Abruptly, she turned and herded Manuel outside. She took his hand and started walking briskly away from the adobe.
"Mama, where are we going?" he asked.
She did not answer him, and it was all he could do to keep up with her as she strode down the single street of Santo Domingo.
Coughlin got up and went to the adobe's doorway, watched Angeline marching her son away down the dusty street.
"Not exactly the welcome you expected, I guess," he murmured. He didn't expect a response. "Still, I can see why you left this godforsaken place."
"Go, if you want," said the Mexican.
Coughlin grunted. "Go where? We don't have any money. In case you've forgotten, we spent every last peso we got for them scalps. Reckon this is as good a place as any to hole up until I can figure out what to do next." He was quiet a moment, scanning the sleepy town. "What we need," he added, finally, "is another good harvest of scalps. Only problem is, the nearest Apaches are up in the Arizona Territory, and that neck of the woods isn't healthy for us now. That leaves the heathens hiding out in the Sierra Madre. And even I'm not crazy enough to go up in there."
The Mexican was on his feet now, searching the adobe. Coughlin watched him for a while, mildly curious. Eventually the Mexican sat down again, looking disgusted.
"No pulque. Nothing."
"We can change that," said Coughlin, confidently.
"How?"
Leaning against the doorframe, Coughlin gazed out at Santo Domingo. "I have a few ideas," he said.
Leaving her son with friends, Angeline reluctantly returned to her home. She was confused. Having expected to be overwhelmed with joy on the occasion of her husband's return, she found herself, instead, wishing he had stayed away forever. And she was angry too—angry at him for being gone so long, and then returning without an explanation for his absence. As a border town resident, she had seen more than her share of bad men, and she could tell in a glance that the gringo fell into that category. Unfortunately, so did her husband.
In the days to come, it became evident that the people of Santo Domingo had the same impression about Angeline's husband and his Anglo companion. In the way of campesinos, they remained watchful while staying more or less out of sight. Those who spoke to Angeline—and most stayed away from her, as well—wanted to know just one thing. When would her husband and his companero leave? Angeline had no answer for them.
The gringo did leave a few days after his arrival, but he made it plain that he would not be away long. Angeline's husband remained behind. With the gringo gone, he took the opportunity to make love to his wife. Angeline wasn't interested, but she submitted. He did not tell her that he loved her, or that he had missed her during his absence; he simply used her, as though it was his right, and without any regard for her feelings. It was then that Angeline realized how much she hated this man. Perhaps, she thought, she had hated him even before his return. She wasn't sure—for the longest time she had tried not to think about him at all.
Eventually she worked up the nerve to ask him what he intended to do. He would tell her nothing. She wondered how long this situation could continue. She missed Manuel, but did not dare let him come home. Her husband did not seem to even notice that his son was absent. He didn't ask after Manuel, and while Angeline was relieved by his lack of interest in their son, she was also angered by his indifference.
The gringo returned after nearly a week away. He brought two jugs of pulque with him. That night, he and Angeline's husband got drunk. They spent hours in whispered conversation at the table, while she lay in bed, pretending to sleep while straining to catch any word or phrase. She heard the name of a village that was located a day's ride to the west. But that was all. The next morning, her husband and the gringo, whose name she now knew as Coughlin, rode away, without explanation. Watching them go, she hoped that it was the last that she would see of either of them. But she doubted it.
They were gone for more than a week, this time, and as the days passed the other inhabitants of Santo Domingo grew hopeful that they were gone for good. But Angeline could not rid herself of the suspicion that they would return. At least she had a respite—and at least she was with her son again, for Manuel could come home. He suggested that they go away. The thought had crossed her mind. But where would they go? She had no place to run to. Santo Domingo was her home, and she knew next to nothing about the world beyond the horizon—only that it was a dangerous place, where a woman alone with her young son would likely not survive for very long.
Then her husband and his friend came back. Angeline immediately sent Manuel away, with instructions to remain at the home of her friends until she sent for him. The gringo had brought more pulque. And pesos. A whole bag of money. In his drunkenness that night, her husband promised to buy her a new dress. Angeline knew this was a lie. She decided that her husband and his friend were robbers. It was not possible to earn so much money in so short a time with honest work.
The soldiers came a few days later. The captain who led the small detachment was someone she recognized—Cordova, the one who had come here, months before, with the French officer who was responsible for the deaths of several of her neighbors.
Watching the soldiers coming down the street of Santo Domingo, Coughlin turned from the doorway and, seeing that Angeline stood at the window, also watching, went up to her and put the barrel of his pistol to her temple. Her husband was sleeping off the previous night's drunken binge, and did not stir. Not that it would have mattered had he been awake, thought Angeline. He would not have protested Coughlin's actions. By now it had become clear to her that the gringo was the one who made the decisions.
"I know you speak some English," murmured Coughlin. "So you listen close. If they ask you about us, you tell 'em we've been ridin' out lookin' for work. Comprende?"
She nodded, trying to conceal her elation. The gringo was a fool, she thought. The captain would have to be an even bigger fool to believe such a story. Surely he would be able to take one look at Coughlin and know, as she had, that he was trouble.
After speaking to a handful of villagers farther down the street, Cordova turned and made for her adobe. Coughlin pushed her across the threshold. He brushed past her and sauntered over to the ramada, where he leaned against an upright and watched the captain while picking his teeth with a wood splinter. Angeline heard her husband move to the doorway behind her. Both her husband and Coughlin had their pistolas—they were always armed, day or night.
"Senora," said Cordova, bowing slightly at Angeline, an amiable smile on his face, "we meet again. I am pleased to see you well. How is your boy?"
"He is well, thank you, Captain."
Cordova glanced at the Mexican behind her, then at Coughlin. The smile remained fixed on his face, but it had lost much of its warmth. "I am told you have company. Mucho gusto, señores."
"Howdy," said Coughlin.
"This is my husband," said Angeline, gesturing behind her. "And that is his friend."
"Ah, I see," said Cordova. "Your husband has come home. Bueno. Where have you been all this time, senor?"
"North of the border," said the Mexican, "if it's any business of yours."
"That's fine," said Cordova. "Then you are not a Juárista, after all."
"No. Who said I was?"
Cordova shrugged. "It does not matter. I believe you. I am not here looking for Juáristas, anyway."
"Then why are you here, Captain?" asked Coughlin.
"Someone has been killing and robbing people in this area."
"There is killing and robbing everywhere in Mexico these days, I hear."
"Sadly, it is true. But these cases are different. The victims, most of them have been scalped."
"Now why would anybody scalp a Mexican?" asked Coughlin. "I thought there was only a bounty on Apache scalps. That's what I've been told, anyway."
"Sí. The people here, they say you have left the village a few times. Where do you go?"
"My pardner and
I are looking for work," said Coughlin. "Not having much luck, I'm afraid."
"There is not much work to be found," said Cordova, as though he fully sympathized, "unless you are good with a gun. Maybe you should look north of the border, senor."
"There's a war goin' on with the Apaches north of the border. Me, I like to steer clear of that kind of thing."
"And there is a war going on down here too."
"Well, my saddle pard and I just want to stay out of trouble, Captain," said Coughlin. "We're what you might call a couple of peace-lovin' wayfarers."
Cordova nodded. "Yes, I can see that." He cast a long, speculative look at Angeline, then bowed again. "Senora, I wish you well."
"Thank you, Captain." She wanted to cry out to him, to tell him that her husband and the gringo were the men he was searching for. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that they were the ones who had committed the crimes Cordova had described. But she was afraid. Afraid mostly for Cordova, because she did not doubt that Coughlin or her husband would kill the captain without hesitation. Afraid too for her son, because they would probably kill her too. And what would become of Manuel with her gone?
So she did not cry out—instead, she watched the captain turn and return along the street to where his dragoons waited. Coughlin stayed where he was, and so did her husband, and together they watched until the soldiers were mounted and riding out of Santo Domingo. Seeing this, Angeline felt almost overcome with despair.
"Get inside," said the Mexican.
She turned on him, anger surging within her, overcoming the fear. "You bastard!" she said, nearly breathless with rage. "You are a thief and a murderer. You are a scalphunter!"
He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her across the threshold, and once inside the adobe, he threw her to the floor. She tried to crawl away but he reached down and yanked her to her feet—only to strike with a backhanded blow that sent her reeling.
Lounging in the doorway, Coughlin chuckled. "Better be careful there, missy. You go saying such things to other folks, you might end up eating dirt."
Again Angeline tried to crawl away. This time, her husband made no effort to stop her. She ended up with her back to a wall. Pulling her knees up, she wiped the blood from her lip and glared at the gringo, her eyes wide and bright like a hunted animal's.
"I know she's your wife and all, amigo," Coughlin, grinning, told the Mexican. "But if we have to kill her, I say we take her scalp. Nobody could tell it ain't an Apache topknot."
The Mexican simply grunted, and went in search of a pulque jug. Still grinning, Coughlin glanced at her, winked, and went back outside.
Chapter 32
When Barlow came to, he did so abruptly. His eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply, like someone coming to the surface after too long underwater. Summerhayes, slack in a chair and dozing, nearly jumped out of his skin. As Barlow sat up in bed, Summerhayes shot to his feet. The effort to speak was painful for Barlow. He put a hand to his throat and Summerhayes took a cup of water from the bedside table and handed it to him. As he sipped from the cup, Barlow took in his surroundings. He was home.
"How did I get here?" he asked hoarsely.
"We brought you," said Summerhayes. "In an army wagon. Me and several of your vaqueros."
Barlow felt a constriction as he tried to draw a deep breath, and looked down to see the dressing that completely covered his upper torso. "What happened? Was I shot?"
"You don't remember?"
"Not really. Last thing I remember was riding in the Mogollons. We were bringing the Coyoteros out."
Summerhayes nodded. "That's right. And you got shot. Nobody ever saw who did it. Probably one of the Coyotero bronchos who refused to give up."
Barlow felt the dressing wrapped tightly around his chest. "It was bad."
"Very. There for a while, they weren't sure you would live."
Barlow started putting two and two together—realizing that it must have taken Summerhayes and the vaqueros several days to transport him here from the Mogollons if they'd put him in a wagon.
"How long ago did this happen?"
"Twelve days ago."
Barlow was shocked. He'd lost nearly two weeks of his life, lying unconscious from the gunshot wound. Hovering, apparently, between life and death.
"Where is Oulay?"
It was the question Summerhayes had been dreading. The one he'd been trying for days now to prepare for. He'd come up with a dozen ways to break the news to his friend, but there was no good way. Despite all the preparation, at this crucial moment, he failed miserably.
"She's . . . outside," he muttered.
Barlow swung his legs off the bed. He saw that he was wearing the bottom half of his long johns, and looked around for trousers.
"Don't get up," said Summerhayes, alarmed. "The doctor said you needed to stay down for at least a month."
"A month!" Barlow laughed—then winced, because it hurt too badly to laugh. "Not likely. Find me some pants."
"Joshua . . ."
"I'll find them myself, then."
"Be still," sighed Summerhayes. He dug in the trunk at the foot of the bed, found some trousers, and helped Barlow put them on. Amused, Barlow watched him work.
"You'd make a fine nurse, Charles."
Summerhayes didn't respond to the good-natured comment. He doubted that, after today, he'd find anything amusing ever again.
Once he had his pants on, Barlow stood up. The room tilted and began to spin, but he got a good grip on a bedpost and held on until the spinning stopped. His entire chest hurt like hell—he couldn't recall ever hurting quite this much. But he wasn't going to give in. He wanted to see Oulay, and he thought it would do them both a lot of good if he was standing when he did. Shaking off a solicitous hand from Summerhayes, he started for the door.
"Joshua . . ."
"What?"
Still, Summerhayes couldn't tell him—and cursed himself for a coward.
As soon as Barlow stepped out of the adobe, Mendez and another vaquero, who had been standing in front of the bunkhouse across the sun-hammered hardpack, saw him and started forward. Summerhayes motioned them off. Barlow saw none of this—he was momentarily blinded by the bright sun.
"Where is she?" he asked Summerhayes.
"In back," said the other, his tone dull and lifeless.
Barlow steeled himself, tried to forget the pain that every movement brought forth, and stepped around the adobe. Summerhayes followed, and noticed that Mendez and the other vaquero were just standing there in the middle of the hardpack, watching. They knew what was about to happen.
Leaning against the adobe at the back corner, trying to catch his breath, Barlow looked around. He didn't see Oulay, and turned to throw a quizzical glance at Summerhayes.
"Where?" he gasped.
Summerhayes bleakly pointed.
Barlow looked in the direction his friend was pointing—saw the fresh grave in the small cemetery where the vaqueros were buried. But it didn't register. He thought it was the grave of the vaquero who had been killed in the Mogollons.
"She's dead," said Summerhayes. "A Netdahe killed her."
All the life seemed to flood right out of Barlow. He sagged against the adobe as his knees almost gave out under him. "No," he said. "No."
"We thought you were dying. She asked General Crook to bring her to you. He agreed. We were less than a day out of Fort Union when the Netdahe came out of nowhere. He killed two troopers, and grabbed Oulay. We went after him. When we caught up with him, he . . . shot her."
"No," breathed Barlow, his tone one of pleading.
"I'm sorry, Joshua," said Summerhayes, nearly in tears. "I . . . I, for one, never thought he would do that. If it's any consolation, he's dead. Well, we shot him, and he fell into a flash flood that carried him away. We searched for the body, couldn't find it. But I'm sure he's dead."
Barlow seemed about to fall to the ground, and Summerhayes stepped forward quickly, reaching out to him, but Barlow sa
vagely struck the helping hands away. "No," he sobbed and, through the exercise of supreme will over physical weakness, pushed away from the adobe and staggered like a drunken man toward the cemetery. Once there he fell to his knees beside the fresh grave.
As Summerhayes was about to go to him, Mendez and the other vaquero appeared. The former took one look at Barlow and laid a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder to stay him.
"Leave him be," said Mendez gruffly.
"I'm afraid," said Summerhayes, in a stricken voice, "afraid this will kill him."
"We will see, in time."
Summerhayes sat on his heels at the back corner of the adobe, prepared to watch over his friend for as long as it took. Mendez led the other vaquero away.
He returned several hours later, as the shadows of night began stretching across the desert, to find Summerhayes right where he'd left him. Barlow was sprawled across Oulay's grave, unmoving. Mendez handed the lieutenant a cup of steaming hot coffee, which Summerhayes gratefully accepted.
"He hasn't moved for a while," he said, agonized. "I don't know if he's still breathing."
Mendez sank down on his haunches alongside Summerhayes. "I have seen a loss like this kill a man. But the padrone, he is strong."
Summerhayes could tell that, in spite of his confident words, Mendez was worried too.
"I just wish there was something I could do," he said.
"Just be here. This is a fight the padrone must wage alone."
"I . . . I feel responsible."
"The Netdahe is the one who was responsible," said Mendez.
"But I keep thinking—if we hadn't given chase, maybe it wouldn't have turned out the way it did. Maybe he wouldn't have killed her."
"He would have. Because she would never have stayed with him. He would have had to kill her, sooner or later."
"Yes," said Summerhayes morosely. "I suppose you're right."
And so it went for the next twenty-four hours—Barlow prostrate across Oulay's grave, and Summerhayes maintaining a vigil, sometimes with Mendez, sometimes with one or more of the other vaqueros. The loyalty to Barlow displayed by all the vaqueros did not escape the lieutenant's attention. They were as concerned for the padrone as if he were their blood kin.
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