired to the wide-brimmed hat of the same shade, denotes a traveler cognizant of his rugged surroundings and the sensible tastes of those who inhabit it, while the fanciful buttons and embroidered piping can only reflect what Eastern tailors must call the latest in “European fashion.”
    Braided epaulets frame his broad shoulders as he strides down the steps. I expect flecks of gray in his beard as he turns back toward the coach, but am met only with the trimmed black whiskers that match the hair peeking out from beneath his hat. He is younger than any robber baron or cattle tycoon, and fitter and more sporting than a man who has earned his fortune behind a desk. Family money must be the answer, the sweat of his father or grandfather. But he carries his wealth with the easy swagger of a man who has known nothing else. His