Read Online Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel by Gerald Lane Summers - Free Book Online
Authors: Gerald Lane Summers
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stood up, dusted his ragged pants, straightened his back, and let out a long slow breath.
“ Judge Meadows,” he said in the perfect accent of an English gentleman of means. “My name is indeed Juan Antonio Lopez, and as you can no doubt tell from my sudden lack of Mexican accent, I am not what I seem to be. In fact, my father was General Santa Anna , former dictator of all Mexico—the swine—but he does not recognize me as his son. He betrayed my mother and had me cast out after she died.
I’ve traveled with hard men in revolution against the tyranny in Mexico, and given the chance to return and put the evil men who oppress my people to the sword, I shall most certainly do so. In the meantime, I am without means, impecunious, and have nothing. No one to talk to, no friends, nothing to be proud of in my life. I helped you because I wanted that black stallion and something decent to eat. If you still believe me courageous and deserving, then I must say you are an easy man to please.”
It was a different man who stood proudly before Mobley Meadows. His shoulders no longer slumped and his defensive posture was gone. Though Juan had been less than truthful about family and heritage, his actions were understandable. There had been no violation of trust because there had been no trust. There was now. Mobley needed a friend and more. He needed help. This prairie was not like the hills of Tennessee. It was a dangerous place.
“ Heh, heh .” Mobley bounced up and down as he squatted, thought about rising, then stayed where he was, knees pointed sharply toward the fire. “Now, if that don’t beat all. I ain’t heard English spoke like that since my last visit to Boston. A nice old man from London, England gave us a lecture about something, but all I remember was how different he sounded. He claimed to be a barrister , or a solicitor, or something like that, and wore a weird white wig just to show us all how they dressed up in court over there. He sounded just like you here today.”
Mobley paused as he directed his gaze on Juan, eye to eye. “Juan, my friends call me Mobley. There’s no need for honorifics, no Judge, no mister, just—Mobley. My old pappy used to call me Stretch , but he’s long gone and I don’t care for it much anymore. Don’t ever call me Moldy , even if I get to stinkin’ like a week old work shirt. Riles me. That settled, let’s go round up the rest of these bodies and see what we’ve got. Your rig’s a mite scarce. There ought to be one good set of clothes on all these boys. We’ll let their dead souls make up for their living evil by providing for their betters.”
Mobley picked himself up, stretched and scratched his belly. He then mounted and rode off to locate the dead men and drag them back near the camp— downwind . They were venting putrid gas something fierce and attracting flies by the millions, but there was no time to bury them before nightfall. The coyotes may have some fun with the bodies during the night, but that was just the way it would have to be. By the time he returned to camp, the sun was low on the western horizon.
It took Juan somewhat longer to ride up to the high plain, locate the grazing horses of the two men he had killed, place the one remaining body on a horse and ride back down. When he returned, Mobley was arranging a variety of goods on a red and white striped five point wool blanket taken from one of the dead. There were thirteen new Winchester Model ‘66 .44 rim fire rifles, called Yellow Boys because of their shiny brass frames, miscellaneous goods, thirty boxes of ammunition for the rifles, assorted wicked looking knives, thirteen brand new fifty dollar gold pieces, and some mixed Mexican and American coins. Juan unceremoniously dumped his Indian on the ground, lined him up with the others and carefully placed another fifty dollar gold piece on the pile. He looked up.
“Let’s not forget that one over at the bottom of the cliff.”
Mobley
“ Judge Meadows,” he said in the perfect accent of an English gentleman of means. “My name is indeed Juan Antonio Lopez, and as you can no doubt tell from my sudden lack of Mexican accent, I am not what I seem to be. In fact, my father was General Santa Anna , former dictator of all Mexico—the swine—but he does not recognize me as his son. He betrayed my mother and had me cast out after she died.
I’ve traveled with hard men in revolution against the tyranny in Mexico, and given the chance to return and put the evil men who oppress my people to the sword, I shall most certainly do so. In the meantime, I am without means, impecunious, and have nothing. No one to talk to, no friends, nothing to be proud of in my life. I helped you because I wanted that black stallion and something decent to eat. If you still believe me courageous and deserving, then I must say you are an easy man to please.”
It was a different man who stood proudly before Mobley Meadows. His shoulders no longer slumped and his defensive posture was gone. Though Juan had been less than truthful about family and heritage, his actions were understandable. There had been no violation of trust because there had been no trust. There was now. Mobley needed a friend and more. He needed help. This prairie was not like the hills of Tennessee. It was a dangerous place.
“ Heh, heh .” Mobley bounced up and down as he squatted, thought about rising, then stayed where he was, knees pointed sharply toward the fire. “Now, if that don’t beat all. I ain’t heard English spoke like that since my last visit to Boston. A nice old man from London, England gave us a lecture about something, but all I remember was how different he sounded. He claimed to be a barrister , or a solicitor, or something like that, and wore a weird white wig just to show us all how they dressed up in court over there. He sounded just like you here today.”
Mobley paused as he directed his gaze on Juan, eye to eye. “Juan, my friends call me Mobley. There’s no need for honorifics, no Judge, no mister, just—Mobley. My old pappy used to call me Stretch , but he’s long gone and I don’t care for it much anymore. Don’t ever call me Moldy , even if I get to stinkin’ like a week old work shirt. Riles me. That settled, let’s go round up the rest of these bodies and see what we’ve got. Your rig’s a mite scarce. There ought to be one good set of clothes on all these boys. We’ll let their dead souls make up for their living evil by providing for their betters.”
Mobley picked himself up, stretched and scratched his belly. He then mounted and rode off to locate the dead men and drag them back near the camp— downwind . They were venting putrid gas something fierce and attracting flies by the millions, but there was no time to bury them before nightfall. The coyotes may have some fun with the bodies during the night, but that was just the way it would have to be. By the time he returned to camp, the sun was low on the western horizon.
It took Juan somewhat longer to ride up to the high plain, locate the grazing horses of the two men he had killed, place the one remaining body on a horse and ride back down. When he returned, Mobley was arranging a variety of goods on a red and white striped five point wool blanket taken from one of the dead. There were thirteen new Winchester Model ‘66 .44 rim fire rifles, called Yellow Boys because of their shiny brass frames, miscellaneous goods, thirty boxes of ammunition for the rifles, assorted wicked looking knives, thirteen brand new fifty dollar gold pieces, and some mixed Mexican and American coins. Juan unceremoniously dumped his Indian on the ground, lined him up with the others and carefully placed another fifty dollar gold piece on the pile. He looked up.
“Let’s not forget that one over at the bottom of the cliff.”
Mobley
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