“It was blue.”
Long Clay nodded.
Brent had recently learned about the burning arrows, which were signals that his father and the gunfighter had devised back when they were shaking trains and doing other operations. A lone blue shaft was lodestone, a beacon to be followed.
Stevie crunched beans and spat black ichor into the wind.
“Swallow your spit,” ordered John Lawrence Plugford.
“Yessir.” The young man gulped down his retched saliva. A few drops of dark drool stained his beige shirt.
A burning arrow flared within the southwestern mountains, disappeared, reappeared at a higher altitude, vanished momentarily, climbed to its apex and paused. For two heartbeats, the eyes of the riders and their horses were a luminous crimson.
The beacon plummeted through the same two open areas and disappeared into the range. Darkness spread across the plain and filled Brent Plugford. The crimson arrow was the signal that the cowboy had hoped he would not witness.
Patch Up stated, “He’s killing.”
Chapter IX
Entertainments for Entrepreneurs
Nathaniel Stromler watched the circus dog sit, roll over, ‘get drunk,’ ‘talk,’ ‘play cards’ (it raised and observed its paws), ‘be a wife’ (it whimpered irritating frequencies), ‘dip his biscuit in tea’ (it performed an inexplicable gesture) and ‘walk like an American’ (it slid across the rug on its belly like a serpent). Shortly after the canine’s weird display ended, Juan Bonito disappeared into a passage holding the hand of a voluptuous Mexican woman who dwarfed him so substantially that the pair looked like mother and son. Four different Mexican women, a mestizo, a mulatto and an Oriental sat beside the gringo and tried to lure him back to their rooms in the catacombs, but he politely denied all of them. Instead, he drank a small amount of scotch and ruminated upon his predicament.
A stunning woman who looked like a confluence of Oriental, Caucasian and native lineages approached Nathaniel. Her eyes were onyx enigmas framed in luxurious lashes, and the sharp tips of her breasts prodded the purpureal silk of her robe each time her forward foot contacted the ground. The gringo looked away from her mesmerizing beauty and toward the wall upon which sat the gruesome oil painting of the one-eyed man.
“What are your opinions of this portrait?” inquired an unaccented male voice.
To his immediate left, Nathaniel saw the subject of the painting rendered in three-dimensional flesh that was clothed in a white linen suit, a rose shirt, matching gloves and Italian loafers. The lid over the man’s missing eye was closed, and his white hair was slicked back from his oddly handsome face.
“The subject has been richly rendered,” Nathaniel replied, “but the walls of the room and the scorpions look unfinished.”
“Your evaluation is correct—the artist has not yet completed the piece.” The man with white hair and one eye proffered a rose glove. “My name is Gris.”
A tingling chill descended from Nathaniel’s nape to his tailbone. “I am Thomas Weston. Buenas noches.” The gringo shook the man’s covered hand and summarily complimented all that he had seen of Catacumbas and its employees.
“Are you inclined toward conversation while you wait?” asked the proprietor.
Nathaniel knew that he had no choice but to invite Gris to join him, and thus motioned to the rose-colored fainting couch opposite his divan. “Please allow me to buy you a drink.”
Gris sat at a comfortable angle upon the satin cushions. “The drinks that we share are my gift to you.”
“I insist.”
“I would rather not owe a debt of kindness to a man whom I do not yet know.”
“Then I shall refuse your gift for the exact same reason,” replied Nathaniel.
“That is understandable.” Gris fingered a silver eyebrow and fixed his gaze upon Nathaniel. “You are a friend of Juan Bonito.” This was stated, rather than asked.
“A recent acquaintance.”
“His word has value.”
A red kimono that was an adroit barmaid flashed in-between the gentlemen and a tiny glass of port wine, which looked like an inverted dinner bell made out of crystal, materialized in Gris’s left hand.
“With which type of American business are you involved?”
“I am a hotelier.” Nathaniel hoped that the shrewd man would not inquire after too many details.
“You are successful in this enterprise?”
“I am.”
Gris sipped his carmine beverage. “Un sabor delicado.” His Spanish accent was that of a European Spaniard, not a Central or South American. “Where was your Mexican wife born?”
The question was asked casually, but Nathaniel felt as if he were suddenly inside of a courtroom. “Mexico City.”
“I am pleased to know that a distinguished American entrepreneur appreciates Hispanic women.” Gris saluted the gringo with his tiny glass of port wine and took a quiet sip.
Nathaniel wanted to guide the conversation away from potentially difficult terrain. “How long has this establishment been extant?”
“In which year did the USS Maine explode as a result of its incompetent crew?” Gris’s face was inscrutable.
The gringo’s unease was grown by the Spaniard’s blunt and colored reference to the event that was the catalyst for the war between Spain and America. “Eighteen ninety-seven.”
“My establishment opened that same year.” The proprietor’s eye did not blink.
The gringo tried to think of a way to guide the conversation away from the inflammatory topic.
“Do not be concerned,” Gris said, “I do not hold you personally responsible for diminishing the Spanish empire.”
Nathaniel relaxed. “I appreciate your exoneration. I was managing my mother’s candy store at that time and wholly uninvolved with warfare.”
“The capital for your hotels came from this candy store?” Gris sipped carmine fluid from the tiny inverted bell.
“My fiancé’s uncle loaned us the capital for the first hotel, and its success begat the subsequent structures,” replied Nathaniel, aware that good lies did not require this much exposition.
“A sizable loan for a risky venture, a burgeoning business and a lovely Mexican wife.” Gris raised his tiny glass and saluted. “You are a very fortunate man.”
“I am fulfilled.” The lying gringo drank from his glass of scotch. “I would like for you to know that Catacumbas contains several very secure and well-guarded vaults if ever you seek a place to deposit some of your rapidly growing wealth outside of America.”
“I shall keep that in mind.” (Nathaniel would be certain to tell the Plugfords that there existed additional guards within the catacombs.)
A shadow slid across the rose rug, directly in-between the two gentlemen.
“Perdón.”
Nathaniel looked up and saw Ubaldo.
“The gringa womens are watered and pleased to meet you.”
“Gracias.”
The proprietor motioned toward the dark catacomb portals. “Please do repair.”
“I shall.” The gringo rose from the divan.
Gris stood and shook Nathaniel’s right hand. “Have a fulfilling evening, Señor Weston.” The Spaniard lifted the lid that covered his bad eye, revealing a jagged gray rock, which was gripped by thin red strands that were either muscles or nerves. “Buenas noches.”
“Buenas noches.”
Gris withdrew his hand and covered over the stone in his face.
Nathaniel turned, followed Ubaldo toward the passageway and for the first time since his journey had begun, felt that Kathleen, his half-erected hotel, Leesville and all of the New Mexico Territory were far too close to Mexico.
Chapter X
I Was
“You talk with Gris
,” Ubaldo said as he strode toward the southernmost portal on the west wall. “He a good man. His words very valuable.”
“Very valuable,” Nathaniel Stromler mindlessly echoed.
“He has five sons. No girl childrens—only boys. This is impressive, no?”
“Certainly.”
“He do a ceremony in the temple to have only the boy childrens.”
“Oh?” Nathaniel did not know what this meant, but was too preoccupied to ask for any further explanation.
The duo entered a descending torch-illumined hallway, where petrified wood and ochre stones withheld the crushing weight of the surrounding soil. A troglodyte with ugly wooden sandals and a dark head that was shaped like a coconut walked from the opposite side of the passage and passed by Nathaniel and Ubaldo. He smelled like fish guts.
The man with the wooden nose glanced at the gringo. “You would like to see first the one with blonde hairs or the one with red hairs and no left foot?”
“It does not matter. I intend to see them both before I make any decision.”
“I will take you first to the blonde hairs gringa.”
Nathaniel, following Ubaldo, neared an ensconced torch, and cool air blew upon his nape and excited the flames. Puzzled by the chill current, he looked up at the ceiling,
“There are holes of air in some walls,” explained the man with the wooden nose.
“I was told that the rooms were completely private,” remarked Nathaniel, perturbedly. “I do not want people listening to my assignations.”
Ubaldo stopped and turned around. “Of course, Señor Weston. You have the complete privacy. Do not you worry.”
The gringo motioned for his escort to proceed.
Presently, the duo arrived at a low entranceway upon the south wall. Nathaniel removed his stovepipe hat and followed Ubaldo onto a descending stairwell, wherein candles, nestled inside of cubbyholes, radiated amber light and the scents of flowers. An ambitious lock of the gringo’s lank blonde hair was snagged by a ceiling stone and jerked his head back. He pulled most of the twine free and continued down the steps, silently cursing.
Ubaldo landed upon the torch-illumined lower level and veered to the right. A moment later, Nathaniel exited the stairwell and strode into the middle of a finite passage, where wooden doors, braced by thick iron, sat upon the north and south walls.
“This part was the prison when the natives builted it.”
“That is apparent.”
Ubaldo walked to the farthest door on the north wall, inserted a key into its lock and twisted his fist. Metal groaned and torches quivered. The bolt clacked, reverberant.
“I show the blonde hairs.” The man with the wooden nose opened the door and motioned for the gringo to walk inside.
It seemed as if the moment of identification had finally arrived, and Nathaniel, hopeful that his ordeal might soon end, strode into the darkness. The cloying smells of flowers, cinnamon and vanilla filled his nostrils. Behind him, the door closed, but remained unlocked.
“I will return in ten minutes,” Ubaldo said from outside the cell, “and take you to see the other.”
“Gracias.”
Nathaniel’s eyes adjusted to the dim radiance of the candles that were nestled within the far wall. In the bed beside the tiny flames laid a blonde woman. Her lean body was draped by a diaphanous rose negligee, and upon her angular face, within symmetrical gray craters, were two wet black slits that were her eyes.
Deeply unsettled, the gentleman cleared his throat and located his voice. “Hello.”
The woman stared.
Nathaniel walked across the stones, toward the piteous being whom he did not yet recognize as either Plugford sister. The woman’s face and arms were covered over by powder, and her neck looked as if it were made of cables. Jutting sharply against the fabric of her negligee were two sharp triangles that were her hipbones.
“I am sorry,” whispered the gentleman, as if he must apologize for the odious gender to which he belonged. “I am so very sorry.” His eyes began to sting.
The woman clasped Nathaniel’s hand, tilted her head back and smiled hideously. “If you get me medicine,” she said with an enervated voice, “you can do anything you want to me. Beat me. Sodomize me. Strangle me. Anything.”
Nathaniel had never believed in a higher power, and now he felt as if he looked at irrefutable proof of His absence. He was horrified, unable to respond.
“Please,” the woman pleaded, “I need it.” The segmented bones that were her fingers tightened. “It’s been two days and I’m dying.”
The tall gentleman from Michigan found his voice and knelt beside the bed. “I have something to ask you,” he whispered, “but you must answer me quietly so that Ubaldo does not hear.”
The emaciated being was silent.
“Are you Yvette Plugford?”
The woman released the gentleman’s hand and stared forward, frightened.
“Are you Yvette Plugford?” Nathaniel quietly repeated.
“I…I was.”
The gentleman assumed that the woman’s ‘medicine’ had confused her, and so he restated his question. “Is your name Yvette Plugford?”
“It’s Yvette Upfield now—I got married back when I was twenty-three.”
Nathaniel did not recall Brent ever mentioning that either sister had a husband.
Yvette sat upright. “How do you know who I am?”
“Please speak quietly—I do not want anybody to hear our conversation.”
“Okay.” The skeletal woman was trembling.
“Your father and brothers hired me,” said Nathaniel. “They are going to rescue you.”
Yvette’s bleary eyes brightened and sparkled. “Thank you Jesus.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Thank you Lord.”
Nathaniel desperately hoped that the Plugford crew could save this poor woman.
“I wonder if…” Yvette looked down at herself and rearranged her negligee. “I wonder if they’ll even recognize me now.” She covered her emaciated legs with a blanket. “Maybe they won’t want me back.”
Nathaniel took her cold hands in-between his palms. “They want you.”
“How come my husband didn’t come with them?”
“I am uncertain why he is absent.”
“Samuel C. Upfield IV doesn’t want a ruined woman is why.” Yvette withdrew her hands.
“Brent, Stevie and your father are coming, and all of them love you dearly.”
“They need to get Dolores too,” Yvette remarked, “I think she’s in here.”
“They shall rescue her as well.”
“Should you get on top of me so Ubaldo doesn’t get suspicious?”
Nathaniel was horrified by the idea.
“I see that you don’t want to be with some used up whore.” Yvette lowered her gaze.
“You are a very beautiful woman,” Nathaniel explained, “but I need to visit your sister and let her know about the rescue.”
“I should probably take my clothes off so that Ubaldo can see you had a look.”
Although Nathaniel was uneasy with this idea, he recognized that it had some merit. “Go ahead.” He rose from beside the bed, turned his back to the woman and heard the soft rustling of fabric. The moment the noises stopped, he became extraordinarily uncomfortable.
“You can peek if you want,” said Yvette, employing a girlish voice. “I won’t tell Pa or my brothers.”
Nathaniel neither responded to the invitation nor turned around. For three long minutes, he stared at the door while his beating heart marked the chill progress of sweat droplets down his scalp, skull, nape and spine.
“You need to get me some medicine,” Yvette said, “and we need to get Henry, the circus dog.”
A knock sounded upon the door.
“¿Señor Weston?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to see the other gringa or are you wanting to stay here for some time?”
“I would like to see the other one.”
The door withdrew from the wall and revealed Ubaldo, who stood in the hallway, holding a small purple box in his hands. Nathaniel exited the room.
“You like this gringa?”
“I am pondering some possibilities.”
The man with the wooden nose locked the door and scratched the stitches that held his false proboscis in place. “We have—what is English word for equipaje?”
“Equipment.”
“We have equipment.”
Nathaniel did not ask the man to elucidate his statement.
“Come follow.” Ubaldo led the gentleman toward the westernmost door on the south wall. “The red hairs is more stronger, but the foot.”
It was not easy for Nathaniel to feign licentious enthusiasm.
The man with the wooden nose inserted a bronze key and twisted his fist. Lock tumblers groaned, and a bolt clacked. “I hope you like.” He pulled the door wide and inclined his head toward the dark interior.
Nathaniel walked inside a candlelit room. Behind him, the door closed, but remained unlocked.
“Are you American?” asked the figure who laid upon the bed. The candles in the adjacent cubbyholes threw light upon the woman’s rose corset, folded hands and round hips, but her face was in shadow and her legs were secreted beneath a blanket.
“I am an American,” Nathaniel said as he strode across the stones.
The woman leaned forward. Candlelight divined her high forehead, sleepy eyes, upturned nose and Teutonic jaw from the darkness, and it was immediately clear to Nathaniel that she was Brent’s twin sister. The air around her smelled like wine.
Wraiths of the Broken Land Page 13