by Lyle Brandt
Or my heart, Dolores thought, but kept it to herself.
What worried her the most was that she felt herself becoming hardened to the killing, skipping past excuses for it and accepting it as something more or less routine.
And that, in turn, made her surmise that she had lost a portion of her soul.
* * *
* * *
When they were four or five miles short of entering Ascensión, Clint called a halt and everyone dismounted, closing in around him while their horses grazed on yellow grass and Clint laid out his plan, such as it was. He saw the skepticism written plainly on the faces of Ignacio Fuentes and Arturo Lagüera, neither one of them eager to play a spy’s role even as they nodded their grudging acceptance of the scheme.
“It’s risky,” Clint acknowledged as he finished. “If somebody has a better idea, I’m all ears.”
He scanned the ring of faces, half expecting Sonya or Dolores to speak up, but all around the circle there were only negative head shakes. Lagüera and Fuentes looked sour at the prospect, but they raised no options.
“Right, then,” Parnell said at last. “We’re short on straw. I guess the only fair way to decide is by tossing a coin. Okay with both of you?” he asked the two vaqueros who were now the central focus of attention.
Both nodded without enthusiasm. Clint removed a Barber half dollar from his vest pocket, eyeing the two riders as he said, “Somebody call it.”
After they exchanged a cautious glance, Lagüera shrugged. Fuentes told Parnell, “I take heads.”
Clint tossed the coin and watched it spin above him, made no attempt to catch it as it fell to earth. Eleven pairs of eyes peered down at Lady Liberty’s profile, featuring a wreath atop her crown, hair ribbons dangling down her nape.
“And heads it is,” Clint said. Across from him, Fuentes nodded, the brim of his sombrero wobbling slightly, as he forced a smile.
“Sí, jefe. What am I to do?” the wiry cowhand asked.
“First thing,” Clint said, “is play it safe. Don’t try to rush things. Pick out a cantina, have a drink and get a feel for it. If it’s too high-class, move on to another one. You’re bound to hit a place where low-life types kill time.”
“Lowlifes like us,” Lagüera quipped, then watched his joke fall flat when no one laughed. “Lo siento,” he amended, nearly blushing underneath his suntan. “Sorry.”
Clint ignored it, forging on with his instructions to Fuentes. “Don’t make it obvious,” he said. “Just sidle into it. You’re out of work and game for anything. You’ve heard there was an outfit in the area that might need extra men. Don’t mention Villa on your own. Wait for somebody else to bring him up.”
Fuentes nodded in agreement. Clint picked up the coin, returned it to his pocket as he asked, “Your buckskin doesn’t carry the Aguirre brand, right?”
“No, jefe,” Ignacio replied. “I had it when Don Alejandro hired me.”
“Good. There’s nothing to connect you with the hacienda, then,” Parnell confirmed.
“How many tabernas should I visit?” Fuentes inquired.
“As many as it takes to hit pay dirt,” Clint said. “Just watch how much cerveza you throw down and keep your wits about you.”
“Since my life depends on it,” Ignacio replied.
“Exactly right. We’d hate to lose you or whatever information you dig up.”
“And if I make a good impression? What then?” Fuentes queried.
“That’s a good point,” Parnell granted. “If they want to take you somewhere right away, make an excuse. You have to break it off with someone you’ve been working for, let’s say. A job you’re tired of, going nowhere with it, looking for advancement. You can meet them later, but you need to get your final payoff first.”
“And if they wish to come with me?” asked Fuentes. “To be sure I speak the truth?”
Clint thought about that for a moment, felt the others watching him before he said, “In that case, bring them back to us. We’ll get the drop on them and verify where we can find their boss, then plan our moves from there.”
He did not have to add the postscript that if one or more villistas followed Fuentes back to meet his hypothetical employer, it would be the last thing that they ever did on earth. That was a given, even if he had to do the gun work on his own, and there was nothing to be gained by rubbing anybody else’s nose in it.
“Está bien,” Fuentes replied, nodding resignedly. “I should be going, then.”
Lagüera and Cantú walked with their friend and coworker until he reached his horse and mounted up and then rode off toward Ascensión without a backward glance.
* * *
* * *
Ascensión, Chihuahua
Ignacio Fuentes achieved his destination ninety minutes later, riding down a central thoroughfare that seemed to have no posted name. His pulse was elevated and his stomach felt uneasy, but he did his best to keep a poker face intact and bury any signs of nervousness.
It seemed to work with locals on the street, few of them paying any more attention to him than they might to any other stranger riding through. A man alone, he posed no threat to anyone he passed along the way and scrupulously kept his eyes from lingering on any woman walking with a man or children.
Checking out the shops and offices downtown, Fuentes swiftly determined that he’d have no trouble finding barrooms in abundance where he could enjoy a drink and make a cautious try at tracking down his enemies.
But one wrong word, one misstep, could turn out to be his last.
Passing along the unpaved street, avoiding eye contact with the townsfolk whenever possible, Ignacio took stock of the equipment he was carrying, aware that some of it might be required to save his life. His rifle, in a saddle scabbard, was a Winchester Model 1873, loaded with fourteen rounds of .44-40 ammunition. On his right hip, with a hammer thong securing it in leather, sat a Colt Peacemaker manufactured in the same year as his rifle, chambered for the selfsame rounds to help conserve the weight of ammunition that he carried on the trail. A hunting knife, its eight-inch blade honed to a razor’s edge, resided in a scabbard on the left side of his pistol belt. Draped on his saddle horn, a lasso and canteen were ready for emergencies. His saddlebags, aside from extra ammunition, held a change of clothes, a compact shaving kit, and hardtack to sustain him when no hot meals were available.
With any luck, Fuentes would need no more supplies before he left Ascensión, reporting back to Clint Parnell with Pancho Villa’s whereabouts.
The lone alternative he saw to that scenario of sudden, bloody death.
The first cantina Fuentes spotted, El Escorpión, stood to his left beside the city jail and marshal’s office. He passed by that one on principle and traveled two more blocks, then veered off to his right. The second was a dive simply called Pepe’s, on his right beside a narrow alley strewn with trash. Fuentes saw that it had a hitching rail outside, with access to a water trough, and made his first stop there.
His buckskin mare drank deeply once Ignacio dismounted, then he looped her reins over the rail and stroked her neck for reassurance while the horse regarded him with seeming skepticism. Fuentes nearly took his rifle with him, then decided that he did not want his first impression among strangers to be that of someone on the prowl looking for trouble.
Pepe’s was dark inside, no windows facing the street, with smoky air diminishing the light from lamps that the proprietor rarely took time to clean. Directly opposite its entrance, half a dozen men were bellied up against a bar, chasing tequila shots with beer. The place boasted four gaming tables, three of them unoccupied, while at the fourth a quartet of vaqueros focused on a game of la viuda, similar to whiskey poker in the States. Its name, translated as “the widow,” referred to a special good-luck chip in the pot that players were eager to win.
Ignacio felt sharp eyes boring into him as he
passed by the table but avoided looking back at any of the players, anxious not to give offense by any wayward glance or deed. Arriving at the bar, he ordered beer and found it warm but offered no complaint, focused on how he should begin his quest for information without winding up a corpse dumped in the alley.
* * *
* * *
Outside El Fresnal, Chihuahua
“They are leaving, jefe,” said Alfonso Soberon, before he passed his pocket telescope to Emiliano Zapata. His master palmed the looking glass, peered through it, and released a weary sigh.
“At last,” Zapata said, half whispering.
He understood there was no need for speaking softly, since the squad or federales were the best part of a mile away and riding farther by the second, northward bound. Still, to be safe, Zapata and his men would have to wait another quarter of an hour to be sure that no sharp-eyed soldado might glance back and see them coming out of cover from the tree line near Laguna el Fresnal. Zapata had already spent enough time hiding from them without touching off a running battle on the open flats below.
Rising stiffly, knees cracking, Zapata said, “By now Villa is wondering what’s happened to us. I don’t trust him not to sell the horses out from under us since we are late.”
“We’ve done our best, jefe,” Alfonso said.
“But that is never good enough for him,” Zapata countered. “He lacks patience and would sell the animals to anyone—even Díaz, I think—if he believed that he could get away with it.”
“He made a deal with you,” Soberon said. “He shook your hand.”
“I don’t care if he swore upon his mother’s grave, assuming that he ever had one.”
That produced a chuckle from Zapata’s chief lieutenant, but he offered nothing more.
“Todo bien,” Zapata said, when he had lost sight of the khaki uniforms retreating in formation. “Gather the men. We need to make up for lost time.”
“You intend to ride all night, jefe?” Alfonso asked.
“I would prefer it,” said Zapata, “but we can’t risk running into any more patrols.” He checked the sun’s position overhead, already westering, and said, “Until puesta de sol, at least.”
Sundown, approximately three more hours, and Zapata knew that even staying on the trail that long would pose a risk. Chihuahua’s federales seemed to be in turmoil, agitated, scouring the land in greater numbers than Zapata was accustomed to around Morelos, but he had no explanation as to why. He dared not stop and ask at any settlement along their route of march, for fear of having someone tip the soldiers, leading to a showdown that his men might lose.
If he wound up a prisoner—or worse, a bullet-riddled corpse—so far from home, all of Zapata’s work to that point would have been in vain.
But if he reached Villa in time to close their deal, obtaining horses that his men could train for war while he sold off the rest for cash, it just might make a crucial difference to his crusade against Porfirio Díaz.
Zapata’s riders took the best part of ten minutes mounting up, and while he felt an urge to shout at them, Emiliano knew better. His fighters were all volunteers, presumably invested in the coming revolution to the same extent that he was, but Zapata understood that most of them had been simple bandidos prior to enlisting with his private army. Most were easing into personal acceptance of the military discipline required to wage and win a war where victory depended on support of campesinos in the countryside. By that same token, if he pressed his men too far, too rapidly, desertions would increase and he might find himself standing against his enemies with only Soberon beside him.
That was if Alfonso did not leave as well.
Zapata climbed aboard his sorrel gelding, pushed his pessimistic thoughts aside, and concentrated on observing his guerrillas as they formed up into ranks, ready to ride. He wondered how many of them would still be with him by this time next month. Thinking about next year was too much of a stretch when all the odds seemed stacked against him at the moment.
Only time would tell the fate of his attempt to change life for the better in his homeland, gradually benefiting all its people through reforms the ruling power structure would resist with every means at its disposal.
That meant war, and while Zapata knew that he might not survive it, he could be the visionary with a dream who set its torch ablaze.
Beyond that only fate or Jesucristo could predict what happened next.
* * *
* * *
Joaquín Cantú, on lookout duty, found Clint standing by a small campfire, sipping a cup of coffee. Seated on the ground beside Parnell, the twin Aguirre sisters spoke in muted tones, while Arturo Lagüera finished mopping up his plate of rice and beans with half of a tortilla.
“Ignacio is back, jefe,” Cantú announced.
Clint did not need to check his watch, as he’d been keeping track of time since Fuentes first rode out of camp to search for answers in Ascensión. The last time Clint had pulled the timepiece from his pocket it had been four and three quarter hours. Now he estimated that it must be ten o’clock, perhaps ten minutes more.
All things considered, it was a relief to see Ignacio returning in one piece at all, but if he came back without answers, all that night was simply wasted time.
Fuentes dismounted, led his buckskin mare close to the fire, and dropped its reins to let it graze on grass and scattered wildflowers nearby. Clint noted that his spy carried a scent of alcohol, but that was not surprising, since his job had been to look for answers in Ascensión’s saloons.
“Something to eat?” he asked Fuentes.
“No, gracias,” Ignacio replied. “I ate tamales with a couple of new friends at a taberna called Lagarto de la Suerte.”
“Lucky Lizard?” Sonya translated from her position near the fire.
“You would not know to look at it,” Fuentes replied. “The patrons seemed to have no luck, at least with cards, but I did see a lizard crawling on a wall behind the bar.”
“Your new friends.” Parnell brought him back on track. “Would those be Villa’s men?”
“Sí, jefe. One calls himself Jesús Zarita. His friend is Enrique Rocha.”
“Did you have a chance to ask them about joining up?” Clint asked.
“After a few tequilas and cervezas, sí. They both enjoy their alcohol.”
“And you kept up with them,” Clint said, not asking this time.
“Pero por supuesto, jefe. But of course. “I had to prove my stamina, ¿verdad?”
“As long as you remember what they told you,” Parnell said.
“Perfectamente. They are sleeping over at the tavern, which has women upstairs for renting. In the morning, they are riding back to Villa’s camp west of Ascensión while others take their turn in town.”
“You didn’t get around to mentioning the horses?” Clint inquired.
“I dared not bring it up directly, jefe. But Zarita let it slip that Villa has some livestock that he plans to sell within the next few days. A customer is coming from Morelos to collect them, bearing gold.”
“No deadline on that sale?” asked Clint.
A shrug from Fuentes as he said, “They cannot say for certain, but he is already late.”
Good news for us, Clint thought, if we can show up in his place.
And if they somehow managed to appropriate the gold earmarked for Pancho Villa in the process, well . . .
Clint did not want to press his luck when they’d already lost three members of their team. He had to focus on Aguirre’s horses first, and winning back as many of the fourteen hundred eighty-seven as he could, then getting them across the Rio Grande, back into New Mexico.
“I don’t suppose your new friends mentioned when they would be riding back to camp?” Clint asked Ignacio.
“Rocha said after breakfast, but with all that liquor in them, plus exertion
with the ladies”—there he cast a glance toward the Aguirre sisters, frowning as if to apologize—“I think they won’t be leaving early in the morning.”
“And headed west, you say?” Clint asked.
“Oeste, sí.”
“Okay, so that’s our plan. Stake out the road ahead of time and pick ’em off. Take one of them alive, at least.”
“And then?” Dolores asked.
Clint drank a final swig of coffee, dashed its residue of grounds into the fire.
“Then,” he replied, “we start to pay them back with interest for running off your father’s herd.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ascensión, Chihuahua
Enrique Rocha did not let his hangover, throbbing behind his blurry eyes, prevent him from enjoying a breakfast of huevos rancheros with garlic and ancho chile peppers, with frijoles and an enchilada on the side. Instead of using beer to wash it down, he drank black coffee strong enough, in his opinion, to remove the rust from hinges in a long-abandoned house.
Rocha had always been a man who struggled to suppress his appetites where liquor, food, or women were concerned. From age sixteen or thereabouts, he’d relished anything he could afford, and if he came up short of cash . . . well, there was always someone else burdened with more than he could comfortably spend at any given time. He had begun his life of crime by rustling livestock, fled his village in Campeche when he was discovered, then began living on the run, stealing a pair of guns, and using them to rob shops, small-town banks, and the occasional stagecoach on both sides of the Rio Grande. He had slain his first traveling salesman on the night before his seventeenth birthday, surprised to find that it had no seeming effect on him as the old priest in his home village had declared from his pulpit.
If anything, it made Rocha feel powerful, an hombre valiente set apart from others by his willingness to kill. Potential victims, he believed, could see that in his eyes and willingly surrendered their belongings—even giving up their wives and daughters for an hour’s dalliance—if it kept them from losing any blood.