“Ojos means eyes,” the dandy remarked, “and is not often given as a name.”
The possibility that Ojos was fictitious had been discussed by the Plugfords, but they were desperate and had no other information upon which to act. Brent said, “It’s the name he proffered, anyhow.”
The dandy was quiet.
“In his letter, he wrote, ‘I have identified two rich Mexican gentlemen who know one or both of your missing sisters.’” Brent had read the missive more than fifty times.
“How does Ojos know these men?” asked Nathaniel.
“Ain’t sure. I s’pose he’ll tell us at the rendezvous.” Uttered aloud, the information that he possessed sounded quite insubstantial. “Never spoke to him yet—they don’t got no wire in that town. He told us where he could be found most nights and we’re goin’ there to meet him.”
A field of high black grama harassed the legs of the cantering horses; several beasts complained, yet they all continued apace. The tallest stalks slapped against Brent’s chaps, crackling like a campfire.
The dandy inquired, “Do you think it is possible that the man who calls himself Ojos simply intends to extort money from your family?”
“Of course it’s possible!” exploded Brent. “Don’t you think we’d thought of that!?!” He suddenly hated the arrogant Yank.
Nathaniel was silent.
“You think we all got wooden heads!?!” shouted Brent.
The dandy declined to answer the cowboy and instead adjusted the strap of his yellow hat.
The horses’ hooves rumbled, and Brent calmed himself. “That letter—it’s all we got. In months and months of postin’ and sendin’ notices all over everywhere, it’s all we heard.”
“I understand,” the dandy remarked, “and would do exactly the same thing if I were in your position.”
Before the abductions, Brent had been a well-regarded cowboy foreman, a good, honest and thoughtful boss. For years he had fairly employed oldsters, youths, negroes, Indians, Mexicans and even Yanks who had fought on the wrong side during the War for Southern Independence, but this dreadful business with his sisters was changing him. Now, a poorly chosen word or a patronizing question brought him directly to the precipice beyond which laid only violent action.
Brent looked at the dandy and saw that the man was patiently waiting for him to continue. “Ojos said a rich gentleman who spoke good Spanish could get a talk with them Mex’cans who’ve seen my sisters.”
“I am not rich.”
“You’ll have whatever pesos you need to play the part.”
“I see.” The dandy ruminated.
(Long Clay had earlier remarked that it would not be difficult to acquire Mexican dollars, and Brent had an idea how this sum was to be earned.)
The dandy asked, “I am to meet with these two Mexican gentlemen and ask after your sisters?”
Brent nodded. “Once we know for certain where they are, you can ride off. Or if you’d rather, you can ride back with us once we’ve got ‘em safe.”
“Throughout this business, I shall employ an alias.”
“That’s fine.”
Nathaniel Stromler extricated a thorny bramble that had attached itself to his chaps, cast it aside and delicately inquired, “And if this proves to be a ruse…if Ojos has lied to you or if these Mexican gentlemen are unhelpful…?”
“Then you can ride off and keep your advance for time spent. Fair?”
“Very fair,” said Nathaniel. “But I do hope that I can help you locate your sisters.”
As the horses sped past creosote bushes, an errant limb snatched against Brent’s chaps and left behind a pointy lavender-green leaf.
“Are we going to stop and eat in the near future?” asked Nathaniel.
“We’ve got to be at Nueva Vida by nightfall if we want to meet Ojos today.”
“How far away is Nueva Vida?”
“We keep at this pace for the whole day without stoppin’,” Brent said, “and we’ll get there.” The dandy was not pleased by this information, but to his credit, he did not complain. “Patch Up boilt some ‘tatoes last night and we got jerked beef if you want it. None of us is hungry.”
The blank sky smoldered somewhere between gray and black.
Shortly after the caravan traversed an open mesa, its fast progress was impeded by a vast swath of obstreperous creosotes. The dusty horses were forced to slacken their pace and wend the obstacles.
John Lawrence Plugford guided his white stallion beside the pair of cantering palfreys that were reserved for the girls, withdrew a silken rag from his overalls and wiped grit from the empty sidesaddles. He dusted the leather with such tenderness that Brent, watching, felt tears in his eyes and had to look away before he broke. It was clear to him that his father would be wholly destroyed if the girls were not safely recovered—already the huge man was a bestial being whose mind was daily devoured by the jaws of horrible contemplations.
The cowboy wiped his eyes and glanced over at Stevie, about whom he had serious concerns as well. For almost a full decade, Brent had ridden with cattle outfits, and he knew the difference between good fellows and bad fellows and good fellows who did bad things accidentally and bad fellows who did good things deceivingly. This terrible tableau in which the Plugfords were embroiled was exactly the sort of event that could turn Stevie—who already liked to drink too much and cause trouble (and call it fun)—into the sort of man who drank his way into brawls and gunfights and did not live to become twenty-two.
The lives of Brent’s sisters, father and brother were at the precipice.
Beneath the rumbling of hooves and the crackling of purple three awn was an erratic noise, barely audible, that was the captive, the man in the trunk, sobbing. The dandy glanced at the wagon for a moment, but doubted his ears.
The sky became a dark gray slate, a feverish limbo untouched by any celestial body. Weary but apace, the horses galloped from a plain of wild vegetation onto a trail articulated by the hooves and wheels of those who dwelled in the region. The ruts intimated to Brent that Nueva Vida was not far off.
“This is better,” Patch Up opined from the wagon bench. “Not that I mind getting kicked in the behind for eleven straight hours.” He arched his back and elicited seven cracks.
Brent looked over at his brother. “Stevie.”
“Yeah?’
“You’re gonna be in charge of makin’ camp, so keep an eye out for someplace hidden private.”
“We ain’t stayin’ in town?” Stevie looked as if a soft pillow had just been yanked out from beneath his head.
“We don’t want people knowin’ all of our faces or our number,” explained Brent. “Mr. Stromler and I will talk to Ojos, and Long Clay’ll watch from outside, but the rest of you stay back.” Stevie would not win them any advantage in this rendezvous (and it was possible that he would be truculent) and Brent well knew the affects that men like his father and Long Clay had upon people.
“Okay. I’ll make camp.” Stevie was apparently too tired and sore to argue.
“Patch Up will help you.”
Long Clay, who had not turned around once since they left Leesville, looked at the cowboy. “Brent.”
“Yeah?”
“After your meeting, you’re coming with me.”
A chill descended Brent’s spine. Up until that moment, he had assumed that Long Clay was going to garner the needed Mexican dollars by himself.
“Your father isn’t capable right now.” Long Clay turned away.
John Lawrence Plugford, tightly clasping the bridle lines of the two palfreys upon which he intended to seat his saved daughters, said nothing.
“I can go,” volunteered Stevie.
“No you can’t,” said Brent.
The cowboy knew that he had no
choice.
The riders endeavored a decline that was steep enough to pull sweat-dampened hair from their brows, and ahead of them, on the southwestern horizon, a mountain range emerged from the ground. The sharp peaks swelled like the sails of approaching warships.
After a twenty-minute descent, the terrain underneath the caravan leveled out. Yucca, cacti and a few hills shaped like turtles interposed themselves between the assemblage and the rising range. Presently, the riders entered a thick copse and wended its dark vegetation.
Stevie pointed out a clearing that was concealed behind a dense cluster of yuccas. “How ‘bout there?”
“Good,” said Brent. “Once we eyeball the town, you come back here and throw camp.”
“I will.”
“Make sure Pa eats. It’s been three days for him.”
“I’ll try to get somethin’ in him.”
“Stevie and I will hold him down if he refuses,” added Patch Up.
“Get somethin’ in.” Brent ruminated for a moment. “Pour soup into his whiskey if you have to.”
The caravan emerged from the woodlands, and the brothers, the negro and the dandy pulled up alongside the two senior men. Forty miles away from the riders stood the dark brown mountains that had consumed the major part of the southwestern horizon.
Brent surveyed the flat plain on the near side of the range, looking for the border town that he had hoped to descry more than an hour earlier. Several miles from his current location, he saw an unnatural ochre luminance upon the land. Relief ran down his spine like warm water squeezed from a sponge. “That’s it.” He pointed. “Gotta be Nueva Vida.” He looked at the dandy and inquired, “What’s that mean? Nueva Vida?”
“It means New Life.”
Brent heard the sound of crackling tinder. He looked to his left and saw that Long Clay was laughing.
Chapter VIII
A Thoughtful Mexican
Humberto Calles leaned his guitarrita case against the wall in the back room of the bar where he regularly performed and, from his beaded, fringe-adorned vest, withdrew his pocket watch. The hands were fixed at nine seconds after eleven seventeen, the exact moment that some careless horse had compressed its mechanisms. When Humberto had found the pocket watch, a circular corpse lying upon a street in Mexico City (where he visited seven of his cousins twice a year), he had pocketed it and planned to have it repaired. Two days later, the balladeer returned home to Nueva Vida and learned that his mother, Gabrielle, had passed away alone in the night. He had mourned her for several months, and shortly afterwards, impregnated his wife Patricia with the child who was to become their first daughter, Anna.
The fifty-four-year-old Mexican believed in the Savior—and often contemplated less-renowned spirits who had not suffered quite so spectacularly—and wondered at portends and hidden significances.
Because Humberto had found the watch shortly after midnight, he was certain that it had been stomped upon in the evening, rather than at the nine seconds after eleven seventeen that occurred in the morning. (It was very unlikely that the little machine—even crushed—would sit upon a Mexico City avenue unclaimed for thirteen hours.) He knew that his mother had died on the night that he had found the watch, and he often wondered if perhaps she had passed away at the exact moment that its hands had been stopped by the misplaced hoof. He believed that this concurrency was likely, and often contemplated its significance.
Ultimately, Humberto had decided not to repair the broken machine. Nine seconds after eleven seventeen was a moment that he was meant to contemplate, frozen forever like a photograph upon a little crushed face.
Alone in the back room of the bar, Humberto clicked the long fingernails of his plucking hand upon the inert pocket watch, thinking of his deceased mother and waiting for the Americans.
A cool shadow slinked across the table and covered the tarnished metal. Marietta kissed the top of Humberto’s bald head, set down a glass of red wine and said, “En la casa.” (The owner of the bar always gave the performer of the night a free drink [and Marietta always gave Humberto a second one when the boss had his back turned]).
“Gracias amigita.”
The thirty-year-old woman smiled, complimented his performance and asked after his associates from America.
Humberto replied that he would allow them twenty more minutes.
Marietta smiled at him, set a lingering kiss upon his right cheek (a quarter of an inch away from his mouth) and walked away.
If Humberto were not a happily married man, he would have danced an intimate duet with the buxom (and flirtatious) barmaid and revealed to her the tender and patient affections of a fifty-four-year-old artist who appreciated women far more than did any hombre her own age. He would have shown her real and selfless lovemaking…
Humberto drank a deep draught of red wine and sighed at the concepts of fidelity and monogamy to which he was shackled. He would remain faithful to his wife for the remainder of his life, and he would never caress or be caressed by a new woman ever again.
There were many reasons to hope for an afterlife.
A pale hand pulled aside the checkered cloth at the entrance of the bar, and a dusty gringo cowboy who had a brown hat, wavy hair, a gun on his right hip and a frown walked inside, followed by a tall blonde gentleman who wore a thick mustache beneath his big nose, a royal blue tuxedo and a charming little derby. They halted beneath a candelabrum, noticed the wax drippings upon the stone floor, took a step to their left and scanned the establishment.
Marietta walked over to the men and said, “You gentlemens are here to meet with Ojos?” (Humberto was pleased that she had remembered to use his alias.)
“Si, Señorita,” replied the tall gentleman. He removed his hat, tilted his head forward and said, “Nosotros queremos hablar con Ojos, por favor.” The gentleman’s pronunciation was flawless.
Marietta pointed to the revolver that sat upon the cowboy’s hip. “You pistola. I need. You can no have guns in here.”
The cowboy scanned the bar, looked back at her and lifted his hands. “Take it.”
The barmaid withdrew the weapon from the holster. “You ask me for the pistola when you leave. I am Marietta.” She slid the gun into her red and brown dress. “I now take you to Ojos.”
“Gracias amiga,” said the gentleman.
Slowly, the cowboy nodded.
The woman escorted the gringos past the tenanted stone-and-tile bar, around three inebriates who threw knives at a plank that was decorated by a blue chalk drawing of an angry bear, beneath a large wooden statue of some bizarre three-headed pagan god that the owner had found in the badlands and hung like a piñata, past a table where two old men played checkers, in-between two long benches that were packed with hombres who drunkenly sang a refrain from one of the songs that the balladeer had performed two hours ago and down three steps, into the sunken backroom wherein sat the Mexicano whom the Americanos had come to Nueva Vida to meet.
Humberto stood up and extended his right hand toward the dusty cowboy. “I am Ojos. You are John Lawrence Plugford or the son?”
The cowboy clasped the proffered hand. “I’m the son. Brent.”
As they shook, Humberto saw something that could have been either distrust or distaste flash across the gringo’s face. They released each other.
“I am Thomas Weston,” announced the gentleman, as he extended his hand.
Humberto shook with him and saw no look of distrust or distaste flash across his face.
“Me llamo Ojos.”
The balladeer released the gentleman’s hand and motioned to the cushioned stools that surrounded his table, which was decorated with red, brown and green tiles. “Please sit.”
The gringos sat upon the stools.
Humberto looked down at the Americanos and inquired, “What would you like to drink?”
“We wouldn’t,” said the cowboy.
The balladeer sat upon a cushioned seat opposite the gringos and inquired, “Do you mind if I drink the wine that’s already been poured for me?”
“We ain’t here for any kind of social.”
Humberto knew that Brent Plugford was not well-educated.
The cowboy set his hat upon the table, reached beneath his beige shirt, extricated a worn grouch bag and pulled the strap over his head. “Your gold.”
Humberto took the proffered pouch, set it upon the table, loosened the purse strings, glanced inside and saw variegated scintillating nuggets.
“There’s no hagglin’,” the cowboy stated, “that’s every crumb we got.”
“This appears to be the amount promised in the poster,” remarked the balladeer.
“You can put it on a scale, so you know it certain true.”
“I doubt that you’d ride all the way down here and attempt to cheat me of an ounce.”
“I’m honest,” stated the cowboy, as if what he said were a well-established fact. “Now tell me ‘bout my sisters.”
“As I wrote in the letter,” Humberto said, “I know the identities of two men who have had dealings with one or both of your sisters. Nine weeks—”
“How?” interrupted the cowboy, openly suspicious. “How you know that these men know my sisters?”
“Please allow me to tell a short story that will answer all of your questions.”
“Go tell it.”
“Nine weeks ago, when I was in Mexico City visiting my cousins, I saw the notice, your reward poster, in a post office. Shortly afterwards, I wrote a song about the missing woman.”
“You wrote a song ‘bout my sisters?”
“Yes.”
Outrage blazed across the cowboy’s face. The gentleman clapped a gloved hand to his companion’s shoulder and squeezed.
Wraiths of the Broken Land Page 5