Marco Etheridge

Hero Once

The woman called herself Madge. She stood under the thin shade of an ocotillo ramada, a ladle in her right hand. The ladle held a dollop of sourdough batter. Beneath the ladle, a greased cast-iron griddle radiated heat into the warm morning air.

Something other than heat tickled the nape of her neck. Taking care not to spill her breakfast makings, Madge looked up from the ancient woodstove.

The open-air ramada afforded a clear view. Below the abandoned mining camp, a steep slope of piñon pine ran out into a narrow valley. A dust snake rose across the flats, weaving between clumps of mesquite. At the head of the snake rode a lone horseman, or at least someone dressed as a man.

Madge squinted, then shook her head.

“Damnation.”

She lowered her gaze and peered into a stoneware crock. Well, she’d have to stretch it as best she could. She fetched up a hunk of fatback. A razor-sharp knife made quick work of the bacon. Fatty strips hit the griddle with a sizzle.

Madge figured a quarter-hour before the rider showed. She picked up a lever-action carbine, checked the chamber, then leaned the rifle close to hand and out of sight.

She’d start the flapjacks after the fatback crisped. When the rider showed, she’d shoot him or serve breakfast, depending. However it went, there’d be just enough agave syrup and pine nuts. Sourdough cakes weren’t the same without the fixings. The coffee pot burbled as she turned the fatback.

Her timing proved true. The rider emerged from the pines as she flipped the last flapjacks. He—it was a he, best she could tell—reined in a big roan and raised a hand. That showed sense, anyway. She felt the rifle next to her knee.

The horse dropped its head to crop some grass. Madge got her first good look at the newcomer. Seemed young, too young to be much of a threat. Sorta handsome in a boyish way. Still, you never knew.

It’d be a shame to shoot him and hard work digging a grave.

The fellow touched his hat brim.

“Mornin’, ma’am.”

“It is that.”

“Sorry to trouble you. My name’s Eddie Baskin.”

The name triggered memories of a kidnapped girl, a desperate flight, and a brief return. Madge pushed the mental images away. Baskin was a common enough name.

“That right? What brings you way up here?”

“I’m looking for the Coachwhip.”

A jolt ran down Madge’s spine, much stronger than an unwanted memory. Her fingers tightened on the carbine. She measured her words.

“Plenty of snakes down in the pines. Rattlers, bull snakes, coachwhips too, I expect.”

The young man smiled.

A good smile. Be a shame to waste it.

“I reckon you’re right, but I’m not after snakes. I’m looking for the woman who goes by that name.”

Madge swore under her breath.

That’s the curse of being a hero. The bad ones just shoot without all this damn palaver. Yes, but you’re not a bad one. Or have things changed? No, I’ve not changed, damn you.

The Coachwhip, a nom de guerre Madge would never shake. It hung from her like a ball and chain. She might choose to ignore her past, but her past thought otherwise. Either way, she couldn’t ignore this young intruder.

Damn this man. No, this boy. Where the hell did he spring from and how much does he know?

“You ride up from Cooperton?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can quit with the ma’am. I’m Madge.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, Eddie Baskin, are you armed?”

“Just this old scattergun. Can’t afford nothing else.”

“You hungry?”

“I am that, Miss Madge.”

“You’re welcome to dismount. Leave the shotgun on the horse if you don’t mind.”

The unwelcome guest nodded, looped the reins over his saddle horn, and swung off the roan. Madge tensed, ready for a sudden move or a quick shot from under the horse’s neck.

Instead of doing something stupid, Eddie Baskin led the horse to a pine tree, hitched the reins over a low branch, and walked toward the ramada. The nearer he got, the younger he looked. From the vantage of fifty years, Madge was a poor judge of youth. She guessed him less than twenty.

“Lord, that smells good. You’re sure you’ve got grub to spare?”

Madge waved a spatula.

“There’s enough. Pull up a crate.”

Eddie looked where she pointed, then sat atop a wooden ore box under the shade of the ramada. Madge loaded up two tin plates. She emerged from behind the woodstove, plates in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. Two tin mugs dangled from one finger. She placed the plates, pot, and mugs on an empty crate, then sat on another.

“Eat up. Coffee’s black. I’m short on milk cows.”

“Much obliged. Black coffee suits me fine.”

The two ate in silence. Madge poured more coffee. Eddie mopped his plate with the last bit of flapjack. The young man blew out an exaggerated sigh.

“Thank you, Miss Madge. Best breakfast I’ve ate in a long while.”

“Glad you liked it. Now you best be getting on. I’ve got chores, and I’m sure someone’s missing you down in town.”

“Oh, no ma’am. The smithy is shut down. Some fellas are fitting up a new bellows. The bossman said I could go fishing. That’d be Charlie, the blacksmith. I’m a striker, sorta like a smith’s apprentice. Someday, I’ll be a blacksmith myself, or so Charlie says.”

Madge wasn’t accustomed to so many words coming at her so fast.

“Not much in the way of fishing up here.”

Eddie grinned and ducked his head. He reminded Madge of a puppy. And thinking of puppies reminded her she didn’t need any strays.

“I don’t much care for fish, Miss Madge. Don’t care for blacksmithing either, to tell the truth. But I don’t mind working. I could help with those chores in return for breakfast.”

“I can manage, thanks. How about you answer a question instead? You rode three hours from Cooperton and managed to get here before breakfast. Why?”

“Like I said, I’m looking for the Coachwhip.”

“Right, but why here in particular?”

“Couple of the old fellas told me to ride up this way. Said the Coachwhip guarded an abandoned mine. Didn’t say why, though.”

Madge snorted.

“Sounds like they sent you on a fool’s errand. Old men enjoy pranking a young fella.”

“Could be. But one of ‘em was my uncle. See, the Coachwhip, she’s part of my family history. My Aunt Becky got taken when she was a girl, back before I was born. Bad men got her, or maybe worse than men. Depends who’s telling the story. Anyway, they drug Becky off to the dead land. She weren’t but ten years old.”

A flood of memory washed over Madge. Becky Baskin, the girl who started everything. And this boy is Becky’s nephew. She waved her hands, trying to stop the tide. Eddie looked stricken.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No, but I remember this story. Must have been thirty years ago. The way I heard it, folks in Cooperton were too scared to go after the girl. They said no one comes back from the dead land.”

“But the Coachwhip did. Went in all by herself, rescued my aunt, and fetched her home. Three days she was gone. Folks were mourning my aunt for dead. The Coachwhip rode right into the middle of the grieving, carrying little Becky in her lap. Brought her back from the dead and not a scratch on her.”

Madge shook her head against a memory hard as glass.

“No, that ain’t right. She wasn’t the Coachwhip back then. Just a foolish young woman with a head full of big ideas. Didn’t have a clue what she was doing. Good thing she was born lucky.”

Silence drifted over the warm morning. Eddie cleared his throat. Sounded like a gunshot.

“But that’s how it started, ain’t it? That’s when folks started calling you the Coachwhip, on account of how quick you was, in and out like a snake. You’re her, ain’t you?”

Madge had worn many disguises, but never that of an outright liar. The morning crumbled around her.

“Yes, I’m the Coachwhip. Or was. Cooperton, that’s where it started. And me just twenty years old. Too damn young.”

The boy’s eyes lit up like bonfires.

“I knew it was you!”

Anger flared inside Madge.

“And you’ll keep that knowledge to yourself if you know what’s good for you. That clear?”

She stared daggers, but Eddie looked more excited than frightened.

Because he doesn’t know any better. Remind you of anyone?

“I won’t tell a soul, promise, but I was hoping, you know…”

Eddie’s voice faded into longing. Madge heard his unspoken words as if they were her own, words that came from being caught in that red-hot place between wanting and not wanting. The unknown path or the easy familiar. An irrevocable choice, but no one tells you that at the time. Choose wrong and there’s no going home again. Either way, regret carries a nasty bite.

This boy wants to go heroing or thinks he does. Better he sticks to blacksmithing.

“How old are you, Eddie?”

“Seventeen, Miss Coachwhip.”

Madge laughed despite herself.

“That’s a mouthful. Let’s just stick with miss.”

“Yes, miss.”

“You’re seventeen. Might be a blacksmith in a few years. That’s a respectable trade. Sounds like a good life.”

Eddie waved his hands like he was pushing something away.

“Sounds like prison to me. What did you do before you turned into the Coachwhip?”

“Me? I was a cow hand, even though I was a girl. Ran wild on my folks’ spread. Mam tried marrying me off, but it didn’t stick. Then that little girl went missing. No one had the guts to go after her, so I did. Guess I had something to prove.”

Eddie grinned.

“But you did prove something. Proved you were special, a real hero.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. There wasn’t anything special about me. I was just too stupid and slow to say no. I’ve learned a lot of hard lessons since then. So, I’m telling you what I should have told myself. Stay home.”

“But what about your amazing life? All those stories. Don’t you miss that?”

“Not particularly. It all went wrong when I brought Becky back to Cooperton. Folks were happy at first. Her ma and pa cried and welcomed her home. Didn’t take long, though, before I started getting the cold shoulder. The girl was safe, and the dead land was a long way off. My being there reminded folks they’d fallen short on courage. That rankled. Seeing me around town was like an itch they couldn’t scratch.”

“Well, most folks ain’t tough like you. They’re just people, you know? Coopers, blacksmiths, a few merchants.”

“True enough, but it was a hard lesson all the same. Got to be familiar as time went on. After I left Cooperton, I spent thirty years chasing bad men across four territories. Folks were thankful when the trouble stopped or ran off, but they were happy to see me disappear down the trail.”

She looked to the horizon, then back at Eddie.

“You ask me do I miss heroing. I’d be a liar if I said there weren’t good times. But balance that against having no home, no promise of marriage, no children. It’s a hard bargain, let me tell you.”

The boy stared at his hands, then raised his eyes. She read the confusion written across his face.

“So, you’re saying you quit? You’re hiding out up here?”

Pride stabbed like a scorpion, but she shrugged it off.

The boy doesn’t know better. Meeting your hero in the flesh tends to tarnish the legend. But I’m no quitter.

“Not quite hiding out, Eddie. Those old men weren’t far wrong when they told you I guarded an old mine. But it’s more than a mine. It’s a damn portal. The miners didn’t abandon this dig because the ore ran out. They unearthed a tunnel that leads down to the dead lands. Leads up as well, if you get my drift. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes not. I guard this place so nothing bad comes through.”

The confusion vanished from Eddie’s face, replaced by a smile.

“You mean we could get into the dead land from right here, just go into the mine and climb down?”

“It’s possible if a body was foolish enough to try it. If the portal decides to open. Then you can step into blackness. Too bad if you decide to turn back. The portal won’t be there anymore. You go down and down, then down some more. After an eternity, you step out into a grey place where the sun never shines, with a cliff behind you and a river barring the way. Can’t swim across. You must pay the ferryman. He’ll carry you over for two coins, but he won’t ever bring you back. Then you have to get past the dogs. Three big, evil bastards. If you manage that, your troubles are just getting started. The only way out of the dead land is all the way through. Few make it. Mostly, it’s the end of the line.”

“But you made it through because you’re the Coachwhip, quicker than anyone alive.”

“Listen to me. That’s just stories, you hear? Stories are important, but that doesn’t mean they’re true. I expect there’s plenty of folks quicker than me. The difference is that I never hesitate.

“When everything hinges on a single moment, most folks will take a breath, or twitch, or stop to think. The good ones do it out of fear. Bad men do it out of excitement. They enjoy the sensation of having someone under their thumb. And in that crucial heartbeat between living and dying, the one who doesn’t hesitate wins.”

“That might explain some of the tales, but it don’t mean you didn’t win. You cheated death. You brought my aunt back from the dead land. Nobody else could’ve done what you did.”

“Nobody cheats death, Eddie Baskin. Nobody, you hear me? Death always wins. Don’t ever forget that. No, I used trickery. I snuck into the dead land, and I stole your aunt back from those bastards. Trickery and deceit are a hero’s real weapons.”

Eddie seemed to ponder this. She hoped some of her words were getting inside his thick skull. That hope died quickly.

“Will you teach me? I promise to do everything you say. I’ll learn to be tricky and sneaky. Please?”

The woman who called herself Madge, once known as the Coachwhip, resigned herself to the inevitable. This kid would never give up. Young Eddie Baskin was in the grip of forces more powerful than the Coachwhip. He’d have to learn the hard way, just as she had.

“Eddie, a big part of being a hero means your words are iron. If you say it, you must do it. Understand?”

“Yes, miss.”

“You still want to stand by that promise to do everything I say? That means no argument, especially when things get dark.”

“Yes, miss, I swear it.”

The Coachwhip stood up and raised her hand. Eddie sprang to his feet. His eyes followed where she pointed.

“I can’t leave here until I know my horse is taken care of. I want you to take my mare back to Cooperton and see that she’s well-shoed. Can you do that, Eddie?”

“Oh, yes miss. You mean right now?”

“Right now. Get a lead on her and take her back to town.”

“I will, miss. I’ll shoe her myself.”

“Thank you, Eddie. You’d best be going.”

“Right. Thank you for the breakfast and, well, everything.”

The Coachwhip nodded and waved her hand. Eddie hitched his jeans up and strode away to the corral. In a few moments, he had her mare gentled and a lead rope tied to its halter. The boy had a good way with horses. She was glad for that. She and the mare had ridden many miles together.

Eddie led the mare to the tree where he’d tethered his roan. The two horses nickered at each other. Eddie swung into the saddle and turned to wave. She raised her hand. Eddie flipped the reins. A moment later, he and the two horses disappeared into the pines. The Coachwhip was alone once more.

She waited until she saw a dust snake rising from the flats. Rifle under her arm, she walked to a sagging bunkhouse. Five minutes later, she emerged with a bedroll slung across her back and a satchel hanging from her shoulder.

At the mine entrance, she lifted a lantern from a nail. Daylight faded as she stepped inside. A match scratched against stone. The lantern’s glow cast eerie shadows. Rifle in one hand, lantern in the other, she descended.  

Far below the surface, she came upon a panel of planks built into the left-hand wall of the shaft. The heavy door was mounted on iron rails. She leaned her rifle against the stone, grasped a rusty handle, and heaved. A metallic squeal echoed down the shaft. The door slid open.

The lantern illuminated a rectangular portal hewn through solid rock, its floor, walls, and roof smoothed and true. Lifting the rifle, the Coachwhip entered the portal. The door protested as she drew it closed.

She walked forward and down until the passage bent to the right. There she waited. Her heartbeats felt loud as a kettle drum. Then a rumbling filled the narrow tunnel.

Holding the lantern before her, the Coachwhip retraced her steps. The passageway ended in a wall of solid rock. Not a trace of oak planks, mineshaft, or any possible return.

Satisfied, the Coachwhip turned away. The pool of light faded as she descended the passage. The echoes of her footsteps fell silent. Only darkness remained.

END

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. Instagram: www.instagram.com/marcoetheridge Author website: https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/