Song of Pierre
by
John D. Nesbitt
Smashwords Edition
Song of Pierre
Presented by Western Trail Blazer
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4657-2009-2
Copyright © 2011 by John D. Nesbitt
Cover Art Copyright © 2011 by Laura Shinn
Produced by Rebecca J. Vickery
Design Consultation by Laura Shinn
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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Song of Pierre is a work of fiction.
Though actual locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person – past, present, or future – are coincidental.
Cactus Pete hired me to do a job—a secret sort of job for good eatin' and two bits a day, he promised. It didn't sound too bad, at first. Then he brought out this black, smelly beast he called a burro. Pierre and I took an instant dislike to each other, but we came to an uneasy understanding.
Later on, out in the desert when strange things began to happen, I'd be glad I had made the acquaintance of smelly old Pierre.
Chapter One
I was sitting in the shade of the water trough on the main street of Bonnet when Cactus Pete come riding up on his wall-eyed roan. The horse looked like it was buzzard meat just waiting for its destiny. Its head hung low, and its hipbones stuck out so that a man could have hung his hat on one side and a rope on the other. Cactus Pete didn't look much better, except that for a desert rat he had something of a belly. It sloped down from his chest and out in front so that it touched his saddle horn, and if he had been a cook he could have rolled out a pie crust on it.
With a heave he got his right leg up and over, then slid down off the saddle. I knew who he was, but I hadn't seen him up close before. Now I did as he looked down at me. He wore a battered hat, and beneath that he had thick brows, yellowed eyes, and a dark, bushy beard. When he opened his mouth, I saw that he had about half his teeth left.
"You're the kid named Dinky, aren't ya?"
I stood up and shielded my eyes from the sun. "I sure am."
"Ha-ha," he said. "Come on, now, bitch."
I realized he was talking to the horse, not only because of the tone of his voice but because he was elbowing it in the chest as the horse pushed against him.
Pete's bleary eyes came back to me as he let the horse drink. "They say you do a little work now and then."
"When I can."
He looked me over. "Meanin' you're not big enough to do some things?"
"I guess." I was fourteen years old, almost fifteen, but I wasn't five feet tall yet, and I weighed less than a hundred pounds.
"That's enough for now." He jerked on the reins, and the horse's head came up with its muzzle dripping. Pete turned to me with a relaxed smile. "Don't let 'em drink too much at one time." Then he gave me a close look and said, "I don't need a big kid for this job. Someone about your size should be all right." He lifted his hat the way people do to let the air cool the sweat. After a couple of seconds he tipped his head back and wrinkled his nose. "Got to get you somethin' to cover your noggin, though."
"I've got a cap."
"Well, you need to get it. Towheads like you turn red and like to die in the sun."
I frowned. "I don't know what kind of job it is yet."
He gave a backward wave of his hand. "Ah, don't worry. It ain't nothin' illegal or immoral. I just need someone to go through a hole that I can't git through." He patted his belly. Then he stretched out his mouth so that his beard moved, and he said, "You've not got anyone to answer to, eh? They say you're an orflin'."
That was me, the boy who did odd jobs. I did some work at the livery stable, where I had a cot in the harness room. But I came and went as I pleased, and no one in Bonnet seemed to take much notice. "That's right," I said. "I'm all on my own."
"Nothin' wrong with that."
I squinted at the sun and thought about what he had said about towheads. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"The hole?"
I guess I spoke too loud. He tightened his face, and his hand moved as if he wanted to grab my chin. Then he looked around, drew his hand back to his hip, and said, "You don't need to go blabbin' it up and down the street."
With my voice lowered I said, "Well, where is it? This job."
His face relaxed as he settled his gaze on me. "A little bit more than a day's ride out. Be gone three days, four at the most. Good pay, too."
"How much is that?"
"Two bits a day, and you eat good."
I twisted my mouth. "I can make four bits a day and not have to dodge rattlers in the desert."
"If all I had to worry about was rattlers—–well, let me put it this way. One place is about the same as the next. Maybe you've got water and shade here, but you ride with Cactus Pete, and you learn to ration your water from a canteen and sit in the shade of your horse. Make a man out of ya."
I looked at the crowbait roan. "Do you have a horse for me?"
"Oh, no. You don't get a horse. You'll ride Pierre."
"Who's he?"