Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

I heard a muttered curse, then a dull thud. I raised my head and looked up. The coronel was just moving away from my grandfather, the pistol still in his hand. The blood streamed down the side of the old man’s face. His beard was already crimson. But his lips were firmly pressed together.

  The coronel turned to one of the soldiers. “Wet the leather band around his temples,” he said. “Let us see if the sun can persuade the truth to come to his lips.”

  He strode off toward the galería, and I felt Fat Cat’s hands lifting me to my feet. My shoulder ached as I moved my arm. I stood there a moment to catch my breath.

  Papá Grande stared at me silently. After a moment he closed his eyes and I felt the pain in him. Instinctively, I started to reach out my hand. But Fat Cat caught my arm almost as I moved, and forced me to turn away. From the galería I could see the coronel watching.

  A soldado walked past carrying a bucket of water. With a snap of his wrist he dashed the water into the face of my grandfather. The old man choked and sputtered as it ran down his face. He shook his head to free the water from his eyes but the leather thong allowed him to move only a fraction of an inch. I could feel the sun on him. Already the white of his body was turning red under its scorching rays. I could imagine the leather band beginning to tighten across his forehead. Almost before my eyes I could see it drying and contracting. His mouth opened and he began to gasp for air.

  I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and saw the coronel walking toward us. He had a tall glass in his hand. The ice clinked as he walked. He stopped in front of Papá Grande.

  He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. “Well, Don Rafael,” he said, “would you care to join me in a cool rum punch?”

  My grandfather did not answer. Only his eyes were powerless to avoid looking at the glass. His tongue brushed against the surface of his dry lips.

  “A word,” the coronel said. “Just one word. That’s all it would take.”

  With an effort the old man tore his eyes away from the glass. He looked straight into the coronel’s eyes. There was a contempt in his voice that went far beyond anything I had ever heard. “To think that I might have defended you,” he said. “You are worse than the bandoleros. They, at least, have ignorance as an excuse. But before God what will be yours?”

  The rim of the glass splintered as the coronel smashed it against the wagon wheel. He held the jagged edge against my grandfather’s naked belly. “You will talk, old man. You will talk!”

  My grandfather took a deep breath, and spat directly into the coronel’s face. Then an involuntary scream caught in his throat and died there as he turned his eyes downward in horror. The coronel stepped back, and we saw why the old man had screamed. The glass, with part of his genitals trapped within it, hung embedded in his flesh.

  I began to scream, but Fat Cat quickly caught my face to his big belly and smothered it.

  “Let the boy watch!”

  Slowly Fat Cat released me. But he kept a warning hand on my shoulder. I looked at the coronel. His eyes were cold. I turned to look at my grandfather. He sagged weakly against the bindings. The blood dripped slowly from the glass to the ground.

  I blinked my eyes to hold back the tears. The coronel must not see me crying. Somehow I knew that Papá Grande would not want that. A softness came into the old man’s eyes, and I knew that he understood. Then he closed his eyes slowly and sagged against the bindings.

  “He is dead!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

  Quickly the coronel stepped forward and brutally thumbed one of the old man’s eyelids up. “Not yet,” he said in a satisfied voice. “They don’t die that easily. Not when they get to be as old as this one. They wish to live forever.” He turned and started back toward the house. “Call me when he revives. I have not yet had my lunch.”

  We watched him walk up on the galería and disappear into the house.

  “We are hungry too,” Fat Cat called to the soldados.

  “Be glad you are not with him,” one of them answered, gesturing toward my grandfather.

  Fat Cat looked at me, then back at the soldier. “He is but a child,” he said. “At least be merciful enough to let me move him back into the shade.”

  The two soldados looked at one another, then one of them shrugged. “It is permitted. But try nothing funny.”

  Fat Cat led me toward the house. He threw himself to the ground in the shade of the galería, and I slumped down beside him. We rolled over onto our stomachs so that our heads were toward the house and our back to the soldados.

  “Does your shoulder still hurt?” he whispered.

  “No,” I answered, though it did. But only a little.

  He glanced sideways at the sky. “The sun will be gone in a few hours. Manuelo and the others will leave without us.”

  “What will el coronel do to us?”

  Fat Cat shrugged. “They will either kill us or let us go.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “It all depends on the old one there. If he talks we will die; if not—well, we have a chance.”

  Suddenly I remembered the cold metal against my back when the coronel had called us out of the line. “They wouldn’t have killed me,” I exclaimed. “You would have!”

  “Sí.”

  “But then they would have killed you!”

  He nodded.

  I wasn’t angry. I just didn’t understand.

  “To save you,” he said. He jerked this thumb over his shoulder. “Or would you prefer that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “They would force you to betray your father, to tell where we hide out. You could not stop them. And in the end they would kill you anyway.”

  Now I began to understand. This was the way it had to be. This was the core of our lives, the only thing that mattered. I glanced back over my shoulder. The old man still hung there quietly, the sun burning his flesh. I whispered, “I wish we could kill him.”

  Fat Cat looked at me. There was a kind of approval in his eyes. “He will die soon,” he said quietly. “Let us pray that he dies in silence.”

  There was a sound behind us. “On your feet! The old one is awake. I go to call el coronel.”

  The coronel’s voice came from behind me. I turned. He was wiping his face daintily with a napkin. “Don Rafael!”

  Papá Grande didn’t look at him.

  “Don Rafael!” the coronel said again. “Do you know me?”

  The old man’s eyes roved wildly. “Bring me my horse!” he shouted suddenly. “I will ride into the hills to kill the bastardos myself!”

  The coronel turned away in disgust. “Cut him down and kill him. He is of no further use to us.”

  He started to walk away, then his eyes fell on me. “Un momento. You still say the old one is not your grandfather?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He took his pistol from its holster. He spun the cylinder and five cartridges fell into his hand. He closed his fist over them and looked at me. “There is one bullet remaining. You will kill him.”

  I looked at Fat Cat. His eyes were dark and impassive. I hesitated.

  “You will kill him!” the coronel shouted, handing me the gun.

  I looked down at the pistol in my hand. It was heavy. Much heavier than Fat Cat’s. I looked at the coronel. His eyes were burning, his face flushed. It would only take one bullet. But then they would kill me, and Fat Cat too. I turned away.

  My grandfather remained silent as I moved toward him. The blood was still dripping from his mouth, but his eyes seemed suddenly to clear. “What is it, boy?”

  I didn’t speak.

  “What do you want, boy?” he asked again.

  I felt a knot in my stomach as I brought the pistol up. My grandfather saw it. He didn’t move. I could swear a faint smile came into his eyes just before I pulled the trigger.

  The recoil spun me half around, and the big revolver flew from my hand as I struggled to keep my feet. I looked at the old man. He slumped against the wheel, his eyes staring at us sightlessly.<
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  The coronel’s voice came from behind me. “Bueno.” He turned and started back toward the house.

  I looked at my grandfather. The tears began to well up in my eyes. I fought them back. Alive or dead, he would not want them. Fat Cat’s hand was on my arm as he half led me, half dragged me toward the road. The soldados stared at us impassively as we walked past. At last we were out of earshot. The tears came to my eyes now.

  “I killed him!” I cried. “I didn’t want to, but I killed him!”

  Fat Cat didn’t slow his rapid pace. “What does it matter?” he asked, without looking at me. “The old one was as good as dead. It matters only that we are alive!”

  64

  It was three hours after nightfall when we got back to the cave. The others had already gone. I was so tired I could scarcely keep my eyes open. I dropped to the ground. “I’m hungry.”

  Fat Cat looked at me. “Get used to it,” he said tersely. He walked around the cave, his eyes searching the ground in the eerie light.

  “I’m thirsty, too.”

  He didn’t answer. After a moment I became curious about what he was searching for. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced at me. “I’m trying to figure out how long they have been gone.”

  “Oh.”

  He gave an exclamation and went down to one knee. He picked up something and crushed it in his hand, then flung it away. “Get up!” he said abruptly. “They’ve been gone only an hour. Maybe we can catch up with them.”

  I dragged myself to my feet. “How do you know? What did you find?”

  “A horse turd,” he said, already leaving the cave. “Its center was still warm.”

  I had to trot to keep up with him. I never thought Fat Cat could move so quickly. I could hear his breath coming heavily in his throat as we climbed toward the crest of the mountain. The road was clear as day because of the bright white moon. The night was getting chilly, and I began to feel cold. I ran along, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. “How—how much longer?”

  “They will not stop until they are on the other side of the mountain.”

  I looked up the side of the mountain. It was still a good two miles to where the road crested. I threw myself down at the side of the road. I lay there trying to catch my breath. Fat Cat went a few steps farther, then, not hearing me, stopped and looked back. “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t walk anymore.” I said. I began to cry. “I’m cold. I’m hungry.”

  He stared down at me for a moment. “I thought you were a man,” he said harshly.

  “I’m not a man,” I wailed. “I’m cold and I’m tired.”

  He sat down beside me. “All right,” he said, his voice softening. “We’ll rest.” He stuck his fingers in his pocket and came out with a stub of a cigarrillo. He lit it carefully, cupping his hand against the wind. He wolfed the smoke in deeply.

  I looked at him, shivering.

  “Here,” he said, “take a puff. It will warm you.”

  I did as he suggested and immediately I began to cough and choke. When I finished, oddly enough I did feel warmer. He slipped out of his blouse and threw it around my shoulder. He drew me close to him.

  I snuggled up against the warmth coming from his big body. There was something about the man smell of him that made me feel safe and secure and before I knew it I was asleep.

  I awoke with the first rays of sunlight in my eyes. I rolled over, my hand reaching out for him. It hit the earth and I sat up suddenly. He was gone. I looked around wildly. “Fat Cat!”

  There was a rustle in the bushes. I turned, and Fat Cat came out into the open. He was carrying a small rabbit impaled on a stick. “So you’re awake, are you?”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought I had left you?” He laughed. “I was only getting us something to eat. Now get us wood for a fire while I skin this little one.”

  The rabbit was tough and stringy but I never tasted anything so delicious. When we had finished, all that was left was a little pile of bones. I wiped the grease from my face with my fingers, then licked them clean. “That was good.”

  Fat Cat smiled and got to his feet. “Put the bones in your pocket. Then we’ll have something to chew on during the day.” He began to kick out the small fire. When he was finished, he turned. “Let’s go.”

  I put the last of the bones in my pocket and followed him out onto the road. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Forget it.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, you would have caught up with the others.”

  His voice was gentle. “If it hadn’t been for you, my bones would be rotting back there in the valley. Besides, we never could have caught up with them.”

  “What will we do?” I asked. “How will we get home?”

  “Walk,” he replied brusquely. “Man walked before he learned to ride horses.”

  I stared at him. Fat Cat hated to walk. It was two and a half days’ ride to Bandaya from our refuge in the mountains. On foot it would take more than a week.

  Fat Cat’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Keep your ears open. If we hear anything, we leave the road. We take no chances. Understand?”

  “Sí. Comprendo.”

  At last we came to the top of the mountain and about a mile down the other side we found a small stream. “We will stop here and rest,” Fat Cat said.

  I ran to the creek and threw myself down beside it. Thirstily I gulped. After a moment, Fat Cat pulled me back. “That’s enough. Rest awhile, then you can drink again.”

  I lay back against a tree. My feet hurt. I took off my boots and rubbed them, then let them dangle in the running water. I could feel its soothing coolness run up my thighs. By contrast my body felt crawly with the dried-up sweat of the last few days.

  “Can I go for a swim?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. Mountain people didn’t believe in bathing. “All right,” he said, “but don’t stay in long. You will wash away the protection from your skin.”

  I dropped my clothes and waded into the stream. The cold sparkling water delighted me and I splashed about happily, kicking up a spray. A thin silver fish streaked past me and I dove after it, hands outstretched. It slipped through my fingers when I raised my head from the water. Then I heard a giggle from the bank. I turned around.

  Two young girls were standing on the bank watching me, and Fat Cat wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I sat down in the shallow stream quickly.

  The smaller girl giggled again. The bigger one turned and called, “Papá! Diego! Come quickly. There’s a boy in the stream!”

  A moment later two men came through the brush, the rifles in their hands pointed at me. “What are you doing in there?”

  “I was taking a swim.”

  “Well, come out!”

  I started to get to my feet and then sank back into the water. “Throw me my pantalones,” I said, pointing.

  The older man glanced at the two girls, then back at me. “Turn your backs,” he ordered.

  The little girl giggled again as they turned. I stood up and waded for the bank.

  “Are you alone?” the younger man asked.

  “No, señor,” I answered as I took the pantalones from his outstretched hand. “I am with my father.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I do not know, señor,” I answered truthfully. “He was here a moment ago—”

  “And is here again,” Fat Cat’s voice interrupted. He appeared through the bushes, his plump face shining in a wide-toothed smile. He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. “José Hernandez, a su servicio, señores.” He straightened up, still smiling. “Mi hijo, Juan,” he added, gesturing toward me. “The crazy one likes the water.”

  The older man turned the rifle on him. “What are you doing here?” he asked suspiciously.

  Fat Cat walked toward him as if he wasn’t even aware that the rifle was aimed at him. “My son and I return home from the valley. There is much troubl
e in Bandaya. El militar. It was no place for a peace-loving man and his son to seek employment.”

  The rifle was almost touching Fat Cat’s belly now. “Where do you live?”

  “A week’s journey from here,” Fat Cat replied. “Where are you bound?”

  “Estanza.”

  Estanza was a few days’ journey from Bandaya on the way to the coast. The road turned southward two mountain ridges beyond. At that point we would have to leave it and follow the paths through the woods and mountains.

  “Perhaps the señores would permit us to accompany them.” Fat Cat bowed again. “It is said there are bandoleros.”

  The two men looked at each other. “It is true,” the younger one replied. “El Coronel Guiterrez said the road has many bandits.” He turned back to Fat Cat. “Where are your horses?”

  Fat Cat laughed. “Horses? Who has horses, señor? We are but poor campesinos. We would be lucky if we could afford one little burro.”

  The older one looked at Fat Cat for a moment, then lowered the rifle. “All right, we shall go as far as Estanza together.”

  “But, excelencia—” the younger man protested.

  “It is all right, Diego,” the other said in a slightly annoyed voice. “What harm can one man and a small boy do?”

  65

  I sat on the tailgate of the wagon, my back to the two girls, while Fat Cat rode on the driver’s seat with Señor Moncada. Diego rode alongside on a large black stallion, his rifle resting casually across the saddle. Señor Moncada was a farmer who had come to bring his daughters home from a visit to their grandparents.

  I stretched wearily and kept a hand on the side of the wagon to keep from falling off in case I dozed. I looked up at the sky. It was almost dark. We would have to stop soon, for the road was too dangerous to travel at night.

  “There is a grove around the next bend,” I heard Diego call. “We can spend the night there.”

  The wagon pulled off the road and creaked to a halt on the grass. Fat Cat was down from his seat and pulling at me almost before it rolled to a halt. “Hurry,” he said, “gather wood for a fire. Quickly, before the young ladies get a chill!”