The hidden sun climbed. The black, gray and silver clouds took on the texture of sharp volcanic rock.
Patch Up cooked a stew with turnips, carrots and potatoes (all of which had been in the wagon since Texas) and the game that Deep Lakes had recently slain.
Shortly before the crew ate supper, Long Clay returned to the site, dust covering his black garments. He walked over to the patriarch and said, “His real name is Humberto Calles.”
Brent knew that the gunfighter had just identified Ojos.
John Lawrence Plugford sat upon a stone, removed the steel-tipped fountain pen from his gray overalls, unscrewed the cap and wrote upon his left pant leg.
Umbeartoe Cayez
Long Clay walked toward the dinged stew pot that Patch Up tended beside the fire.
To the gunfighter, Brent said, “Ojos dealt with us fair.”
“If a posse of vengeful Mexicans rides into Texas, we need to know whom to look for.” Long Clay raised a spoonful of stew to his mouth and blew the steam west.
“Okay.” The cowboy was relieved that the gunfighter did not plan to execute the contact, who had seemed honest.
Long Clay swallowed a spoonful of stew. “J.L.”
John Lawrence Plugford looked at his old partner.
“You need your strength for tonight.”
The huge man stood from his rock and strode toward the pot.
Patch Up grabbed the largest wooden bowl that he possessed, filled it with stew and pulled an aluminum spoon from his shirt pocket. “It’s hot.”
John Lawrence Plugford ignored the spoon, took the bowl, opened his mouth and drank the stew, chewing half as often as he swallowed. Rivulets of broth wound through his wild beard, and steam rose.
“He’s really relishing the flavor,” remarked Patch Up.
The patriarch set the empty bowl upon the ground.
“Give him another,” Long Clay said to the negro.
Patch Up refilled the bowl and handed it to the patriarch.
The huge man gulped the contents and set down the empty vessel. “Thank you.”
“It’s good to see you eat,” replied Patch Up. “And thanks for not swallowing the bowl.”
Brent and Stevie patted their father’s back, as if he were an enormous infant waiting to be burped.
The patriarch pointed to the silver, black and gray clouds that hung in the vault. “Looks like a photograph.”
“It does,” confirmed his sons.
The huge man reached into his left pocket and withdrew a small wooden frame that contained a photograph of the Plugford clan. He looked at it for a moment and tucked it away. “Brent?”
“Yes?”
“Would you shave off these whiskers?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“I don’t think my angels would recognize me like this.”
Chapter III
Towards the Fire
Employing Patch Up’s steel scissors, Brent Plugford sheared away the outermost inches of his father’s wild beard. Oily and hard clumps fell in-between the huge man’s work boots and were swept into the fire by an erratic northeast wind. The cowboy brushed leaves, seeds, fleas and agglutinated bits from the huge man’s prickly face, received a bowl of lather, took a sable-haired brush and applied white foam as if it were plaster.
The dandy, roused from his five-hour nap, walked to the campfire and handed Brent a straight razor that had a mother-of-pearl handle, which was embossed with the initials ‘N.J.S.’ “I sharpened it yesterday morning.”
The cowboy accepted the blade and opened it; the action of the hinge was smooth and silent. “This’s real nice. Was it a gift?”
“Yes. From my fiancé.”
“Thanks for the loan.”
“You are welcome.”
The lumpy clouds were cracked by tenacious rays of twilight. With a steady hand, Brent set the razor to his father’s lathered neck and authored a clear swath.
The dandy adjusted his royal blue trousers, sat beside the fire, served himself a bowl of stew and ingested a spoonful. “This is very flavorful.”
“I hoped I’d get an accolade from you.” Patch Up looked over at Stevie. “The dandy appreciates it.”
“I’m thrilled what he thinks.” The sullen young man was still nauseated. “Jubilacious.”
“You should try some,” Patch Up said, “though I should warn you—this is a South Stew.”
“What’s that?”
“Only tastes good going down.”
The jibe was not well received. “Go roast, nigger.”
“Have a recipe for that? Roasted nigger?”
Stevie spit into the fire. “Always got somethin’ clever to say, don’t you?”
“I have retorts.”
Brent withdrew the luminous razor from his father’s face and said, “It’s done.”
John Lawrence Plugford’s neck, chin and cheeks were pale and soft compared to the remainder of his tough bronze hide. “They’ll recognize me now.” The patriarch felt his exhumed skin with a broad palm.
“They will.”
After Brent had finished his meal, he walked around the fire and returned the straight razor to its owner, who was wearing fresh green drawers and busy with his toilet.
“Thanks ‘gain.”
“You are welcome.” The dandy swirled a washcloth in a wooden water bucket, raised the soapy fabric to his face and scrubbed.
Brent surveyed the man’s garments. “You don’t have a revolver, do you?”
“My ambition is to become a hotelier rather than a gunfighter.” The washcloth squeaked upon Nathaniel’s chin.
“You should be able to pertect yourself.”
“I will not carry a weapon.” The statement was a definitive proclamation.
“You should make a exception tonight.”
“Would you shoot an unarmed man?” The dandy applied suds to his armpits and scoured.
“Not unless it were a necessity.”
“Would your brother or your father or Patch Up shoot an unarmed man?” The dandy dunked the washcloth and brought suds to his nape.
“Same with them.”
“A door opens whenever a man wears a gun, and I choose to keep that door shut.”
“There’s some wisdom in that,” Brent admitted, “but we ain’t dealin’ with no honorable men here. These fellows…well, you know what the hell they done.”
The dandy rubbed the washcloth across his hairless chest. “Many men—good and bad—have qualms about gunning down an unarmed opponent.”
“Then take a little two-shot—somethin’ you can hide. You don’t want to be in no Mex’can catacombs without no way to protect yourself but your bowtie.”
“I shall consider it.” The dandy’s tone was dismissive.
“I rode with some drovers who think like you, and I buried one of them. Take a little bullet-flinger.”
“I shall consider it.”
While the dandy dressed himself in his black tuxedo, the Plugfords, Patch Up and Long Clay gathered their possessions, put out the fire, buried the coals and saddled their horses. Presently, the family and the gunfighter mounted their steeds, and the negro clambered onto his wagon bench.
Brent guided his horse toward the dandy, who was cleaning grit from his tan mare’s left eye, and reined beside him. “You get in that crimson stagecoach like Bonito said to. Deep Lakes will trail you and get us whenever you throw him a signal. You remember the meaningful gesture?”
“Drop my hat, lean over and scratch my nose.”
“That’s it—precise exact. Here.” Brent leaned over and proffered the handle of a two-shot lady’s gun.
The dandy eyed the weapon, and the tan mare took one step backward, as if profferi
ng an opinion.
“Take it,” insisted Brent. “Put it in your pocket or in your drawers.”
The dandy shook his head. “No.”
“Why the hell not?” The cowboy wanted to slap the tall Yank idiot.
“If a weapon of this variety is discovered on my person,” the dandy said as he climbed atop his tan mare, “my character would be called into question.”
“I’m questionin’ it right now.”
The mounted gentleman eyed the cowboy from a superior altitude. “I will not fire a gun upon a human being.”
Brent heard the sound of crackling tinder that was Long Clay’s ugly laugh. Stevie muttered something derisive and inaudible.
“You’re a wooden fool.” The cowboy coaxed his horse forward and placed the lady’s gun inside the dandy’s saddle pack. “In case you get a epiphany.”
“I will not employ that device.”
“Maybe his horse will use it to save him,” remarked Stevie. “Come to his resc—”
“Be quiet,” said Patch Up.
Brent looked at Nathaniel. “Try to fix in your brain what you can of the layout of them catacombs.”
“I have a superior memory and will try to learn as much as possible.”
“Okay.” The cowboy nodded at the tall gentleman. “Good luck.”
“And to you as well.”
“Say a prayer if you believe in that stuff.”
Long Clay said, “Let’s go.”
Brent pulled his horse around.
Reins snapped, and hooves rumbled. The Plugfords, Patch Up and Long Clay rode through the coppice and out onto the plain, where they began their wide circumnavigation of the town.
Atop his brindled mustang, Brent conceived a simple prayer that he would say to Jesus Christ. (The cowboy had twenty pounds of doubt for every ounce of faith, but he was not too proud to ask for help from the most popular omnipotent power.) Tightly gripping the horn for no reason that he apprehended, Brent fixed the faces of Yvette and his twin sister Dolores in his mind and said, “Please keep them from any more harm and let them know we’re comin’ to rescue them. Amen.”
The cowboy relaxed his grip and looked up at the horizon. The sun had disappeared behind the western mountain range, and the remaining clouds were an endless wall of thick blue plaster.
He doubted that his words would transcend.
Chapter IV
Muchacho Tracks
Trailing a shroud of dust, Nathaniel Stromler rode directly toward the ochre wound in the azure gloaming that was Nueva Vida. On this dangerous night, the tall gentleman from Michigan was saddened by the fact that he and Kathleen had not yet been married, although if the reconnoiter went terribly, at least she would not become a widow.
“Enough of that line of thinking.” The chastening voice (even though it was his own) calmed him.
The blue clouds that filled the horizon looked like ocean waves as seen from the deck of a steamship bound for Europe, and they beckoned Nathaniel eerily, asking him to leap overboard and fall into the sky. He returned his gaze to the ochre town.
Effulgent and squat, Nueva Vida grew and consumed the gentleman. He sped past the eastern barbacao shacks that Juan Bonito had told him to avoid, reached the main avenue, rode due west for fifteen minutes and guided his cantering mare onto the lone paved road. Shod hooves clacked noisily upon the stone and garnered unfriendly glances from people holding the hands of children or carrying bundles.
Nathaniel retarded his horse’s gait.
At the end of the avenue stood Castillo Elegante, brightly illuminated by mirror lanterns. The gentleman looked at his pocket watch, saw that its little hand was just below the number nine, replaced the timepiece, dusted his black tuxedo, coaxed his horse toward a gate to which two burros were tied, swung himself from his saddle, landed upon his loafers and pulled the mare’s reins around the wooden crossbar.
Nathaniel turned toward the gambling house and saw a dark figure standing directly in front of him.
“Good evening, Mr. Stromler.”
Presently, the gentleman recognized the silhouetted individual. “Good evening, Deep Lakes.”
A spyglass hung from the native’s neck, and the two severed muskrat heads that depended from his denim vest dripped. “I’m going to trail your stagecoach. If you enter a different vehicle or mount a horse, cast one or two of these upon the ground after the transition has been made.” The native handed a small silk pouch to the gentleman.
The fabric tickled Nathaniel’s palms, and he started. “What is in here?”
“Fireflies.”
The gentleman held the undulating pouch by its drawstrings. “They will not fly away?”
“I removed their legs and wings.”
“Oh.” Nathaniel was displeased to learn that his fate depended upon the lambent glow of mutilated insects.
“They are a tool,” Deep Lakes said, “but I’ll be able to track you whether or not you use them.”
“I shall surreptitiously deploy a few should the mode of transportation change.”
“May your decisions be wise.” The native departed.
Nathaniel delicately placed the pouch of dismembered fireflies inside his jacket, set his black stovepipe hat atop his head and walked up the paved avenue.
Before him expanded the bright white façade of Castillo Elegante, which was attended by the same two pine green guards whom he had met the previous evening. Parked immediately beside the pair was a very large crimson stagecoach. Nathaniel was chilled by the sight of the vehicle, yet strode toward it, undaunted.
Amidst the black steeds that were harnessed to the stagecoach stood a pale man, who was clothed in a blue tuxedo and had an odd discoloration in the middle of his face. He emerged from the beasts, looked at Nathaniel and inquired, “Are you the American friend of Juan Bonito?”
The gringo replied that he had very recently become acquainted with Juan Bonito.
“Bueno. Good.”
Nathaniel continued forward and soon apprehended that the fellow’s nose was made out of wood and affixed to his face with metal wire. When the distance between the two men diminished to a yard, they stopped and shook hands. The pale individual was almost as tall as the gringo, and his clasp was indelicate.
“Buenas noches.” Nathaniel focused his gaze upon the man’s brown eyes.
“Buenas noches.”
They released each other.
The gringo asked the man with the wooden nose if his name was Gris.
A smile came to the fellow’s lips and his false proboscis shifted. “I working for Gris. I am called Ubaldo.” His breath smelled like pungent chicken soup.
“I am Thomas Weston,” replied Nathaniel. (This name belonged to a horse thief who was lynched in Michigan in eighteen forty-two.)
“You would like to go to Catacumbas?”
“Si.”
“It is one hundred pesos to go.”
Nathaniel told Ubaldo that Juan Bonito had stated a different price.
Ubaldo nodded and said, “The price normal is fifty pesos. Pero est—but tonight is big fiesta.” He pointed to the crimson stagecoach. “You may ask them—they all pay one hundred.”
Through a window, Nathaniel saw two luminous orange dots, which were the ends of cigars, and the vague shapes of four men. “I do not need to enquire with them.” The gringo withdrew his wallet.
“No pay now—I do not want to hold so much moneys.” Ubaldo walked over to the stagecoach, twisted a wooden handle and opened the door. “Please enter.” He smiled, and his nose shifted.
Nathaniel removed his stovepipe hat, set a black loafer upon the lowermost step, ascended its superiors and entered the plush and capacious lavender interior of a stagecoach in which four men sat quietly with their lascivious
imaginings. The quartet nodded cordially to the arrival, but proffered no words.
“Make yourself a seat.” Ubaldo shut the door. “One more person is come and then we go.”
Nathaniel pulled his tuxedo tails to his buttocks and sat upon a spring-supported velvet bench, in-between a smoking hombre and the left window. Upon his thighs, he rested his stovepipe hat.
“Buenas noches Señor Bonito,” greeted Ubaldo.
Nathaniel looked through the window and saw the little mestizo walk toward the stagecoach. Although the gringo did not know how the Plugford crew would endeavor their rescue, he assumed that bystanders with varying degrees of guilt would receive a thrown fist or something invisible that was accompanied by a loud bang. Nathaniel wanted to warn the little man away from Catacumbas, but he could not think of any way to do so without arousing suspicion. And Brent’s comment about the ‘red Mex’can’s’ complicity was correct—Juan Bonito had recommended two whores whom he knew to be captives.
The mestizo wore a bright blue suit, yellow shoes and a matching bowtie, and his ruined ear was somehow whole. He shook hands with Ubaldo, and presently entered the stagecoach.
“Buenas noches, Señor Weston.”
Nathaniel wished the mestizo a good evening.
The little man looked at the smoker seated beside the gringo and asked him if he would yield his seat.
Without hesitation, the hombre stood from the bench.
Juan Bonito sat beside Nathaniel. “Tonight is a fiesta, and it is more pesos to get submerged in Catacumbas.”
The gringo stated that the driver had asked for one hundred pesos.
“It is the price—but for you it is free.” Juan Bonito smiled.
Nathaniel understood that the little man intended to treat him. “Thank you, but I cannot accept your money.”
“I should not have taken so much from you in the games last night—that was improper. Now I have the opportunity to make more fair. It is why I come along tonight.”
The stagecoach sagged as hard boots thudded upon the wooden ladder that led to the top of the vehicle. “Vamos al Catacumbas,” announced Ubaldo from the roof. He punctuated his proclamation with a whip crack.
Wraiths of the Broken Land Page 10