Charlie Martz and Other Stories Read Online Free Page B

said, “The wagon will be here soon. Just lie still.”
    Next to him another guy was standing with my coat on his arm. For some reason I tagged him for a newspaperman. He waited until the doctor walked away and then said:
    â€œYou don’t have too much to worry about. Self-defense written all over the place. By the way—this your coat?”
    I nodded.
    â€œYou doing the puzzle?”
    I nodded again.
    â€œNo wonder you couldn’t get going. You had the first one across filled in wrong.”
    I heard him, but didn’t pay much attention. Fine time to discuss crossword puzzles.
    He was still talking. “I guess it was a natural mistake, though, with you. Must have had a lot on your mind.”
    Another guy, with a camera, came up to him then.
    â€œGot ’em all, Jerry. That all?”
    â€œYeah, that’s all. Hey, wait! Want to see something funny?” The reporter brought the crossword puzzle out of the pocket.
    â€œSee this guy is doing the puzzle, then he finds that he’s stuck. Know why? Look at the first one, across. It’s a one- two- three- . . . seven-letter word for corpse. You know what this guy has written in? CARRITO! The guy’s a prophet!”

Charlie Martz
    I N MESILLA IT WAS the hour of the siesta. The small square that marked the center of the adobe settlement was void of any sign of life. Only the glare of the bleaching southwestern sun danced about the dry fountain in the middle of the square, and against the crumbly, baked-sand walls of the adobe buildings fronting the square. The tall, sandstone Mission bordering the eastern end stood desolate and alone. Occasionally could be heard a faint, hollow clang as a hot wind swept though the arch of the Mission belfry to nudge the massive bell. The bark of a stray dog, the slam of a screen door—only these sounds broke the bright-glare stillness.
    Across the square, directly opposite the Mission, stood the Exquisita, Mesilla’s only saloon. Its adobe surface was the same bleak structure as the other buildings in the solitary row, except that above the wide doorway, and the width of the building, a supported tin-roof structure extended, awkwardly, eight or ten feet, providing the only shade on that side of the square.
    A thick, untidy man wearing a collarless shirt and white apron lounged in the doorway of the saloon. His body was loose and relaxed, leaning against the doorframe, but his face bore a puzzled expression. His eyes were half-closed, squinting against the glare, in the general direction of the Mission. He was the first and only one to see the rider walking his horse slowly up the middle of the narrow street bordering the Mission.
    As the rider reached the square, his horse balked slightly, but the rider urged the horse along at the same slow pace. The man in the doorway squinted harder, but there was no recognition on his face. He walked out the few paces to the end of the shade as the rider reached the rail in front of the saloon.
    â€œHowdy, mister. You sure pick a hot time of day to come callin’. You come far? I see you must’ve come from Orogrande say . . . that’s a killin’ ride this time of day. Come on in and fresh up. I got a boy that’ll take care of the sorrel.”
    The rider had only nodded his head in greeting. He dismounted stiffly, unbuckled his chaps, and threw them over the saddle horn before he looked up again. “Just have your boy give her some water. I’m not sure if I’m through ridin’ or not. I know I’m ready to have a drink, though.”
    â€œSure thing, mister. Hey, niño ! Aquí !” He waited a few moments and was about to yell for the boy again, when the young Mexican came running around from the side of the building. The man in the apron said a few words in Spanish, then followed the rider through the doorway, eager to be of service, yet not sure what kind of man he was going to serve.
    â€œFinest saloon