The Denton Mare

By Duane DeMello

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 18, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462816743

Duane DeMello

Duane DeMello was born in Oakland, California, but grew up in Shive, Texas and always considered himself a Texan. He received his B.A. and his M.A. from the University of North Texas. DeMello served in the U.S. Air Force, owned a newspaper, and worked for two major Fortune 500 corporations before giving up the corporate life to do what he loved best, writing. In Texas he absorbed most of the material to write two novels, The Denton Mare and Texas Gothics. After he moved to Tallahassee to attend Florida State University, DeMello took in enough sunshine to write Mystic Florida. In addition to numerous short stories and two plays, his other novels include Headshots, Lay Me Down, and Hypertext. The Denton Mare won the Houston Area Booksellers Award, and DeMello was later named one of eight finalists for the prestigious Drue Heinz Literature Prize.

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Copyright © 2008 by Duane DeMello.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.\

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

Preface

Some men are born to greatness, others to tragedy. The Denton Mare is a fictional account of one of those men—the notorious Texas outlaw, Sam Bass. Set in the Old West in the 1870s, the story primarily concerns itself with events in the train robber’s life—from the time he owned and raced the Denton Mare to the now famous shoot-out in Round Rock, Texas. It is a story of crime and betrayal told through the eyes of Bass and one of his close confederates, J im Murphy.

Bass had his dreams, and I had mine. When you realize that we are all on a ball of mud, hurtling through an expanding universe faster than the speed of light squared, you realize that we have already ceased to exist, and that we are held together only by uncommon will of spirit. And that’s what keeps our dreams alive.

Duane DeMello

Acknowledgments

First and foremost, to my friend and editor, Rick Sale, an outstanding professor at the University of North Texas, for working so hard on this project and for truly understanding what this book is about. And to the talented Jerry Stern, a friend and professor, who took me under his wing, as he did many fledgling writers at Florida State University.

I cannot fully express my gratitude to my family, Lola and Ernst, Loni, Stephen, and Rita, and to my wife, Bev, and our best friend, J oan. Thank you especially to Dr. Donna Clevinger, Gene Bush, Macon Freeman, and others at Tenneco Inc. who knew I’d be happier creating life on the page than speculating about the price of oil. My thanks also to Ralph and Bobbye Byrnes, Karalee and Barry Fikes, J ohn and Susan Gregory, Bill and Margie Dellaughter, and J oey Kelly, who also believed in me.

And finally, my gratitude to cover artist, Laura Gilleland-Beck, who took my vision, after life, and made it into art. My thanks.

I

Bass had the dream again that night.

She first came to him the night of his mother’s funeral, and when he woke that night—frightened and crying—with only a fleeting memory of the terrible vision that had passed before his eyes, he was sure some beast was loose upon the earth, and threatening. For he had seen her thundering across an endless plain, coming toward him on hooves made of steel, and he knew, even then, as a boy, that something had come to replace that which had been torn from his life, and was lost forever.

Now that he had come to know her, though, he was no longer afraid of the powerful great horse that thundered—eternally, it seemed—across that open plain toward him, looming larger each time she neared, appearing first as a spark of light on the horizon, then a glow as she galloped swiftly across that wasteland toward him—saddled and bridled, but riderless… her eyes flashing, nostrils flaring… her hoofbeats pounding in rhythm to the beat of his own pounding heart… louder, and then louder… her bone-white teeth a reminder of something he knew he should not forget, yet could never remember.

And then came the voices, just whispers below the threshold of her pounding hooves. But each time he heard them, he would turn in the dream and look back to see who was speaking—and find only more of the plain, stretching endlessly toward some vague dark movement on the horizon. Then, in the twin lights between those two worlds—the one he could see and the one he could not—he would turn back again and stand transfixed, and watch as she approached, see the fire reflecting from her powerful wet shoulders… her long mane trailing the wind… those bone-white teeth gnashing the bit between her jaws. Stand . . . until he thought, had he courage enough, he could almost reach out and touch her.

And only later, after he woke, would he think of the voices again. Sometimes he felt there were hundreds of them passing around him like the wind around an open window. At other times he felt only two or three of the voices were actually speaking to him and that the others were there only as spectators, or as witnesses to some as yet unknown event. If so, they were a mistake, an anomaly which had nothing to do with him. And perhaps they weren’t even voices at all, he sometimes thought, just sounds waiting for someone to give them form. And on those few occasions when he did wake, thinking he understood what they were saying, he would gasp and lose it all in the first breath, more convinced than ever they were a mistake that had nothing to do with him.

But she was no mistake, that powerful great horse. She was his and he never doubted it. A harbinger of sorts, a messenger carrying word to him of something yet to come—something terrible perhaps, or something wonderful. He didn’t know which, but each time she came, she loomed larger than the time before and the earth beneath him shook with greater intensity. And each time, he stood facing her just a moment longer than the time before, facing the terrible onslaught of her pounding hooves, the fire leaping from her strong shoulders that threatened to scorch the earth all the way out to that vague movement on the horizon; face her until he could almost look into the furnace of her eyes. Then he would wake, suddenly, with a shudder, and groan at his own weakness, his own inability to stand until the end.

But then… then, there did at last come a night when he forced himself to wait long enough to look into her eyes, and he found there, instead of the horror he had expected, something else. Something that surprised him, and frightened him all over again, but in a different way—for when he woke that night he understood something new about himself, and something new about her too. For he had seen the immense sadness in her eyes, the enormous grief, and he knew she wasn’t what he thought. Instead, she was something else, something that went back to a time before darkness separated from the light, before words were spoken. And from that night on, he knew she was eternal, a part of that vast emptiness that separated all that was living from all that was not.

And from that night on, she became his obsession as well. He longed for her the way other men long for a beautiful woman they know they cannot have, but he could not force her to him. She came only when it was time, as though they both were tied somehow to that great clock in the sky that moved the stars through the heavens. And though he wanted to find out what would happen if he stayed until the end, until he could reach out and touch her, he was powerless to do so. His courage always failed him. And he would awaken, breathless, back in his own place and time, vaguely aware of hoofbeats receding into the night…

II

Although the noon heat had driven everyone else inside, Murphy looked both ways before crossing the empty street. The Texas sun, glaring off the hot caliche, forced the big man to squint so tightly he appeared to have slits where his eyes should have been—his eyes that were getting worse. They had dried up on him three days after Round Rock, and there were times now when he thought he would shut them and they would never open again; that he would finally go blind and be of absolutely no good to anyone, not even himself. He felt that way today. He was tired too, tired of the sleepless nights and all the waiting, tired of everything.

Once, shortly after moving into town, he thought he saw Bass and the Denton Mare, standing in the street outside his house. It was raining hard that night, though, and the way both man and horse appeared to be shifting around as the wind drove the rain sideways, he knew he had to be seeing things. Still, to make sure, he had slipped into the hallway to get a better view, but the apparition was gone by the time he reached the front door. And that was the last rain he could remember too. Since then, the whole world had dried up and turned to dust.

Now it was J une and hotter than any he had ever seen. What little grass there was had long since turned brown and was now so brittle it would break in the wind. Murphy glanced back at the oak trees standing in front of the courthouse and shook his head. Not even in those tight shadows was there any protection from the heat, a little shade perhaps, but no protection. Hell couldn’t be any hotter, he thought, then laughed as he made his way across the street, his boots kicking up a fine, white powder. Dust on my grave, he thought, then laughed again. Halfway over, though, he sensed a movement on his right and crouched instinctively. He brought his hand up to the heavy pistol on his hip as he turned, but there was no one there. A dun mare swished her tail, and Murphy realized it was the horse, and not some person that had caused him to jump. He relaxed a little, then smiled. He was getting too edgy for his own damn good.

Murphy, you’re a fool, he told himself, then laughed again as he hurried toward the drugstore. With some surprise, he realized this was the first time in months he had laughed about anything, and that gave him a dim hope. Maybe all of it would work out. The new doctor might even be able to do something about his eyes. If so, he could leave, go back east or farther west, some place where he could start over, where nobody knew him and nobody gave a damn.

The tears had simply stopped flowing, and his eyes had dried up like peaches on a tin roof. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. He would stare into the long nights, expecting to see a shadowy movement in the dark, a kind of black within a black that would preface the click and a sudden flash he knew was coming. He just didn’t know when.

And that was what made it such a terrible burden. Sometimes he wanted to give it all up and drop down on his knees and pray to God—but he couldn’t do that either because he had made his choice. And it was all a matter of choice, wasn’t it? he told himself. A man rides east or he rides west, but in the end, it isn’t the direction that matters—it’s what they think of him, and not even who he is, but who they think he is… Murphy shook his head and wondered if he believed that himself as he stepped into Lipscomb’s drugstore. It took a moment before his eyes adjusted to the darkness; then he spotted Lipscomb, standing behind the counter, studying his accounts’ ledger. He glanced around but saw no one else.

The new doc in? he asked.

He’s in the back, Lipscomb said, after a noticeable pause. Murphy knew the druggist was letting him know just how he felt about Murphy. Murphy stared at the top of Lipscomb’s bald head and waited.

Look, I’m pretty busy here, Lipscomb said.

Well, I’ll get out of your hair then, Murphy told him, then watched the top of Lipscomb’s head turned scarlet as he walked past. The little druggist didn’t look up, though.

For almost a year now Murphy had sensed a wall everywhere he went, and no one made an effort to talk to him. Some, like Lipscomb, were openly contemptuous. The worst pretended he wasn’t there at all, as if he didn’t exist. Murphy feared them in a way, yet he sought out their company despite the abuse because anything was better than the waiting, and it was especially so for a man who knew he was going to die. They had sworn to kill him, and there were just too many of them to watch. If he blinked his eyes at the wrong time, he was a dead man. If he turned his back on the wrong one, he was a dead man. It was as simple as that.

Dr. McMath opened the door to his small office before Murphy had a chance to knock. Mr. Murphy… how can I help you?

You know me? Murphy asked, surprised.

Denton’s a small town. Come on in.

Murphy walked through the door into McMath’s office. The furnishings were sparse—a desk on spindly legs, two chairs, a screen to dress behind, and an operating table. He noticed a small stand with the doctor’s instruments laid out neatly on a bed of white cotton. A frosted glass on the wall kept the room bright, and though the window was open, the room was still hot as it was outside. Murphy took a seat on the operating table.

It’s my eyes, Doc. They’re hurting me.

The young doctor turned Murphy’s head toward the light. They do look irritated, all right. How long have they been this way?

Off and on, about a year. But they seem to be getting worse.

Have you seen anyone else about it?

No.

The doctor’s red mustache seemed to bristle. No? Why not? You can’t let something like this go, man. You could lose your sight.

Murphy shrugged. It was kind of funny having a pup chew him out. I didn’t have any place to go.

There are other doctors around.

But I couldn’t trust them, Murphy said.

McMath pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back up his narrow nose. And you trust me? Why?

Because you’re new.

Oh, McMath said, then nodded. I see. You thought they’d hold that Bass business against you?

Murphy just stared. McMath couldn’t be much more than twenty-five, he thought. And for a doctor, especially a young one, he didn’t look all that healthy himself. So maybe he should just walk out now. You know about that too, huh?

The young doctor nodded. I’ve heard stories. I haven’t paid that much attention to them, though. After all, my business is healing bodies… not souls.

Murphy laughed. Yes, he was young all right. What about my eyes then, Doc?

Well, they’re as dry as west Texas, but you already know that. Truth is, I’ll have to do some reading up. I can wash them out for you, though. Everything else is dry too, by the way, your ears, nasal passages, throat—everything. You been drinking a lot more than you should?

Not today, Murphy said.

McMath gave him a hard look. One of the things I’ve heard is that you drink a lot, Mr. Murphy. And too much alcohol can kill you. You should know that. In fact, it might have brought this on.

Murphy snorted. He had his own reasons for drinking—it helped him sleep for one thing, and it damn sure helped him forget.

When Murphy didn’t answer, McMath shrugged. Well, we can try an eye wash and see what happens… if Lipscomb has what we need, that is. Let me go check.

When the doctor walked out of the room, Murphy stretched out on the table and forced himself to shut his eyes. A drink, that was what he wanted right now, a drink. But he tried to make himself think of other things. He remembered Bass standing beside the mare, laughing and slapping her on the neck. She had just won a big race somewhere—where was that? He squeezed his eyes and tried to remember, but when he did, the pain became intense and his eyelids seemed to weld shut. He heard McMath walk back into the office.

You aren’t asleep, are you?

Murphy’s eyes popped open. J ust thinking.

McMath looked at him curiously, cocked his head to one side. Well, we’ll wash your eyes out with this, and then do it again in about an hour… if that’s all right with you?

If it helps, Doc, it’ll be more than all right.

Murphy could feel the doctor’s uncalloused fingers on his eyelids. Then he saw the glass vial above his face. A drop of liquid splashed in one eye, burned, then cooled.

This is an atropine solution. It’s from the belladonna family. Legend has it Cleopatra herself used this to make her eyes more beautiful.

Murphy jumped as another drop of the liquid hit his eyeball, then another. McMath repeated the procedure. Besides, this is all Lipscomb had in stock. I’ve never used it before, but he says it’ll do the job. Now, what’s going to happen is this is going to dilate your pupils. So you’re going to have to stay inside here until they get back to normal. We don’t want any further damage. McMath backed away and looked at him. How do they feel now?

Murphy opened and closed his eyelids several times. The light was blinding, but his eyelids were working better. Not bad, right now.

"Good, good. Wonderful. Look, I need to go over to the Monitor and pick up a paper. So why don’t you just rest, and I’ll leave the wash here on the stand. If you think it’s doing some good and you need a little more, just drop some in."

After McMath left, Murphy reached over and picked up the glass vial containing the solution. It was heavier than he thought. He still couldn’t focus, and when he tried to pour a drop out of the bottle, he splashed liquid all over his face. When he cursed and sat up, he could taste the bitter solution in his mouth, on his tongue. He licked his lips, and when he did, the liquid seemed to penetrate down into his tongue and spread everywhere at once. Within a minute or so, he knew something was wrong. His tongue was suddenly dry and thick. And as he set the bottle aside, he had a sensation that the room was beginning to move.

At first he was just frightened, then he thought he was losing his mind because the room was moving. Then he thought he was going to be sick as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. When that feeling passed, he couldn’t see anything. There was nothing but darkness around him. He sat up suddenly and felt for his pistol. And when he did, he felt himself falling. He called out, but the world remained black, and he was locked inside it, trapped within himself, and falling, falling… toward some distant place. As the terror began to build in his chest, he tried to call out again, but he had no voice. Then he sensed something else—another being, a force of some kind moving up from the bottom of the pit he was falling into, and moving toward him. Murphy tried to cry out again, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe, and he couldn’t see anything except the darkness, and the frightening presence rising out of it…

* * *

Murphy? Murphy, are you all right? It was McMath, Murphy realized. Are you all right, man? What happened?

Despite his frail appearance, the young doctor was shaking him vigorously. Murphy shook his head. I don’t know, Doc. All of a sudden, I was just gone. The room started moving around, spinning like, and I couldn’t see anything. And I couldn’t breathe either. Lord, I thought I was gone.

Are you all right now? McMath asked. The doctor was still gripping his shoulders.

Murphy shook his head again. I don’t know. I still can’t see so good, and I’ve got this strange feeling that everything’s far away. Distant, you know? It’s like your voice is coming at me through a tunnel.

It must be the atropine, the doctor said. You’re having some kind of reaction to it. It can bring on hallucinations, but…

Murphy remembered. I got some of it in my mouth, Doc. Is it poison? How bad is it?

You got some in your mouth? You spilled it in your mouth?

Murphy grunted.

I’d better check on this, McMath said, then hurried out the room. When he came back, he was carrying a large book. Murphy could hear him turning the pages, then muttering to himself as he read. Then he stopped.

What is it?

McMath stood up. J ust stay calm, Mr. Murphy.

Murphy felt his insides turning to brass.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you. It could be real bad. It can bring on convulsions and hallucinations…

And? Murphy asked.

McMath sighed. And… well, depending on how much you ingested, Mr. Murphy, it could kill you. There’s just no way to know.

Murphy closed his eyes. He could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat.

But you may have seen the worst of it already. If so, I think you’ll be all right. If not, well, we’ll just have to see what happens in the next few hours or so.

You mean this could go on all day?

I’m sorry, Mr. Murphy.

Isn’t there something you can give me?

I’ll do what I can to make you comfortable.

You mean there’s nothing you can give me?

Mr. Murphy, I’ll do what I can, but I don’t have anything to give you. I don’t have an antidote. We’ll just have to see what happens.

Murphy shook his head again, then opened his eyes. The room was too bright to look at so he closed them again. Doc, you got any smokes on you?

Smokes? McMath repeated, then chuckled. If you want a smoke, my guess is you’re going to be all right.

The doctor pulled out his pouch and rolled a cigarette, then placed it in Murphy’s mouth. Murphy took a deep pull when the match was lit. He let it out slowly and watched the doctor move through a swirl of smoke. At first he thought the doctor was changing shapes, getting taller. Then he wasn’t so sure it was McMath he was looking at at all. He felt strangely uneasy for some reason. Then he knew why. It was happening again. He was falling into that place again, that hell. He tried to catch himself, but it was too late. He was already falling…

And again the images rose out of the darkness to meet him. First, he saw Bass, then Barnes and J ackson, then the mare, one image merging into another, then changing into something else again. Then he saw himself standing off to one side, laughing at the others, but felt a sense of relief, because he could see his own face, see he was laughing. Then he saw that there was something wrong—with his face, something wrong with his eyes. He moved closer. Then the face, his face, turned toward him—and Murphy screamed. His eyes were bulging from their sockets, white as a pair of hen’s eggs.

When he turned to run he saw the gun pointed at his face, saw Barnes’ furrowed brow lurking behind the barrel. The knobby thumb on the cold hammer. The cylinder rolling. He shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, waited for the explosion to rip off his head, then… then nothing. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Barnes standing in front of him… but now he was holding the pistol and looking down the barrel at Barnes. He laughed as he placed the bead in the center of the little man’s forehead. Then the little man laughed too as a gaping red hole opened like a third eye in the middle of his head. Murphy stepped forward when he realized it wasn’t Barnes he was looking at, but someone else. He leaned closer still. Then the dead man’s eyes popped open, and they were as white as a pair of hen’s eggs. Murphy screamed when he recognized his own face…

Murphy, Murphy?!

Murphy opened his eyes. The young doctor was staring at him.

Are you all right?

Murphy nodded slowly, dazed. What happened?

You just had another convulsion.

It was more like a nightmare, Murphy thought. Then he wondered if he told this doctor what had happened, explained it to him, if… but what good would that do? He could talk about it forever and it wouldn’t change a thing. Besides, there were so many stories going around these days he wasn’t sure which one was true himself. Maybe none of them. He sighed. What happens when a man goes crazy, Doc?

You were hallucinating, Mr. Murphy. Not going crazy.

Murphy forced himself to sit up. He wiped the sweat from his face. It isn’t just now I’m talking about, Doc. Lately it’s every day, and it seems like… well.

You just need to relax, Mr. Murphy.

That’s easy to say.

The doctor grabbed a chair and turned it around. You want to talk about it? Sometimes it helps just to get things off your chest.

Murphy had thought about talking it over with the doctor, but now he snorted. I thought you were just interested in bodies, Doc? Besides, we don’t have anything in common.

McMath smiled. Sure we do… red hair.

That was about the only thing they had in common, Murphy thought, but McMath was at least trying to be helpful, and that was more than he could say for anyone else in town. J ust as he started to tell the doctor to sit down though, Lipscomb called out.

Ed? Ed, there’s someone out here to see you!

I’ll be right there, McMath called. Then he looked at Murphy. Don’t worry. J ust rest. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

When McMath was gone, Murphy lay back and tried to put some order to his hellish thoughts. But no single thread seemed to connect all the elements. It was as if he had dropped through a trap door into a bottomless pit. Then he remembered there was a bottom after all and something down there that he had tried to escape, and that was when he had started seeing things. He wondered then where, and when, it had all really started. Then he thought of the mare, and knew he had found the thread he was looking for…

She was just a two-year-old when Bass bought her, and small, fifteen hands at most. Some said the little red sorrel had Kentucky blood, a strain of Steel Dust, maybe. And she could have had, Murphy thought. He knew she was the fastest horse he had ever seen, before or since. And those were the days, Murphy thought. The good days for all of them. He smiled when he remembered the time Buck Tomlin brought his big stallion up from Fort Worth. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the match had brought out close to a thousand people. It was the biggest thing Denton had ever seen.

When he arrived at the track, Murphy found Bass already in an argument with Buck Tomlin.

They want a head start, Murphy. Can you believe that? Bass cried. I’m not giving it to them even if we have to call off the damn race.

Murphy had seen Bass work competitors before, and he knew there was going to be a horse race, no matter how much yelling went on. Bass was merely working the odds, trying to bounce them up. It was one of the things Murphy liked most about the man, his ability to get people to do the damndest things for him without even telling them what he wanted.

Including Murphy. In fact, he knew exactly what Bass wanted of him now, so he said, and just loudly enough for Tomlin to hear, He’s just scared is all. He knows his plug can’t beat the mare.

Bass rubbed a finger across his nose and winked. Well, Murphy, what would you do if you were me?

Murphy shrugged. I’d pull her.

Now wait a goddamn minute here! It was Tomlin listening in. You can’t back out now. We came up here to race.

Murphy thought he saw a smile dance around Bass’s lips.

No? You just watch me. Because that’s just what I intend to do, Bass said, turning as if to walk away.

Okay, Tomlin said, then threw his hands up in disgust. I’ll take an even start. But, he added, you’ve got to pull that darky. I don’t want my boy riding against no nigger.

Tomlin knew something about working competitors himself, Murphy thought. He looked over at Charlie Tucker. The little jockey squirmed uncomfortably and Bass’s face grew hard. Bass said, Charlie’s been my rider since the mare took her first bit.

Tomlin laughed derisively. Yeah, well what’s wrong with her? Is she a nigger lover?

They had been friends a long time and Murphy knew when Bass was angry. And he was angry now. The edge was clearly shifting back to Buck Tomlin.

Stay calm, Murphy whispered.

But someone in the crowd shouted, He’s right, Bass. Put a white man on her. And several other voices echoed their agreement. Tomlin’s boys, who were all wearing sidearms, took up the chant too. What’s the matter? one of them yelled. She too good for white folks to ride?

When he saw Bass hesitate, Murphy shouted loud enough for everyone to hear. Hell, Sam, why not? The mare can beat his plow horse with me on her!

The crowd laughed in appreciation. There wasn’t a race horse alive that could run under Murphy’s two hundred pounds and everyone knew it. The tension eased even more when someone else shouted, Hell, make it a real race. Let the mare ride Murphy!

That brought another round of laughter, and a smile to Bass’s face. All right, he said, we’ll race. But I need to get another rider.

Murphy noticed Buck Tomlin’s surprised look and decided the man had hoped to win by default. Murphy climbed off his horse and walked over to the wagon where the mare was tied.

Well, Bass said, looking up as Murphy approached, what do we do now?

The little jockey spoke up first. No disrespect, Mr. Sam, but nobody can ride that Denton Mare better than me. She be used to me. And this black horse of Mr. Tomlin, he be the devil.

I know, Charlie, Bass said, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. And that’s what scares me.

How about Harry Hayes? Murphy suggested, cringing at the sight of Bass’s hand on Charlie’s shoulder. He had tried to get Bass to hire Hayes before. He