From his horse Cliff Diablo looked up at the sky, then looked down. Looped his Colt Walker; re-snugged his Henry in its saddle scabbard. Turned up his collar. Drew tight on the reins.
"Big gully wash, I reckon. . . . Com'on now, Harley" he urged his horse. "Halfway between down there and somewhere higher up, up-country . . . and nothin' in between. Up, up. Git, git."
Sudden, fast rains were coming down - he could smell it. Better to go now, elsewhere. . . . Before everything was turned to slick mud. . . . Horse and rider hunkered down - as if shrunk together in the saddle - turning to higher ground. "Com'on now, Harley - don't you break on me. Com'on now." He urged the horse to climb.
Horse-and-man, silhouette on a dark purple ridge, headed north to the tall ponderosa pines high above - where lightning seldom strikes . . . and where no one, because of the iron earth and the thrust-up lip of a caldera, gets hurt.
Flash and clap . . . Sizzle and crack . . . Smell and sound . . . . High above the rain Diablo could see the landscape. "Stop yer neighin' Harley. Look here at the sight." The horse, grazing , neighed and nodded - but stayed back from the high ledge overlooking the narrow valley.
Below, a gray-black cloud front rolled through - angry buffalo heads, thought Diablo - eating the valley with high winds and torrents of water. "Warned'em" he muttered. He chewed some jerky; drank some water from a canteen. And then turned over, in a shallow lava depression, wrapping himself in a wool blanket and a yellow poncho. "Goodnight Harley." Distress could wait 'til tomorrow. The town wasn't moving, hopefully. . . .
. . . Early next morning, when he got up, the arched green mountain was wrapped in sunshine - around it clear blue sky, clean air, and the sound of birds. A stiff breeze rustled the tall trees like upright brushes. A nice day.
"Com'on Harley. OK, let's see the damage done and Distress" he grumbled, swinging up in the saddle. "Win-or-else, I suppose."
Soon again, horse-and-man were coursing . . . this time downhill, sometimes sideways sliding on red-and-brown sand and rock, through scrub mesquite and junniper, finally getting to someplace level. Then after that . . . riding back on the rain-gouged road, back to a town called Distress.
Main street hadn't been improved by the flash storm - just removed. The street was now a trough. Dried and drying mud were piled up everywhere. On both sides the buildings had squatted lower, each leaning forward a bit - as if bowing to each other across the washed-out street. Wood structures cracked, readjusting. Diablo and Harley rode through the trough/the former street, mounted man now nearly stirrup-high-and-even with the buildings' wood walks.
Diablo shook his head. "Al'right Harley Let's git outta this ditch and hitch 'round back. Outta here - where's there be some space." Up an alley, behind main street, he found a place to tie up.
"Distress? I'd warned 'em. "
A baby cried somewhere - muffled at first, then loud, then muffled - its pitched sound making the horse fidget. He patted the horse. "Easy, Harley, easy. I'll check it out." He slipped out his Henry and gave his horse one more pat. "Be back."
"Now what?" he thought. Diablo walked back towards the center of town.
The town was bowed-in along its main street. Some people were out now, here and there, laying out wood planks for crossing - flimsy stuff. Diablo shook his head, turned left. and boosted himself onto a tilted porch. Headed for the saloon - "Red Grangers" - on his left side, its swing doors swung outward now. Inside, on the right, poker players - cowboys with big hats and leather chaps - played as if nothing had happened. Diablo went straight ahead to the bar.
A large, aproned bartender with big round red eyes and in need of a shave, sized him up and quickly wiped the wooden bartop - then bent over seemingly, suddenly busy with something behind the bar, only his white shirt and apron cords exposed. Bent over, he snarled up "Whadda'ya want, stranger?".
Diablo quietly put his rifle on the bar, reached over. grabbed the bartender by the back of the collar and stood him up. Then shoved his head sideways down on the bartop, leaning on it with a forearm. And whispered in the bartender's ear "Not much friend, yet. Maybe just a drink. . . . And maybe why a baby's cryin'? . . . Or maybe just both. You tell me."
Shifting squeaking chairs slightly, the poker-playing cowboys pulled their brims down, fanned their cards close to their chests, and continued their game, a private circle oblivious to the world.
"We havin' a conversation . . . or what?" continued Diablo.
Under Diablo's arm the bartender, face against the bar, mumbled "Yessirm yessir . . . we're havin' a conversation. Baby? I think the baby's across the street. . . . I'll get you that drink, if you let me."
