by Bruce Graham
I admit to have never thought about it that way. It made definite good sense.
“So just let them check things, your manifests, show that you don’t have a gun.”
In the morning I was fed and out the door and onto the box behind a team of fresh mules as dawn was breaking. At noon I again fed and watered the animals and reached Laredo while it was still daylight, with no interruption from bandits. Overnight was just the same as at Zapata and I was headed back in the morning with three crates: “The best we could round up on short notice,” the station master said. “Next time we’ll have more.”
But this time word must have been out that I was carrying cargo again, and a couple of miles north of SanYgnacio, three horsemen lurched around a hummock and one rider shouted: “Stop, stop.”
I brought the coach to a halt and threw my hands high in the air. The men were masked and in slickers, two of them holding pistols like mine, a third with a rifle that looked like one of the ancient pieces with which I had trained in Vermont. The horses were standard browns.
The apparent leader of the group had some grasp of English: “Stand and deliver, Senor. Throw down your guns.”
“Si, Senor,” I said, setting the brake. “I have no gun.”
The leader approached. “Your cash box, throw it down.”
“Nada. None. Only the cargo in the boot. Feel free.”
The leader muttered something to another of the men, who climbed down from his horse and went to the rear of the coach.
“The bills of lading are back there. You may check.”
Noise from the rear of the coach told me that the man was fumbling with the boxes and the papers. He stammered something to the leader.
“May I take my hands down?” I asked.
“No gold or money?” called the leader.
“I’m sorry, Senor. I’ll try to do better next time.”
“You try to be humorous. Stand up.”
I rose and stood unsteadily.
The man from the rear of the coach came to the front and peered around where I stood. He nodded to the leader.
The leader released the hammer on his pistol and slid it into his holster that I noticed was shiny, with a very bright red etching of a horse. “Very well, you may go. But next time I’ll expect some money or gold or silver as cargo.” The voice had a touch of a smile.
The man on the ground went to his horse and mounted. In a moment the three men were off and out of sight around the hummock.
I slumped on the box for several moments. Then I released the brake and resumed my journey. A thrill formed in my throat, tinged with thanks that the man at Zapata had given me sound advice.
I recounted the story to the man at the Zapata station.
“Yes, ‘Red Horse’ is his nickname, a refined and considerate person, well spoken, very familiar with English. He may not be a Mexican at all.”
“His saddle is quite distinctive. That means that he never comes to town, lest he be recognized.”
“Yes, that’s possible. The gang has been active only for a year or so, and we suspect that he might be a deserter from the Confederacy. Did you notice an accent?”
“No, no accent at all. Very clear diction.”
“When we were active a while ago a coach was stopped that was crowded with passengers. He didn’t even ask the ladies to dismount, and only took what Confederate money was on the coach and gold and silver from the men, not watches, wallets or rings. He even did nothing to our driver who lied about not having a gun. He simply appropriated the man’s pistol and said, ‘Go, and sin no more’. The man was frightened enough to quit on us.”
I shrugged. “Your bandit chief won’t get rich that way.”
At Rio Grande City I told Logan the story. “I was nervous.”
“It sounds as if the man is a gentleman. As long as we have no readily negotiable items the cargo will be safe.”
After a good night’s sleep, I took off for Brownsville, stopping at San Juan, where the station chief assured me there were no hold up men on his side of the run. “There’s still a battalion of Federal troops here, and they figure that the soldiers will be after them.”
In Brownsville I found a gun store that was still open close to dark. I bought twenty five bullets and percussion caps for my pistol. I kept them in my haversack for the trip back. At the San Juan station I remembered that one of the crew was a continual pipe smoker. I rooted through the trash and found a tobacco tin, in which I put the percussion caps and bullets. The lid was tight, so I was confident that the ammunition would stay dry and usable.
Back at Rio Grande City I discovered that the store room was half full with cargo.
“Enough for another run to Laredo right away,” said Logan. “And your pay starts today.”
I reminded him of the holdup men who would be waiting for me between Zapata and Laredo.
“You’re not worried about them, are you? Simply show them you’re unarmed and let them inspect the cargo. There’ll be nothing in there that they can use.”
“He might get angry with me sooner or later for making them do a lot of work and get nothing for it.”
Logan laughed. “Probably not. He’s been a gentleman too long. Besides, they outnumber you and if you fight back you’ll lose. Let’s have a drink.”
We meandered to the Cantina and had one drink. As we were finishing the bells that I’d heard on my first morning rang out. “What’s that?” I asked.
“That’s the Angelus. It calls the faithful to morning and evening devotions: ‘The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she conceived of the Holy Spirit.’ There’s a famous painting by Millet of two people praying the Angelus.”
“Never heard of it. I guess the Mexes are on to it.”
“When we get really busy we’ll have to get another driver for continuous back and forth both ways, not alternating trips.”
“You sound as if it might be soon.”
Logan waved a hand toward the store room. “It’s over half full now.”
The next sequence was up to Laredo. The bandit trio appeared south of Zapata, with Red Horse once more giving the orders: “Amigo, we meet again. Are you again without a gun?”
My hands were high in the air. “Yes, sir. And again, no cash box.”
“You would not be relying upon my trusting nature, would you?”
I smiled. “As a matter of fact, yes, I am depending on your good nature. You have nothing to gain by hurting me.”
Red Horse’s accomplice was checking out the paperwork and the cargo in the boot, while Red Horse remained quiet. Then: “Don’t bother to check our friend for a gun. He is too much of a gentleman. Where are you from, Gringo?”
“The Northeast.”
“Where Northeast? New York, Ohio, Massachusetts?”
“Vermont.”
“Never heard of it. Okay, no loot here. Till we meet again, Northeast.” The three riders spun their horses and trotted off into the brush.
CHAPTER TEN
“He’s not Mexican at all,” I said to Logan over dinner at the Cantina. “He’s something odd, almost like he’s just doing it for a good time. He never gets anything from us. He holds up banks, in Mexico and here. He’s been seen as far as McCallen and Hebronville. He raided the distillery in Laredo on payday and made off with several thousand dollars.”
“A distillery? In Laredo?”
“Tequila. And the troopers’ payroll hack coming here in January, he got that. Don’t you know your pay was delayed because of it?”
I nodded. “That’s right. I never thought of that. How do they know it’s that gang?”
“Well, they don’t, but it figures doesn’t it?”
“His dialect is blank, not Southern, not Northeast. But he never heard of Vermont, he said. He sounds almost as if he has a college education, his English is correct, like our officers.”
“That’s an interesting observation. You engage him in conversation?”
“He recognized m
e and we spoke, yes. Look, why worry about him? He’s not doing us any harm. He stops me, we talk, he checks the goods and lets me go on my way.”
“That’s right. Only if he’s holding up other places and getting away with their money, it’s a headache for all of us. And sooner or later we’ll be carrying money or gold. We’ll need insurance to cover that, and that’s expensive.”
My next trip was to Brownsville, without incident. Then I was dispatched to Laredo with a full load. There were six mules and they were now struggling, even though on level ground. I made it through both ways without meeting Red Horse and his gang. Another trip to Brownsville went through with a full load both ways, and three passengers, all men, coming back to Rio Grande. At the San Juan station they shared a large room. On arrival at Rio Grande City I asked Logan if he knew about them.
“One is from Wells-Fargo, they may be taking us over. He’ll be hanging around a few days to look over our operation. One is a state road inspector, Wells-Fargo may want the road to Laredo improved. I can’t say anything about the other.”
The next day was my day off, a Sunday, and Logan stopped at the hotel where I was lounging in the lobby reading The Police Gazette.
“What are you reading that trash for, Nate. Come with me to mass. It’s a good show.”
I studied his face. “Is that all it is, a show?”
“It has its mysterious aspects. I’ll explain some of it to you. You were a good churchgoer, weren’t you? Didn’t you say that you attended a large church in Vermont?”
“The church was bigger than this one here, but you probably have a larger congregation.”
“The Mexicans are very devout. The priest is a Franciscan, they’re noted for great preaching. Do you know about Catholicism?”
I threw the magazine onto a table and stood up. “Our pastor didn’t like the Pope or Catholics in general and said Catholics weren’t loyal to the country, they were tied to the Pope. But I met quite a few Catholics in the service and they were devoted to the cause. And you seem honest enough for me.” I followed Logan from the hotel. People were streaming toward the church at the end of the street.
“The key to the mass is the action of the priest in the consecration, he changes the substance of the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ, even though the appearance of bread and wine remain. Your church has the Lord’s Supper, doesn’t it?”
“We did it once in a while, and then during Nativity Time and Easter Time.”
“Well, Catholic priests do it at every mass, and mass is almost every day, but not a lot attend during the week. Of course, we have gospel readings and a sermon and we sing hymns, but without the act of the priest consecrating the bread and wine, there’s no mass.”
“But there’s no understanding what’s going on,” I said. “It’s all in gibberish.”
“The gospel and sermon and hymns are in English for Anglos, but here it’s in Spanish, because almost all those at mass are Spanish speakers, not many of the Anglos are Catholic. You’re referring to the Latin in most of the ceremony.” He was leading me as we ambled along with the crowd.
I stopped. “I’m not sure I want to go. I’m not one of you.”
“As you wish, Nate.”
“I went with one of my friends in the service and it was Greek to me.”
Logan smiled. “Yes, to most people Latin is Greek to them. All right, if you’re not comfortable with it, I’ll see you in the morning, for your trip to Laredo.”
I turned back toward the hotel, but stopped. I thought: was that magazine better for me than a visit with the Lord, even if I couldn’t understand the words? I turned. Logan was a dozen steps ahead of me. I wouldn’t even need to be with him, or go up to communion. The guys, back in who knows where, said that it wasn’t right for me to take it, so I could skip it. Maybe I will learn something. So I shuffled along after Logan, not catching him, but near enough that I could feel as if I was with him, if anybody asked.
The people walking toward the church were mostly dark, with features different from those in Bartonsville, dressed differently from in Bartonsville, but families, men, women and children believing, as people at the Rockingham Meeting House, in the same God, trying to live by the same Ten Commandments, struggling with work the same way.
At the doors of the church Logan went one way and I went the other, not wanting to embarrass him. I followed what the people ahead of me did by kneeling for a moment while entering a pew, dropping onto my knees for a couple of minutes, and taking the seat when they did. I followed along as best I could, picking up Latin words and phrases, even catching most of some sentences, and feeling elevated above the mundane and the here and now. When the congregation rose and the priest read from the Gospel according to Matthew, describing three servants given talents by their master, while he went away, and the rewards for two who did well, and the ire of the master toward the servant who hid his and gained nothing from it, I felt my face flushing. Was there a message for me in this Gospel? I paid little attention to the rest of the service, except for following the Latin of the consecration of the bread and wine. But I recalled the warning that I would be sinning to join the crowd when they surged toward the altar to accept a small wafer from the priest. I held back.
When the mass was over I joined the congregation filing from the church. They scattered to whatever they had in mind and I met Logan. “I decided to brighten up my Sunday with a meeting with Jesus,” I said with a bit of humor in my voice.
He gave no hint of offense. “Good for you. A single hour out of 168 in the week will hardly be lost among everything else. Soon the saloons will open and the Cantina will open for breakfast. State law provides that no alcohol may be sold between two A.M. and noon on Sunday. And now I may have something to eat. We are required to fast from midnight if we are to take communion.”
“That is something of a hardship, especially for the children. And I notice that your communion is only a thin wafer, like the military hardtack.”
“Yes. Nothing like a deep theological discussion on Sunday morning. You have eaten?”
“Yes, early.”
Logan flicked an open hand in the air. “Until tomorrow morning.” He strode away toward the Cantina, where several men were gathered, probably waiting for it to open.
I returned to the hotel and to my room. I laid out my pistol and new supply of ammunition. I took my time placing the caps into their niches, and the bullets into the cylinder. I took the pistol in my hand and flicked it about, keeping my fingers away from the trigger guard. I closed the tobacco tin and put it and the pistol in my haversack. I returned to the lobby, kept reading the newspapers, the Police Gazette and a couple of crime magazines until late afternoon. I had supper at the Cantina and wandered to the faro table, where a group of men were enjoying or suffering the outcomes of their bets. I hesitated to become involved.
“Hello, I’ve seen you in here. But you haven’t talked to me.” It was one of the girls who inhabited the place. She was dirty blonde, in a simple but attractive dress that set off some very nice physical charms. Her shoes were covered with phony jewels. “What’s your name?”
“Nate. Nate Gould.”
“You’re an Anglo.”
“How did you guess?”
She touched her hand on my arm. “The band won’t be here tonight. So we can’t dance. Would you like to buy me a drink?”
“Water?”
She laughed. “No, something stronger. I’ve seen you drinking liquor, but not much. That’s good. Someone who drinks too much too often soon has a problem.” She slid her arm around mine and gently guided me toward an empty table. “I’ll have whiskey and water.” She waved toward the bartender. At the table, she maneuvered me to the front of a chair and sat in a nearby chair. “Where are you from?”
I didn’t feel quite right. I doubted that the priest would approve of me dallying with a saloon girl so soon after meeting with Jesus. “Vermont,” I whispered.
“Where�
�s that?’
I thought for a moment.
“I’m from the Indian Territory. My father was a French trader and mother was a Kiowa. We moved into this area with the business and I didn’t want to go back north when the War ended. You did the same, right?”
“Kind of. My unit disbanded and I didn’t want to go back just yet.” I sank into the chair.
The bartender put two identical glasses on the table.
The girl nodded to the bartender and made no effort to pay him. She laughed. “Pay the man, Vermont.”
I fumbled in my pocket and threw a dollar greenback onto the table.
The bartender picked it up and walked away.
The girl lifted her glass. “To whatever you wish.”
“Prosperity.” I lifted the glass to my lips but didn’t drink. I set the glass down on the table. “What’s your name?
She put down her glass. “Now we’re getting somewhere. ‘Full Moon’. That’s my mother’s version. My father turned it into Clare de Lune. You may call me Clare.”
“How old are you?”
She took a sip from her glass. “The best I can figure out is almost thirty. My father told me that I was born two autumns after Texas became a new country. Drink up.”
I slid my drink to in front of her. “You may have mine. And I can’t stay long.”
Clare frowned. She put down her glass and fidgeted. “I can’t. Are you a teetotaler? If you are this is a strange place for you. No, I’ve seen you have a drink. Tell me about it.”
“I simply don’t want to drink very much. I saw what it did to men in the Army and I don’t want to do it. In my town drinking simply wasn’t done, in my family, and I simply limit what I have. Here in the middle of the day it wouldn’t seem right to me.”
She looked around and smiled over my shoulder. “Hello, Luke. Right on time.”
The voice behind me was gruff. “Hello, Clare. Where are the others?”
“Be here in a little while.” She looked back at me with hard eyes. “I guess I’ll leave you alone. Maybe I’ll see you tonight for one drink, I’ll check the sarsaparilla supply.” She rose.