Casa Verde

Tejas and México Border

August 1884

The morning dew that had built up overnight was now evaporating away as the approaching noon sun began laying its hot rays on the town of Casa Verde. A large farming town on the border between Tejas and the Kingdom of Mexico. Casa Verde was home to farmhands who worked on the lands owned by the Dominguez Family, a wealthy and semi-influential family along this part of the border. But aside from handing out payroll to their workers, they mostly kept to higher socialite circles of nearby towns, rarely concerned with travelers seeking work. Such an attitude had proved to be an opportune moment for Tomas Luck.

A young man, 25 years of age, Tomas Luck, stood just a few inches under six feet. His hair and eyes were a dark brown, his skin various shades of brown, with the exposed skin being darker than the rest. Some of the darker colors had begun to fade in recent months since he was spending most of his time indoors. And currently, he was cleaning up the bowls and spoons that had been used that morning. He paused in the middle of scrubbing a plate to pull his sleeves back up, then continued.

While Luck moved to the last bowl, the cantina owner, and his boss, called him from the front in Spanish. Luck set the bowl down, dried his hands on the grey cloth apron around his waist, and walked through the swinging doors, emerging behind the bar. To his left on the far end of the bar was Señor Rodrigo Rodriguez. He had short black and white hair, a potbelly, and a bushy mustache on his upper lip.

“What do you need, boss?” Luck asked in Spanish.

Señor Rodriguez replied with a handful of coins in his hand, “Some supplies just arrived. I need you upfront. Keep getting everything ready for the farmhands to come for lunch. Marta is still cooking, but she’ll finish soon.”

Luck nodded and got to work as Señor Rodriguez left. From the bar, Luck could hear and smell the food cooking. Señor Rodriguez had split the back of the building into two separate rooms, wanting to keep the food away from everything else. As Luck looked around, he realized there wasn’t much to do. So instead of standing around, Luck took a rag, wet it, and started walking around and giving the tables another wipe down. It didn’t take long. When he returned to the bar, he found a plate with frijoles, a chicken thigh, and some tortillas.

Silent as the night. Simple and delicious. He thought to himself. Luck didn’t understand how Señora Marta moved so quietly or how she could haul cast iron skillets full of food to the orphanage at such an old age. Luck could only assume she’d build the muscles for it over years of doing it. With the smell of the food pulling him back in, Luck cleaned his hands and dug in. Señora Marta’s cooking always reminded him of his childhood years when his mother would make similar dishes – so he always enjoyed whatever Señora Marta made.

As Luck finished the last bit of chicken and frijoles with the final tortilla – two men appeared at the cantina’s doorway. Luck looked up at them and greeted, “Welcome, gentlemen. Sit wherever you like, or you can come to the bar.”

Both men walked up to the bar and took their hats off. One of them had shoulder-length black hair and a patchy beard. He had defined brown cheekbones that looked sunburnt. His companion, who looked like some kind of European descent, had dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and lighter skin, making his sunburnt features look more painful. Their clothes were dusty and ragged, like they had been traveling for some time.

The blue-eyed man spoke in English, asking Luck if he understood. Luck nodded, and the man introduced himself, “I’m Bill Halifax, and this is my friend Pedro Long Claw. He speaks and understands Spanish, and he’s been teaching me, but I’m still not very good at it.”

Luck responded back fluently, “Name’s Tomas Luck. It's no problem. Glad you’ve been learnin’. We don’t often get English speakers down this way, but when we do, they’re usually traders.”

“I bet the traders get you to do the translating for them, huh?” Halifax said with a smile, nudging his friend, who was sniffing at the air.

“Most of the time, that is the case. For a small fee, of course.” Luck smiled with his reply. “So, what can I get you two?”

“What do you have?” Halifax asked.

“For lunch today, we have –,”

“Beans and chicken. With tortillas. The chicken smells fresh.” Long Claw said, interrupting Luck.

“That’s right.” Luck looked at Long Claw, surprised.

“And queso fresco,” he said, then turned to Halifax, “that’s fresh cheese.”

Halifax pulled out a leather journal and a pencil and wrote down what Long Claw had said, double-checking with him for spelling before putting it away. Then he turned back to Luck, “well, once that’s ready, we’ll take a plate each. In the meantime, we’ll have a bottle of tequila.”

“A bottle?”

“It’s been a long journey, hermano.” Long Claw.

“Alright, no problem.” Luck took a bottle of tequila and two glass cups and handed them over. “Ease your troubles, gentlemen, while the food gets finished.” Halifax and Long Claw took the tequila and cups to a table near the door. Once they had their seat, Luck went to the kitchen to let Señora Marta know of the order and to thank her for the food she had left for him. She smiled and pinched his cheek.

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When Luck returned to the bar, there were three new patrons. They, too, looked like they had been traveling for some time. But these men had meaner looks on their faces. The middle one followed Luck with his eyes. All the way until he stopped in front of them at the bar.

In English, luck followed his gut and asked, “looking for a bit of respite, gentlemen?”

The man in the middle stared straight at Luck, slightly cocking his head and squinting. The other two left the man's side. One sauntered to the left of the bar. He peeked into the kitchen before leaning on the end of the bar. The other walked to the right and slowly made his way to the entrance after glancing into the room.

The man that remained in front of Luck looked around and over his shoulder before facing forward again.

Luck spoke to the man again, “perhaps I some tequila or beer?”

“My friends and I are looking for someone.” The man's voice was deep and raspy. He leaned against the bar with his left hand while using his right hand to toss his duster to the side and rest his hand on a revolver. His thumb fiddled with the hammer.”

“Well, perhaps I can help you,” Luck said, grabbing a bottle from the shelves behind him and pouring a whisky out for the man, keeping his hand on the bottle.

The man grabbed the glass and sniffed it before drinking. When he set the glass down, Luck poured into it again, “I’m looking for a man – a boy really. We were told up in Rodeo Springs that someone matching the boy's description passed through their town while heading south.”

“What’s the description?” Luck asked.

The man let go of the glass, pulled out a folded and worn piece of paper from his duster pocket, and handed it to Luck. He took the paper with his free hand and shook it open. At the top, printed in big, bold letters, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE. Below that in slightly smaller bolded letters, Reward 10,000 Union Dollars. And below that, it said, Paid by Union Justice of the Peace. Finally, an old photograph of Luck, with his birth name below it.

Luck set the paper down on the bar, “well, gentlemen, it seems like you’ve found me.”

The man’s expression changed, “you’re not even gonna try to deny that it’s you?” he said, laughing. “This’ll be easier –,”

Luck smashed the whiskey bottle over the man's head. Hundreds of tiny pieces of glass scattered over the bar. Blood mixed with whiskey poured down the man's face. He stumbled backward and pulled his revolver. His friends were caught off guard and did nothing for a second. Long enough for Luck to drop onto this side behind the bar and grab the sawed-off shotgun that was at his feet. He pulled the first trigger, sending buckshot flying through to the other side of the wood paneling. Then, gunshots started popping off on the other side. At the left end of the bar, the bounty hunter ducked to avoid whoever was shooting at him. That’s when he spotted Luck – who was now on his back and kick-pushing himself to the opposite end. He dropped his legs flat on the floor and pulled the second trigger. He saw most of the balls shatter against the wall behind the man, but some still caught his shoulder.

With both barrels smoking and empty, Luck continued kicking away. The man composed himself and aimed to shoot. Instead, a cast-iron skillet flew out from the kitchen and slammed against the man's head. Causing a sudden spurt of blood before the man collapsed on the floor. A few more shots popped off before everything went quiet. Luck kept kick-pushing until he reached the box of shells under the bar. He swiftly reloaded, then paused to listen.

Some footsteps sounded like they were approaching, so he cocked the hammers on the sawed-off – and when he did, the footsteps stopped.

“Tomas? It’s Bill and Pedro. You okay?” Halifax shouted.

“Yeah, I’m okay. You two?”

“We’re okay.”

“And the bounty hunters?”

“Dead. If not, then dying.” Long Claw responded.

“Thanks, I think,” Luck said, still lying on the floor.

“Why don’t you come out? You can trust us, hermano. I can assure you we're not on their side.”

“Whose side are you on then?”

“No one interested in you.”

Luck thought for a moment.

“We’re not bounty hunters, and we’re not interested in becoming ones either,” Halifax called out.

“Can’t say that suspicion didn’t come to mind. Why the help?”

“We got a good feeling about you.” Pedro continued, “you’re free to come out.”

Luck swallowed hard and stood up. When he did, Long Claw was in the process of searching the man who had a bottle of whiskey smashed over his head. The man’s shirt was stained red and tattered. Luck leaned over the bar to look at the man who took a cast iron skillet to the head. He seemed to still be bleeding profusely from a dent in his skull. That’s when he remembered.

Luck called out to Señora Marta, hoping she was unhurt. The old woman emerged from the kitchen, picked up the skillet, took the wanted poster, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Luck followed to see what she was doing and was relieved to see her burning the paper on the coals. He thanked her again and went back to Halifax and Long Claw.

“I’m not well versed in the laws of the countries we’re currently in between, so I ask you, Tomas, should we high tail out of here?” Halifax waited for Luck to respond while Long Claw went to the cast iron victim and searched his now dead body.

“Tejas and Mexico have a sour history with The Union, on account of the Manifest Destiny Wars. Union law has no jurisdiction here. Even if they asked the local constable, he’d sooner run Union law bearers out of town before giving them any leeway.”

“Good to know,” Long Claw said, counting looted coins in his hand.

Luck looked around at the mess in the cantina, “where’s the other one?”

“Outside. He ran off when you smashed that bottle. So, I ran after him. He didn’t make it far.” Long Claw took what he collected and tossed it into his hat. “I’m going to go put this away on the horse.”

Halifax nodded and turned to Luck, “What about you? What are you going to do?”

“Best if I leave. I’m sure I can find work somewhere far from here.” Luck said, taking his apron off and tossing it aside.

Halifax and Long Claw looked at each other. Halifax then turned to Luck, “We know a decent place you could go.”