Wraiths of the Broken Land

by S. Craig Zahler

  Inside, the passengers grabbed the dangling straps. The front of the stagecoach tilted down, and Nathaniel and Juan Bonito were pulled forward. Leather tack and wooden poles creaked.

  The stagecoach descended.

  Gripping his strap tightly, Nathaniel leaned his head outside the window and looked forward. On the western horizon stood three mountains, but between the far-off peaks and the stagecoach laid a vast dry depression.

  “Catacumbas is below,” stated Juan Bonito.

  Nathaniel withdrew his head from the gaping night.

  Toward the depression descended the stagecoach, yielding the altitude that it had gained during its initial climb. Presently, the vehicle rolled onto the level plain, and the passengers leaned back in their seats.

  A portly fellow who had shouted the Spanish word for triumph whenever he won a hand of cards at Castillo Elegante asked a handsome Mexican what event the party at Catacumbas commemorated.

  Shrugging, the gentleman replied that he did not know the precise reason for the celebration.

  The triumphant man looked at the other passengers and asked if anyone could explain the revels.

  Nobody responded with factual information, although an older man in a striped suit theorized that Gris had decided to have a party so that he could raise the transportation and liaison fees.

  The handsome fellow told the triumphant man that Francesca had returned to Catacumbas.

  “¡Triunfo!”

  For more than twenty minutes, the stagecoach rolled toward the southwestern rim of the drear sunken plain.

  “¡Hombres!” Ubaldo called from outside.

  The passengers looked up at the driver’s unseen buttocks.

  “¡La buena diversión comenzará pronto!” The man with the wooden nose cracked his whip to emphasize (and perhaps illustrate) the pleasing diversions that they would soon experience.

  Soon, the horses slowed and stopped, and a wave of trailed dust enshrouded the stagecoach. Ubaldo dropped to the plain, leaned over, unfolded a short ladder and drew open the west door.

  Nathaniel descended the steps and walked onto hard land. Aches, engendered by the percussive journey, bothered his legs, arms, shoulders, back and buttocks.

  “That is Catacumbas.” Ubaldo pointed west.

  Nathaniel looked in the indicated direction and saw several vast tiers of weathered stones that appeared to be the remains of an ancient step pyramid. He tasted dread in his mouth, but forced a smile to his face.

  The Mexican gentlemen filed out of the vehicle, replaced their hats, inserted cigars and struck matches. Each hombre handed the driver one hundred pesos in banknotes, but when the gringo attempted to draw out his wallet, the little mestizo grabbed his wrist with a yellow glove, admonished him and paid his fare.

  “Gracias.” (Nathaniel could no longer employ the word ‘friend’ without feeling ashamed.)

  Ubaldo placed the bills inside his jacket, scratched an itch beside his wooden nose and motioned with his right arm. The gentlemen followed the driver toward the ancient ruins.

  In a corral beside the structure, Nathaniel noted fifty horses and a dozen crimson stagecoaches, and atop the lowermost tier, he saw two riflemen, dangling their legs over the edge of a stone. A thirty-foot drop separated the soles of their moccasins from the ground and conveyed the immense scope of the mostly-absent ziggurat.

  “¡Buenas noches!” Ubaldo waved to the armed sentries and announced that he had transported six men of distinction from Nueva Vida to Catacumbas.

  One of the riflemen tossed six colored pebbles into a metal bucket.

  Ubaldo asked if the bucket was full.

  “Si,” said the rifleman.

  The man with the wooden nose looked at the gentlemen and remarked, “The fiesta is underway.”

  After a few strides, the triumphant man asked what event the party celebrated.

  Ubaldo shrugged.

  The gentlemen neared a reddish-orange square that did not match the remainder of the ochre-gray ruins, and presently, Nathaniel saw that the discoloration was comprised of modern bricks and mortar that had been employed to seal up the vast original ziggurat entrance. Standing at the center of the refurbished area was a lone iron door.

  Girls, games, spirits and tobacco leaves were discussed by all of the gentleman, excepting the gringo, who was unable to do anything but stare at the metal entrance, which ten more strides revealed was covered with rows of outthrust steel spikes. Nathaniel was assailed by very significant doubts as to whether the Plugfords—even with the aid of their skilled native and ruthless gunfighter—had any chance of rescuing their abducted kin from such a place. The Hopi natives and Spanish War prisoners locked away in Alcatraz seemed as easily accessed as a person locked within Catacumbas.

  Immediately beside the spike-adorned iron door, Ubaldo halted.

  A blunderbuss emerged from a crenellation in the brick wall and trained its black eye upon the gringo and those with whom he had ridden. Nathaniel stopped breathing. He thought of Kathleen and his ruined hotel and his mother, a widow in Michigan with a candy store that nobody ever visited.

  To the gun barrel, Ubaldo said, “Buenos hombres. Todos.”

  The blunderbuss withdrew, and Nathaniel relaxed.

  Beyond the iron door, a stone cracked, and a gear turned.

  The gringo told the mestizo that he looked forward to meeting the gringas.

  “I take care of those womens,” Ubaldo remarked, “that is why I learn good English.”

  “I would like to see them.”

  “I bring you.”

  Nathaniel stomped upon his fears and steeled himself—he would locate these women, collect the remainder of his stipend and ride away from this awful drama as fast as his tan mare could carry him.

  The spikes withdrew, and the iron door opened.

  Chapter VII

  Catacumbas

  Ubaldo escorted Nathaniel Stromler and the hombres into a large anteroom that was illuminated by ensconced torches. The high walls of the enclosure were made of ancient triangular stones that were stacked in alternating inversions, and a quartet of dangling brass censers yielded aromatic cinnamon-and-vanilla bean smoke that obfuscated the aromas of lichens and centuries.

  The assemblage walked along a gigantic tapestry that depicted the ancient ziggurat, whole, surrounded by a high tide of bloody bodies, most of which were short at least one appendage. Atop the step pyramid, warrior priests poured glowing hot coals onto the faces and genitals of captives.

  “That is pleasant.”

  Ubaldo escorted the gentlemen to a stairwell that led into the earth and advised the men to hold onto the banister as they descended.

  Resting a white-gloved hand upon the rail, Nathaniel proceeded down the steps, toward the luminous amber portal at the nether end of the declining passage. It would not have surprised him overmuch to see the Devil stride through the opening.

  Presently, the gringo emerged from the stairwell and entered a cavernous enclosure, which seemed like it had once been a place of worship or funereal ritual. The far side of the vast room had a dais, and the ceiling was covered with the strange sigils of a lost religion. Occupying the blasphemed temple and warmly illuminated by hundreds of ensconced candles were sixty gentlemen and half as many women.

  A beautiful Mexican lady with full hips, long eyelashes and a strong jaw adjusted her rose kimono, approached the newly arrived sextet and greeted several gentlemen by name, including Juan Bonito.

  “Buenas noches Pia,” replied the hombres.

  Without provocation, Ubaldo and the Mexican gentlemen began to remove their shoes.

  The madam looked at the tall gringo and said, “Welcome to Catacumbas, Señor. Please remove your shoes.”

  Nathaniel inquired why he needed to discard his
loafers.

  “Gris wants to preserve the ancient craftsmanship.” Pia pointed to the floor of the funereal temple, and the gringo saw that it was comprised of innumerable clay tiles, every one of which one a perfect nonagon. “It is nice, no?”

  Nathaniel complimented the nine-sided tiles and removed his black loafers.

  Ubaldo and Pia exchanged a communicative glance.

  “I have been informed that you favor the company of gringa women.” Radiating warmth and the scent of star anise, the madam advanced. “You do not appreciate the beautiful and passionate mujeres de Mexico?” She slid her hand along the gringo’s thigh.

  Nathaniel told Pia that his wife was a beautiful woman from Mexico. (Kathleen’s family was entirely Irish, excepting a Jewish grandmother who had been an opera singer in Austria.)

  “That is why your Spanish is so true,” commented the madam.

  “And why I would like to spend time with a gringa.”

  Pia laughed, a rich cachinnation that emanated from her belly, and said that she understood the value of variety.

  “Señor Weston,” Ubaldo said, “make a seat and I will go speak with the gringas.”

  “Gracias,” responded Nathaniel. “I would like to view them both before I make any decisions.”

  “One has blonde hairs and the other has red hairs. They are both muy bonita, but…” The man with the wooden nose hesitated. “One has lost her right foot.”

  The gringo acted as if he were pleased by what he had just heard. “That sounds interesting.”

  Ubaldo looked directly into Nathaniel’s eyes. “You will like these womens.” Air whistled through his artificial nostrils.

  “Perhaps I will spend time with both of them.”

  The flat line that was Ubaldo’s mouth curved, and his wooden nose tilted. “You are a good hombre.” A small dark joy crept into his eyes. “I will return.” The pale man strode off, toward one of the eight passageways that radiated from the temple out into the catacombs.

  Clay nonagonal tiles pressed into Nathaniel’s socks as he walked to the area where divans, fainting couches, bagatelle tables and stools rested upon a luxurious rose rug. He seated himself and was immediately given moccasins by a woman in a golden kimono.

  “Gracias Señorita.”

  Nathaniel donned the soft shoes and surveyed the assemblage. The clients were well-dressed Hispanic men, excepting a group of Orientals who played a game of mahjong in a far corner. The robed women who orbited the area like silken monks were a far more variegated group—Mexicans, South Americans, mulattos, negresses and Orientals offered themselves and kind words to the clientele. Not one of the female employees seemed to be distressed or compelled to perform her role, and Nathaniel doubted that it was because they were all terrific play-actors. It appeared as if many or most of the women who worked at Catacumbas did so by choice.

  A striking man of fifty with a thin nose, full lips, ivory white hair and one eye stared down from a glistening oil painting that hung upon the wall. Below the left heel of the seated subject laid a swollen corpse that had a sliced open stomach from which poured a deluge of black oil and scorpions. Nathaniel pivoted so that he no longer faced the cruel tableau.

  A rust-colored mongrel with a crooked snout trotted out of the hallway that Ubaldo had entered. Across the tiles, the canine gaily padded, tongue dangling.

  “Henry!”

  The dog stopped.

  Ubaldo emerged from the portal and told the animal to behave like a gentleman.

  Henry reared up on its hind legs and walked forward, upright, across the clay tiles.

  The Oriental men applauded the nascent biped, and several Mexicans cackled.

  Ubaldo patted the vertical dog’s head and approached Nathaniel. “Henry was a circus animal. He knows special tricks.”

  Nathaniel asked after the gringas.

  “The womens have friends right now,” Ubaldo replied, “but you will see them later.”

  The canine staggered upon its hind legs in ever-narrowing circles, as if it were insane.

  Nathaniel Stromler silently empathized.

  Chapter VIII

  Swallow Your Spit

  A tiny azure star rose from the base of the southwest mountain range, paused, brightened, dropped, trailed blue sparks and disappeared whence it had arisen.

  “That’s the beacon,” Brent Plugford said to the men who waited in the shadow of a huge igneous rock.

  “I marked it.” Patch Up lowered his spyglass and pointed a mostly invisible finger at the dark mountains. “There’s a defile in that area.”

  “Okay.” Brent faced northeast and scanned the grayish black plain that laid in-between his crew and the distant fungal effulgence that was Nueva Vida, but he saw no rider. “Long Clay should be with us.”

  “He’s comin’.” John Lawrence Plugford’s words were confident, and his brusque tone precluded any further questions.

  The cowboy was almost certain that the gunfighter’s ancillary mission involved Ojos. When Brent thought of the helpful Mexican being threatened or injured (or worse) he was disturbed, but as he had learned during the robbery, he was not responsible for the actions of Long Clay, nor would he be able to alter them in any way. The ruthless tactician had come on this ride as a favor to his old partner and would not answer to some cowboy foreman or anybody else in existence.

  Brent snapped tack at his pointless contemplations. “Let’s get on.” Underneath him, the brindled mustang surged forward, and summarily the remainder of the crew coaxed their beasts into action. John Lawrence Plugford trailed the palfreys that bore the sidesaddles for the girls, Stevie led the dandy’s tan mare (which had been retrieved an hour earlier from Nueva Vida) and Patch Up whipped the rumps of his ragged brace. The group paralleled the edge of the range so that it would be difficult to see them from any vantage points within the mountains.

  “You think anybody else noticed that signal he sent up?” asked Stevie. “I wouldn’t want to tip our hand with no Fourth of July practice.”

  “Either he released the arrow where no guards could descry it,” Patch Up said, “or he’s taken care of the guards.”

  “Deep Lakes is skilled,” added Brent.

  “If he’s so skilled,” Stevie inquired, “then why’d they throw him in the fire?”

  “He was a little infant when they done that,” Brent said to his brother, “and you shouldn’t be talkin’ ‘bout it neither. Ain’t your business.” The cowboy looked at his father and saw that the huge man was frowning.

  “I was just wonderin’,” Stevie continued, “if that Indian’s such a marvelous talent, why his kin treat him like a log.” The way the young man slurred his words and carried on betrayed the fact that he had been drinking.

  “Gimme that goddamn flask you dumb fool,” said Brent.

  “No. And I only had a little.”

  John Lawrence Plugford cut his horse and was directly beside Stevie’s careering colt. The huge man raised his hand and slapped his son across the face.

  “Goddamn!” Stevie wobbled and righted himself. “I barely drunk a—”

  The huge palm struck his face a second time.

  Unbalanced, the young man grabbed his horn so that he did not fall out of his saddle. His right cheek was halfway between red and purple.

  “Give it,” ordered John Lawrence Plugford.

  Stevie reached into his saddlebag, withdrew the flask and proffered it to his father. The huge man took the metal vessel and put it inside the front pocket of his gray overalls. Beneath the men, horse hooves rumbled.

  “I barely drunk—”

  The huge hand slapped Stevie’s mouth shut. Lines of white moonlight that were spilled tears tracked down the young man’s discolored skin. The horses cantered apace, but to Brent the tableau seemed
devoid of motion.

  “Stop makin’ excuses,” the cowboy advised his brother.

  Stevie remained silent.

  John Lawrence Plugford looked at Patch Up. “Grab out a big handful of coffee beans.”

  “I will.”

  The patriarch looked at his drunken son. “Chew ‘em until I say you can spit ‘em out.”

  “Yessir.”

  With a baleful glare, John Lawrence Plugford added, “Your sisters need us clear.”

  Remorse filled Stevie’s face. “I’m sorry.”

  “Take a sip of liquor before we get home, and I’ll hold your arm to the fire.”

  “I won’t drink nothin’. I swear.”

  The huge man hastened his stallion away from the colt that carried his youngest child.

  “Stevie,” said Patch Up. “Ride over.”

  The chastened young man wiped his face with his shirt and guided his horse toward the front of the wagon.

  Patch Up extended a tin cup, the contents of which rattled. “Take it.” A wagon wheel struck a stone, and two coffee beans leapt into the air like roused horseflies.

  Stevie took the tin cup, poured its dark contents into his mouth and chewed. His head rumbled like a quarry. Brent recalled chewing coffee beans when he was a kid, after his father had caught him and Dolores drinking from a purloined bottle of wine.

  Without warning, John Lawrence Plugford spun around in his saddle and pointed his sawed-off shotgun northeast. Brent withdrew his pistol and over his barrel scanned the area at which his father aimed.

  A tiny light flashed thrice and disappeared.

  Brent recognized the signal. John Lawrence Plugford holstered his sawed-off shotgun and faced forward.

  From the darkness emerged Long Clay, atop his galloping black mare.

  “Did you see the arrow?” the cowboy asked the gunfighter.

  “What color was it?”

  Brent knew that Long Clay had clear eyes, but for some reason did not see colors at this point in his life. This optical degradation was the gunfighter’s lone physical deficiency and John Lawrence Plugford had warned his sons not to ever comment upon it.