The round boom of the shot echoed through the church. Elena slumped against Holly. Sanderos cried out violently and sagged back against the wall. The revolver dropped to arm’s length and fell to the floor. He reached up toward his bleeding body and slid slowly down to the floor.
The padre knelt by Elena, taking her wrist in his fingers. In a moment his eyes lifted to meet Holly’s. “She is dead.”
“He couldn’t stop killing,” Holly said. Her head dropped and she lurched with weeping. The padre touched his cross and began to murmur over Elena. Gently Holly laid the inert body down on the bench and went away. She looked at Sanderos. He was still breathing but there was a bubble of red foam at the corner of his mouth. His eyes opened and he looked up at her. He said nothing. His eyes filmed over, still staring at her. Holly stepped across his body and stood in the doorway. A horse was galloping forward through the night. She could see a few lights in windows not far away. Sanderos’ winded horse stood with its head down and its legs spraddled. The padre was kneeling by Sanderos now. Holly folded her arms and huddled against the chill of the rainy night, but did not move from the doorway. Her eyes wept.
The padre touched her and she turned quickly, defensively. “I am sorry,” the padre said. “That one, he was shot in the back. It is strange. It is difficult to bestow unction upon such a man.”
“How can you?”
“I am but an instrument,” the padre said, and turned back to the dead.
The approaching hoofbeats grew steadily louder.
Holly murmured, “ ‘And the fourth horseman was death.’ ” Her shoulders bent and she cried into her hands. Rain dappled the roof with sound. She went forward through the aisle and knelt, crossing herself in an almost forgotten gesture; she stared unblinkingly, beseechingly at the mute crucified figure above the altar.
She did not notice the horse arrive outside, but when she turned away from the altar she saw Jeremy Six in the doorway. Six removed his hat and came inside and the padre stood up to talk to him. Holly walked up the aisle and locked both hands on Six’s arm, saying nothing. The oilskin of his poncho was slick in her grip.
The padre said to Six, “In that case I will have her brought to Guadalquivir for burial. Is the revolution ended?”
“Yes,” Six said.
The padre’s glance turned to Holly. “Sometimes it is hard to understand the ways of God.”
“Don’t parrot pious clichés at me,” Holly snapped. Her eyes grew moist and she said, “I’m sorry, Padre.”
“This other one,” the padre said to Six. “What about him?”
“Bury him.”
“He was hated by the people in this village. They will not want to have him in the consecrated ground of their parish.”
“Do what you want, Padre,” Six said tiredly.
“He will be buried, of course.”
Six turned and looked down at Holly. “Have you got a slicker?”
“Yes. I don’t want to stay here.”
“We’ll get you a horse. Santana’s gone on to Guadalquivir. It’s all over.”
It was dawn when they rode through the silent streets of Catacamas and put their horses down the back of the pass. They stopped to eat at a farm. The farmer fed them and spoke with great enthusiasm of the great changes that would be made under Carlos Santana. They went on, speaking very little to each other, and reached Guadalquivir before midnight. The rain had quit sometime in the night and the road was sodden with mud.
A pall of smoke hung over the city like a thundercloud. They caught the smell of it miles from Guadalquivir. Holly said, “What is it?” and Six could only shake his head in answer. On a sagging porch at the outskirts of the city they found a crippled old man who hobbled forward on his crutches and answered their question:
“The Palace. It is the Governor’s Palace. The people have made a fire.” The old man emitted a thin little laugh that was a cackle. They rode on into the city. The streets were all but deserted and the air was foul with smoke. They crossed the bridge over the Rio Soldado and passed under the cottonwoods. The sun went down. Holly said, “My throat feels raw.”
“I think there’s a wind coming up.”
“Where will we go?”
“Jericho’s cantina, I guess.”
“Sure,” Holly said. “We’ve got no place else. We ought to tell Santana about Elena.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“It won’t be easy, Marshal.”
“No,” he said, “I guess it won’t.”
“He’s paid a God-awful price for whatever he’s got – I suppose you’d call it victory. I wonder if he’d have done it if he’d known what was going to happen to Elena, and Medina and all the rest of them.”
“He might,” Six said. “Who can tell?”
Stride was in the cantina, drinking and brooding. Six left Holly there, put their horses away in the stable, and walked across the dark empty plaza. Smoke stung his eyes and with the fall of dusk he was able to make out the massive glow on the hilltop. He stopped by the covered well and hauled up a bucket of water, splashed his face and drank; he went on up the cobblestoned streets, encountering no one at all until he reached the military compound, where a pair of sentries presented their rifles. Beyond them within the compound he saw a large body of men, armed and ready in case of loyalist reprisals. He said to the sentry, “I bring a message for the General.”
The second sentry spoke to the first one: “I know him. He fought well for us. Let him pass.”
The first sentry said, “The General is in the commandant’s office.”
“Gracias,” Six murmured, and passed through the gate. None of the men wore uniforms. A man sat on a step strumming a guitar, and made Six think of old blind Juano who had played his guitar in the cantina until Colonel Sanderos had sent Sergeant Mendez to question him. All of them were dead now. It took years to shape a man, and a single instant to destroy him.
Above the flat rooftops, higher on the hill, he could see the skeleton of the Governor’s Palace outlined in flames. Even here he could feel the heat of it against his face. There was a distant moaning, a shouting of many voices; figures bobbed in the light of the great fire.
He found Santana outside, behind the commandant’s office, looking up at the fire. A number of officers stood around, evidently waiting for Santana to speak to them. Santana saw Six and showed a tired smile and waved his great arm upward toward the burning Palace. “The people celebrate,” he said. “They forget that they leave me no office. What is a leader without a Palace?”
“Carlos,” Six said, and saw the lion-like head swinging toward him. “Elena is dead.”
Elena was buried after dark the following night and at ten o’clock Carlos Santana spoke a few quiet words to the priest and rode away from the grave, surrounded by his retinue of officers. On the hill he could see the gutted smoking remains of the Palace, still coal-glowing. It looked like a Roman ruin. He dismounted before the commandant’s office in the military compound, handed the reins to an orderly, and entered the office. A small cadre of his officers crowded into the room, a silent chorus around him. The portly figure of Governor Orbea stood up when Santana entered. Santana sat down and nodded to Orbea, who subsided into a chair. His bulk overflowed it. Sweat made a shine on his face. An aide who had been permitted to stay by him lighted a Turkish cigarette and put it between Orbea’s lips.
Santana said, “Well, señor.”
Orbea waved a hand around. “It is yours now. I hope you will know what to do with it.”
Santana inclined his head. Orbea said, “I have gone soft and fat and my mind is not as quick as it once was. You must guard against that.”
“We grow old,” Santana said.
“The people love you now, as they once loved me. It will pass. One day in the hills a revolt will rise against you.”
“I hope that does not come to pass.”
“It will. A dissatisfied people always becomes unhappy with its leader … even when it is
the people’s own failures that cause their dissatisfaction.”
“I prefer to think it is not their failure, nor their fault.”
“You have time in which to learn these things,” Orbea said. “I will say no more. You resent me and therefore you suspect whatever I say. I came here to bid you adios and to thank you for giving me what is left of my life, even if it must be spent in exile.”
“There has been enough death,” Santana said. “More than enough,” He looked directly at Orbea and added, “I cannot wish you well.”
“Of course,” said Orbea. “And so we part as gentlemen, eh?” He smiled wryly. With the aide’s help he got out of the chair. He seemed old. The officers parted to make way for him. He went outside into the broiling sun and was assisted into a waiting buggy. Presently his aide cracked the whip and they drove off. Along the road, peons hurled insults and an occasional stone at him. A larger crowd stood outside the military compound waiting for a glimpse of Santana so that they might cheer him.
Out in back of the commandant’s office, which had recently been Colonel Sanderos’ office, two men stood guard over the Gatling gun, which stood in something like a position of exaltation. Steve Lament was there, looking curiously at the weapon. Santana stepped out of the door and said, “It is an evil thing, this gun.”
“A gun’s a tool,” Lament said. “It has no moral value.”
“Perhaps.” Santana was very weary. “You have fought well. You have done so much for me, you three. It was not your battle.”
Lamplight from the office fell faintly across Lament’s eyes.
Santana wiped his face with a big hand. “I’ll tell you, amigo, I’m an ambitious man. Maybe I’m a fool too, to think I can do any better than Orbea.”
“No,” Lament said. “You’re a leader. You’ve led these people to their freedom. You’re giving them back the rights that were taken away from them.”
Someone walked by carrying a lantern. Its upsweeping light caught Santana just as he stepped forward, his face gone taut, and pressed his stiff forefinger against Lament’s chest. “I am not a Messiah!” He shook his head and drew his hand across his eyes. “I don’t know … I’m tired, amigo. You make me think about myself and maybe I don’t like to do that. I’ve got to talk to the people tonight and I don’t know what to tell them. I’d like to drink half a bottle of mezcal and go to sleep for twelve hours and wake up with Elena holding my hand.” He wheeled suddenly and tramped back inside the office.
In the center of the city there was celebration. The plaza was crowded. The cantina overflowed and six bartenders sweated busily. In the back office Six and Jericho Stride sat over a bottle of tequila and Holly lay on one elbow on the cot with a cup of coffee. A cheroot was uptilted in the corner of Stride’s mouth. Through the closed door they could hear the lusty voices of men laughing and talking with strong goodwill. There was no guitar. Steve Lament drifted restlessly into the office and nodded to all of them and had a drink. Six said, “What you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Lament said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
Holly said gently, “They tell me you fought like a dozen tigers up there.”
“Did I?” he said absently. “I feel kind of old, you know that?” He finished his drink. “Santana offered me a job training his men with the Gatling gun.”
Jericho Stride said, “You know why he needs somebody to train his troops? It’s to keep somebody else from doing to him what he just did to Orbea. You don’t want to see that happen, amigo.” Stride was a little drunk.
“If that happens I’ll want to see it,” Lament said. “You can’t just turn your back on the truth when it goes sour. But I think you’re wrong, Jericho. I don’t think the people will ever turn on Carlos Santana.”
“Maybe.”
Holly Moore said, “This is an ugly room. I hate it. It goes with you.”
“I took a bath and changed my clothes. What else do you want?”
“Well,” she said, and pursed her lips thoughtfully. Jericho Stride sat down behind the desk, put his feet up, and picked up the Buffalo Bill dime novel. Holly looked at him. Jericho had said nothing and seemed to be making a point of ignoring her. He looked long-faced and bored. Holly said, “Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“I guess not.”
“Haven’t you finished that book yet?”
“No.” He finally looked up. “Just when d’you expect I’ve had a chance?”
“You exasperate a person, Jericho, I’m damned if you don’t.”
He grinned. His nose was buried in the book. Holly said, “You ought to be flogged. You know there was a character in a Greek myth called Hero. Most of the time he was making a fool out of himself.”
“That’s what I kept trying to tell him,” Jericho Stride said. He did not look up from the dime novel but his thumb waggled toward Six.
Six was about to speak when someone knocked lightly at the back door. He looked at it inquiringly and went to open it. A big man stood outside in the rough garb of a peon. An immense sombrero flopped low enough to conceal his face. He tipped the sombrero back and smiled. It was Santana. “I have come for a glass of tequila.”
Holly said, “Twelve hours in office and he’s playin’ hooky already. A hell of a Governor.”
“Irreverence ill becomes you, beautiful lady,” said Santana, stepping inside.
“You’ve been drinking,” Holly accused him.
Santana crossed the room and sat on the bunk. Stride poured a quartet of drinks and they raised their glasses. Santana’s face turned dark and he said, “My first day in power and they throw every problem in my face at once. What do they think I am? I must have time to absorb these things. Drink with me, my friends, and ask me no questions.”
“You look hungry,” Holly said.
“No, I have eaten. It is probably the wild-eyed look of a caged animal that you see. I have led myself by the nose into a trap. Now I can see why Orbea was such an unhappy man … he was powerless to meet the demands of the people. Well, I must try to change all that. But I cannot do it overnight. Just now I need to loosen all my joints.”
Holly said, “If it’s so impossible why don’t you quit?”
“After all we have done? After so many have died? I tell you, every act of violence involves a moral commitment. I can never quit. Now let us forget all this and talk of simple things. Your good health, amigos.” He raised his drink and drank it down.
Jericho Stride said, “If it gets any hotter around here I may just go back to Arizona.”
Santana said, “The heat will break.”
“Are you talking as a prophet or as a Governor?” Jericho Stride asked.
“Amigo,” said Santana, “I’m all through talking. Salud.”
A silence, half-comfortable and half-awkward, settled into the room. Presently Santana got up. A slight unsteadiness betrayed him as he took a step. He took Holly’s hand and gravely bowed over it to kiss it; he slapped on his sombrero and went out the back door. Jeremy Six regarded Jericho Stride and Holly in turn and then followed Santana out into the junk-strewn back yard. Santana was almost at the gate, walking slowly with his head down. Six called out to him and Santana stopped to wait for him. When Six came up, Santana said in a faraway tone, “I’d like to drop in here for a tequila now and then, but I don’t think I can ever do that again. A Governor is like a peon, you know … he must keep his place. Now that I am where I set out to be I must learn these things. I regret a great deal; mainly what I have done to them all.”
“It’s not your guilt, Santana.”
“I think I have to decide that for myself.”
“Be better if you never do,” Six murmured. “Nobody died on your account. They fought for themselves, maybe for some ideal, maybe for what you stand for, but not for you.”
“Then I am responsible to them all.”
“That’s not the same thing as guilt.”
“Perhaps … perhaps.” Santana took off
the sombrero and looked up. “It is a fine clear night.”
“Vaya con Diós, Santana.”
Santana laid a hand on his arm and said, “Your heart is as great as your courage, Jeremy Six. Good night.” He sounded very sad; he went away with a soft crunch of boots.
Steve Lament came out of the cantina and walked over to Six and said, “About that job with Santana. I’m ready to ride back to Arizona with you and get it over with.”
Six stirred, looked at him. “Steve, I think we’ve already paid the price for all that – both of us. You had better stay down here a while. When I get back home I’ll try and get some machinery moving, get an amnesty declared for you and Jericho. In the meantime you’re both better off down here.”
“You came down here to kill me,” Lament said. “I haven’t changed, Jeremy – I’m the same man you came to kill.”
“Arrest,” Six said, correcting him absently; he added, “You may be the same man, Steve, but I’m not. You’d better learn to forgive your own mistakes.”
“I keep remembering Clarissa, Jeremy.”
“I think she’d be the first one to forgive it.”
Lament uttered a short, bitter bark of laughter. “Then I guess all of us will just go on having to live with ourselves.”
“Don’t pick any fights for the sake of fighting, Steve.”
“What else do I know how to do?” Steve Lament said dismally; and moved away into the boisterous, carousing noise of the town. Six watched him limp stoop-shouldered toward the noise of celebration, and shook his head in sorrow.
Marshal Jeremy Six #8 Page 15