Chapter 3: The Man with the Harmonica
Year: 1873
Place: Tucumcari City
Do you know anything about a guy going around playing the harmonica? He's someone you'd remember. Instead of talking, he plays. And when he better play, he talks.
The thunderous hooves of the roan beat the landscape mercilessly, while the horse’s breath came out in the cold early night air. Nostrils flared, the strong beast galloped towards the small town, the sweat pouring off its hide. The stranger gently pulled back the rains and the horse strode into an easy canter. They had been riding for over five hours to reach Tucumcari, to seek some employment. With his new companion in tow, the stranger felt different, as if a new spark had entered his life, but he had to be wary.
As they neared the town, the stranger slightly nudged Monica who had slept during the trip. “Where are we?” she sleepily asked.” Nearin Tucumcari,” he said. The city of Tucumcari stood nestled on a flat plain just three miles south of the Nazareth Canyon. It was a simple town, more accurately a one horse town. The local inn sat on the far right while the other necessary structure were situated on both sides of the path passing through and a railway ran adjacently to the town. The stranger slowly guided the exhausted roan to the stable next to the saloon. A young man was waiting outside, and popped up as he saw him approach. “Need yer horse stabled tonight sir?” asked the young boy. The stranger nodded silently as he got off the horse and handed the reins to the boy. He then offered a hand to Monica as she jumped down from the roan. “How long ya’ll plannin to stay?”asked the boy.
The stranger then flipped the boy a five cent piece and gruffly said “That gunna cover us?” “Yess sir,” said the boy as he took the roan in the stable. The stranger and Monica slowly walked inside the small inn. “Room for one please” said Monica, as the inn keeper approached. “That’ll be two dollars”, as he held out a greedy hand. The stranger took out a two wadded bills and gave the man. “You’ll be in room 203”as he gave them the key. They then left the counter and walked up to the dingy room. Once inside, the stranger plopped down on one of the beds and said, “Bess be getting some rest, we got a busy day tomorrow”. They both laid down and fell into a deep slumber.
The warm dirt fell through the man’s fingers as he glanced at the soil, slowly feeling the coarse texture. The air around him was muggy while the Georgia heat sweltered like an oven. “Jus about plantin season,” he thought as he whipped the mule, the animal panting with exasperation as it pulled the plow. A young boy of around six years walked up to his father and exclaimed, “Pa… supper is about ready”. “Awrite boy… go tell yer maw I’ll be there in a second”. The small boy slowly hopped away as if singing a happy tune and ran to catch bugs in the air. The father looked happily at the boy and smiled, he was content with his life, he had a successful farm, and most importantly a loving family. As the mountain men said he was, “gettin ‘head in life”.
As the plow gee-hawed around the roots, and the mule huffed, shots were heard in the distance. The father looked up from his position, leaving the mules as he ran barefoot, overalls flapping against his thin legs. He ran wildly through the briars and sumac, across the dusty gullies. Then a hard stock of a rifle met his head as he fell to the ground, a red headed union soldier, evilly smiled at him as he was held to the ground. In front of him lay the ruins of his home, his humble abode ripped apart by hungry bright orange flames of war. As this happened, his wife was being brutally raped as a group of soldiers gathered around, her cries reaching his tender ears. The father screamed, tears flowing down his cheeks as the union soldiers looked on in amusement. His wife’s shrieks quieting down as she slowly succumbed to the stress of death. The father screeched as he saw his boy shoved to the ground in front of him. “Daddy,” the young boy cried, “Help me”. The father struggled against the man holding him but to no avail.
A scruffy union soldier with piercing black eyes walked up behind the boy and slowly raised his rifle. “Noooooooo…,” screamed the father as he twisted to get free of the soldiers grip. The fathers head was driven into the searing hot dirt, as he watched while the trigger was pulled and his young son fell to the ground. The boy’s young features contorted by death, as the father looked into those once innocent eyes. The fathers heart was about to burst from his chest as he spat at the soldiers, as he was dragged towards a noose on a large oak.
The men hefted him on his pale roan and slipped the rope around his neck. The father’s charred, smeared, bloody face glared at the soldiers with eyes full of dark hate. “When I get to hell,” he spat, “I will make sure to rip all of you apart limb by limb”. The red headed union soldier laughed, turned the rifle into the air and fired… the horse darted forth… the body of the father swinging loosely by the noose around his neck. Then a voice was heard, “What’s wrong… stranger… what’s wrong”. The stranger woke up screaming, tears coming down his cheeks, as he glanced around the room. The stranger glanced over at Monica, her sparkling blue eyes full of care and compassion. The shaken stranger slowly got up, put on clothing and slowly walked out of the dark room.
In the cold dark air, stood the stranger holding a thick piece of parchment, as he smiled at Monica next to him. “Looks like we got ourselves some employment” he drawled. On the front read, Wanted: El Lobo and gang; dead or alive; 20,000 dollar reward. “Oh… that sure is a lot of money,” she exclaimed. “I heard of him,” said the stranger as he cut off plug of tobacco and roughly shoved it in his mouth. “About one of the cruelest sons of bitches out there,” he snarled, “kills everythin’ he can get his hands on”. As this bout of conversation was occurring, in a dark corner of the station sat a figure holding a harmonica. “There they are,” the figure thought. He slowly moved the harmonica up to his puckered lips.
Out of the blackness came an eerily dark sound, one of death, namely a harmonica. A dark figure clad in brown toting a Colt Single Action Army, strode up to the stranger while playing the harmonica. The stranger instantly recognized him, as he stepped down off the station. Spurs clanging, as the two men circled each other staring directly at each other not uttering a word. The sound of the harmonica still flowing throughout the tense air like a fast flowing stream. Both these dangerous men had known each other and were testing each other’s composure.
Once satisfied, the man with the harmonica slowly strode towards the stranger and pulled out a knife. Then the harmonica playing stopped as the man grasped the wanted poster and flung it to the ground at their feet. The man then passed the knife to the stranger, then amazingly the stranger cut his hand, red blood seeping out of the freshly cut wound. Handing it back to the man, as if doing it reciprocally, cut his hand as the blood flowed forth. The two men gazed at each other and clasped hands finalizing the deal that would bind them till death… droplets of blood falling on the poster of El Lobo…