Written in Blood Read Free Page A

Lincoln County in New Mexico Territory, and a fella can always find something to fill his belly down around Casas Grandes.”
    â€œCasas Grandes?” I try to hide my surprise. “You know Casas Grandes?”
    The man stares hard at me for a long moment.
    â€œSure,” he says eventually, “everyone hereabouts does. Some big ranching spreads down that way. It’s harsh country, so they’re always looking for good hands. Trouble is the pay’s no good. Probably better off in Lincoln County.”
    The man stands up, steps forward and holds out his hand.
    â€œName’s Eduardo, but most folks just call me Ed.”
    â€œI’m James. Most people call me Jim. Are you Mexican?”
    A shadow passes over Ed’s face, but then he smiles and goes on.
    â€œI am but I don’t make much of it. Ain’t no percentage in being Mexican these days. I spent a lot of years up in New Mexico Territory, learned the lingo and the cattle business. If I talk ’merican, folks assume I ain’t no Mexican.” Ed exaggerates his accent to sound like a rough cowboy. “But when I dine with the grandees in Mexico”—almost magically, Ed’s voice becomes soft and cultured with a stronger Spanish accent—“I throw off the coarse smell of cattle and become one of them.”
    Ed smiles and reverts to, what I assume, is his normal voice. “Anyways, I reckon it’s no more’n twenty miles to Tucson, and that’s but an easy day’s ride, even with your late sleep and on that pony you have.” Ed nods to where Alita stands placidly. “What say we keep company? A journey shared is a journey lessened, I always say.”
    The man tilts his head and gazes at me. He’s friendly enough, but there’s something about his look that I instinctively don’t trust. I’ll keep a close watch on him.
    â€œI’d be happy to ride to Tucson with you,” I say.
    â€œYou ain’t from these parts?” Ed asks as we ride, side by side, across a dry plain studded with tall, slender cactus. The sun is up and the air is warming. The thunderclouds of last night have vanished. No rain fell on me, but I can smell dampness in the air and Alita’s delicate footsteps kick up no dust.
    Ed rides a black gelding considerably larger than Alita, and I have to look up slightly as we talk.
    â€œNo. I’m from up north, the colony of British Columbia.”
    â€œSo you’re a Brit then.”
    â€œHalf,” I reply. “My father was an American who came up for the Gold Rush.”
    â€œDid he come from these parts?”
    â€œHe came up on a ship from California, but he told stories about Mexico, so he knew this area well.”
    Ed nods. “He still up there in British Columbia?”
    â€œHe left my mother and me ten years ago. I haven’t seen him since. That’s why I came down here, to look for him.”
    Ed stares over at me thoughtfully as we ride and talk.
    â€œDown here’s a big place. How do you aim to find him?”
    â€œHis name’s Bob Doolen, and he had some connection with the town you mentioned, Casas Grandes. That’s where I’ll begin.”
    â€œNot much to go on,” Ed muses, looking ahead to the rough hills on the horizon. “Doolen’s an Irish name.”
    â€œI guess so. My father never said whether his father was Irish or not.”
    We lapse into silence and ride on through the morning and I have a chance to examine my companion out of the corner of my eye. He rides comfortably on a worn saddle that shows the remnants of some ornate silver work on the horn. It must once have been worth a lot of money. His bedroll is tied behind the saddle, and two stained and worn saddlebags hang down. A multicolored Indian blanket sits beneath the saddle and the stock of a large rifle sticks out of a scabbard strapped along the horse’s flank. There’s something black and stringy