by Ralph Cotton
But the former holy man did not have to tell her that these were dangerous men. Danger and evil showed in them the way hunger showed in wolves. Their caged eyes, although as indiscernible as a serpent’s, moved endlessly across their surroundings, appraising any and all things of immediate value to them. Things of no value or use to them their eyes discarded quickly and continued on as they drank and cursed and laughed.
The men seemed to not even see Caridad as they tossed back mescal, whiskey and tequila, all laced with cocaine, and snorted peyote cactus powder up their noses. She felt relieved that these men saw her as of no use or pleasure to them. Not yet anyway, she reminded herself. And what would these or any men see in her? she wondered—a gangly young half-breed scrub girl with a bucket and brush always in hand.
Standing at the rear door of the cantina, she watched them, noting how their hands never strayed far from the guns holstered on their bellies and hips, even as they twirled the cantina whores and bounced them roughly on their knees. They awaited Capitán Luis Murella, who had sent for them to come work for him in the procuring of American-made firearms and explosives. Caridad hoped they would not have to wait much longer.
During their short wait in Esperanza, two of the twelve whores that the capitán had sent from Mexico City to keep the mercenaries entertained until his arrival had died. A farmer’s milk cow that had wandered into town had been lassoed, slaughtered and cooked over a raging fire in the center of the town square. One of the mercenaries had climbed to an outstretched limb near the top of an ancient oak, tied a lariat around his neck and hurled himself from the limb.
‘‘When these men run out of things to kill they begin to kill themselves and one another,’’ the defrocked monk had whispered to Caridad. ‘‘Stay away from estos hombres, and as always do not forget to pray for help and protection from the saints and from the Blessed Virgin Mother.’’ Which she did, unquestioningly, even though her instruction had come from a man the holy church had denounced as unfit and cast from its fold.
But when the trouble erupted between the two mercenaries, it came about so quickly, she had no time to pray for help or protection.
At the bar, Desmond Prew, the leader of the mercenaries, stood talking to his new second in command, Hubbard White, when through the open cantina doorway walked Cherokee Jake Slattery, one of the two men destined to run afoul of each other. At a table sat the other man, Clarence Sibbs, an assassin for hire and former gang member from the wild lawless slums of New York.
‘‘Hold it, White,’’ Prew said, stopping White’s conversation in a lowered tone upon seeing Cherokee Jake and Sibbs give one another dark looks. ‘‘I think we’re about to see who’s packing the biggest rocks in their basket.’’ From his spot near the bar, an accordion player brought his song to an anxious stop.
Prew and White turned toward where Slattery stood, six feet away from Sibbs’ table. Slattery opened his black linen suit coat and idly hiked up his baggy trousers. In doing so he let Sibbs and the whole cantina see that he wasn’t wearing his gun belt.
‘‘Here we go,’’ Prew whispered to White. Beside the rear door, Caridad watched transfixed, unable to pull herself away.
From the center of the floor, Cherokee Jake Slattery said to everyone in the cantina, ‘‘I want all of yas to hear what I’ve got to say. You’ve all seen tension between Sibbs and me over something untoward I might have said these past few days.’’
Between himself and White, Prew said, ‘‘Don’t buy it for a second.’’
Slattery continued, saying respectfully, ‘‘Well, I’m here to apologize. We’re going to be all working together, making ourselves rich!’’ He beamed, raising a fist in the air and shaking it in a hooray. ‘‘So I want to clear the air between me and Sibbs—sort of let bygones be bygones and get ready for action together!’’ He turned toward Sibbs’ table, clapping his hands together. ‘‘What say you, Sibbs? Can we patch things up? Be amigos, eh? As they say down here.’’
Sibbs stared at him and said flatly, his hand resting on his gun butt, ‘‘I ain’t forgot what you called me. But I’m willing if you are. Only don’t ever try telling anybody in front of me again that you caught Little Walk Pierce unawares and gutted him before he knew what hit him. I knew Little Walk Pierce and that was not likely to have happened.’’
Humbling himself, Slattery said, ‘‘I know you’re calling me a damn liar in front of all these men. But I expect I deserve it for calling you what I did.’’ He took a deep breath and said, ‘‘For the sake of our working together, I’m going to take this bitter medicine and swallow it down, painful though it is.’’
‘‘There it is,’’ called a drunken voice from the bar.
Slattery spread his arms and made a sweeping gesture toward the rest of the men and the whores standing and sitting with them beneath a looming cloud of cigar smoke.
The crowd murmured and shook their heads. ‘‘Water under the bridge,’’ a voice called out, raising a shot glass as if in a toast.
‘‘Can I do any more than that?’’ Slattery ended his appeal to the crowd with his hand extended in friendship toward Sibbs.
Sibbs considered the hand extended toward him. Taking his time, he stood up and reached out with his right hand, his left hand relaxed at his side, close to another holster on his left hip. ‘‘What the hell? I was drinking. Maybe I provoked you into calling me a sonsa—’’
‘‘Shhh. Hush now,’’ said Slattery, cutting him off. ‘‘I was at fault, and I admit it.’’ He shook Sibbs’ hand vigorously. When he started to turn loose, Sibbs held on for a second.
‘‘Where you was at fault is when you tried to say you caught Little Walk unawares. He would never have allowed himself to be set up that way.’’ As soon as he’d spoken, he tried to turn loose of the handshake, but now it was Slattery who held on.
‘‘Is that a fact?’’ Slattery said in a soft but resolved voice, holding Sibbs’ hand even more firmly. He stepped in closer. A sinking feeling swept over Sibbs’ face, as he stared into Slattery’s cold, dark eyes. ‘‘You mean like this?’’
A cunning grin crept onto Slattery’s lips. The knife came from behind his back; the long sharp-pointed blade sank into Sibbs’ abdomen before he saw it. He bowed forward with a gasp, seeing only the knife handle against the V of his sternum, blood spilling around its hilt. ‘‘Now you look as surprised as Little Walk,’’ said Slattery. He pulled the knife blade out just enough to get a good slicing grip and jerked it sideways in a harsh, long half-moon pattern, opening Sibbs’ stomach.
Sibbs saw a glimpse of Slattery’s gold-capped tooth, up close, before Slattery yanked the knife out and stepped back, letting blood run from its blade.
Instinctively, Sibbs’ left hand clutched his spilled intestines, cupping them up onto his forearm like squirming newborn puppies. But even as his insides continued to slip away from him, his blood-slick right hand tried to draw his Colt, only to fumble and drop it, causing it to explode as it hit the dirt floor.
‘‘So long, tub of guts,’’ said Slattery. ‘‘Tell Little Walk I said howdy.’’ He jabbed the blade back into the open gash on Sibbs’ chest and stabbed it sidelong into his heart.
‘‘What did I tell you?’’ Desmond Prew said quietly to Hubbard White. He sipped his whiskey and watched Slattery guide Sibbs backward into his chair and once again jerk the knife blade out of him.
‘‘What’s this going to do to us, being a man short?’’ White asked. He picked up his drink and sipped it.
‘‘Shouldn’t matter much,’’ said Prew, unconcerned, watching Slattery pull a handkerchief from Sibbs’ lapel pocket and attentively wipe his knife blade clean. ‘‘We’ll pick up a man or two if need be.’’
The other men stood watching, equally unconcerned, their arms looped around whores, bottles and beer mugs dangling from their hands. Slattery turned to them, still wiping the handkerchief along the knife blade. ‘‘Gentlemen, you have to admit, he had it coming.’’ He grinned toward Pr
ew and White. ‘‘Anybody arrogant enough to question my knife-handling skills.’’
On a different matter, a Texas gunman named Thomas Russell called out, ‘‘Damn, he’s shot! That misfire got him!’’ He stood pointing at a young man sitting at Sibbs’ table, and at the gun lying smoking on the dirt floor. The young man’s face had turned ashen and pasty beneath a heavy layer of sweat. He held a bloody hand up under his armpit, squeezing hard to slow the bleeding.
‘‘I’m all right,’’ he said in a thick dreamlike tone of voice.
‘‘Like hell he is,’’ said Russell to the other men, whose attention had swung mildly from Slattery to the wounded man.
‘‘Kid,’’ said Prew, ‘‘how’d you manage to get shot up there?’’ He walked toward him from the bar, seeing the blood flow freely down the side of the young man’s green woolsey shirt.
‘‘I’m all right, I told you,’’ the young man repeated, trying to keep his voice sounding natural. ‘‘Just took a nick.’’
‘‘Yeah, I’ll say you did,’’ said Prew, looking at the heavy flow of blood. ‘‘Nicked a big vessel is what it looks like to me.’’ He stooped slightly and looked into the young man’s eyes. ‘‘Get it looked at,’’ he said with cool indifference.
‘‘I will,’’ the young man nodded, as if he’d see to the matter right away. Yet he made no effort to rise from the chair.
From the open doorway came the sound of the town church bell. As the men turned toward it, one of the lookout men Prew had posted at the edge of town came running in and said, ‘‘Prew, they’re here!’’
‘‘Well, all right then, Harkens!’’ Prew said to the lookout man, seeing the rest of his men getting excited about the capitán’s arrival. ‘‘Let’s go greet him.’’ Before turning to the doorway he looked down at the young man and said, ‘‘Kid, in this game, if you can’t ride, you’re not much ’count. You know we can’t leave a man behind.’’
‘‘I know it,’’ the young man said, his voice sounding more shaky. ‘‘But I can ride—just point me—’’
‘‘Good for you, lad,’’ said Prew, cutting him off, already dismissing him as he patted the wounded man’s shoulder roughly and walked away toward the sound of horse hooves pounding along the dirt street. The rest of the men followed, their arms still looped around the whores, their bottles still in hand.
‘‘So long, kid,’’ one of them said in passing, as if he never expected to see the young man again.
Hearing the silence of the cantina close in around him once the last of the mercenaries had left, the wounded young man turned a pale bleary-eyed gaze to the accordion player and said flatly, ‘‘Play something.’’
But the accordion player and the barkeeper gave one another a look and approached the young man the way they might approach a wounded mountain cat. ‘‘Hear me? Play something,’’ he tried to demand, his hand still squeezing against the flow of blood, but weakening in its effort.
Hector, the cantina owner, looked to Caridad, who remained against the rear wall where she’d crouched in fear when the gunshot exploded. ‘‘Prisa, muchacha! Go bring Sabio! This man is dying!’’
‘‘No, I’m not,’’ the young man said, his hand having a hard time keeping pressure on his wound.
Caridad had started toward the rear door, but she stopped at the sound of the young man’s voice until Hector said, ‘‘Go quickly, Caridad! This one does not know what he is saying!’’
Outside in the dirt street, Capitán Luis Murella brought his small column of men to halt with a raised hand, followed by a verbal command from the thin sergeant who rode three steps behind him. Turning slightly in his saddle, the capitán sat looking at the body of the mercenary hanging from the high oak branch thirty feet off the ground. Two buzzards clung to the corpse’s shoulder, picking at its dark swollen face, causing it to jerk and quiver in a grotesque manner.
‘‘Good day to you, Capitán,’’ Prew called out as he and his men stood in the dirt street facing the column of mounted soldiers. ‘‘Pay no mind to him,’’ he added, looking up with the capitán at the corpse.
‘‘He is one of yours?’’ the capitán asked, turning his attention to Prew.
‘‘Yeah,’’ said Prew, ‘‘he was one of the new men.’’
‘‘And you hanged him?’’ The captain looked confused.
‘‘No, no, Capitán,’’ said Prew. ‘‘He hanged himself, the poor bastard.’’
‘‘He hanged himself ?’’ The Mexican captain looked back up at the corpse almost in disbelief.
‘‘Yep. You might say his heart wasn’t in his work,’’ Prew said, a trace of a wry smile coming to his leathery face.
The serious captain saw no humor in it, wry or otherwise. He looked the men over and asked, ‘‘How many men have you here?’’
‘‘About a dozen, Capitán,’’ Prew said, not liking the idea of him standing down in the dirt street having to look up into the sun to speak to a Mexican.
‘‘About a dozen?’’ the captain asked, pressing him. ‘‘Do you not know your numbers?’’
Prew’s thin smile went away. His voice took on a harsh edge. ‘‘We had a little misunderstanding and just lost a man back there, maybe two.’’ He gestured a nod back toward the cantina.
‘‘I see,’’ said the captain. ‘‘So that explains the gunshot we heard moments ago?’’
‘‘Yes it would, if I felt it required explaining,’’ said Prew, the harshness still in his voice. He continued, saying, ‘‘But even so, there’s eleven of us still on our feet—enough for us to turn hell into a tent meeting if we needed to.’’ He made no effort to conceal his appraising gaze as he cast it across the mounted soldiers.
‘‘Eleven, eh?’’ The captain ignored the veiled threat, yet he seemed to consider something for a moment. Then, as if dismissing the matter, he looked at the women and asked, ‘‘These are the putas I sent to make you and your men welcome?’’
‘‘Yes they are, Capitán,’’ said Prew, ‘‘and a fine bunch they are at that. We are obliged for your thoughtfulness.’’ He swept an arm toward the cantina. ‘‘Why don’t we get out of the street and have ourselves a drink, cut the dust from your gullets?’’
‘‘Sí, you go. I will join you inside,’’ the captain replied, ‘‘as soon as I have a word with my sargento.’’
‘‘Gracias then,’’ said Prew, touching his fingers to his hat brim. ‘‘We’ll be waiting.’’ Turning, he walked back to the cantina, White right beside him. In a lowered voice, mocking the captain, he said, ‘‘Do you not know your numbers?’’ He gave a dark, contemptuous chuckle and shook his head. ‘‘What the hell’s he think he is, my schoolmaster?’’
Chapter 2
Inside the cantina, Prew motioned for the owner to clear away the bloody table and chair and make ready for the captain. But when the captain and his men arrived, after hitching their horses, the owner was still busily throwing fresh dirt over the soft puddle of blood on the floor. As the captain and his men walked through the open doorway, Prew asked Hubbard White, ‘‘What do you suppose happened to the kid?’’
White’s eyes followed the blood trail across the dirt to the rear door. ‘‘If I had to guess, I’d say he’s crawled off somewhere and bled out.’’
‘‘A guess won’t get it,’’ Prew said just between the two of them. ‘‘He knows too much. Go find him. Make sure he’s able to ride—or else make sure he’s dead.’’
‘‘You’ve got it, Prew,’’ White said, slipping away from the bar and out the rear door as the captain walked to the bar, slapping dust from his tunic with his gloves.
Looking at the blood trail, and at the rear door closing behind Hubbard White, the captain asked Prew, ‘‘Where is he going?’’
Gesturing toward the blood trail, Prew said with a shrug, ‘‘To check on our wounded man, Capitán.’’
‘‘Is this wounded man going to be able to keep up with the others?’’ the captain asked suspiciously.
; ‘‘That’s what I sent him to find out,’’ said Prew. ‘‘Now what will you have to drink?’’
But the captain persisted, asking even as the cantina owner stood waiting, ‘‘How much does this wounded man know about what we are going to be doing?’’
‘‘Not much, Capitán,’’ said Prew. ‘‘Relax,’’ he added with a stiff smile. ‘‘Hell, I don’t even know what it is we’ll be doing.’’
But the captain wouldn’t let it go. ‘‘If he cannot ride, we can’t leave him here alive,’’ he insisted.
‘‘That’s the same thing I told White,’’ said Prew. ‘‘I told him to go make sure the man’s able to ride, or else see to things. . . .’’ He let his words trail to an end, giving the captain a knowing look. ‘‘We’re not newcomers, White or me. Now relax and drink up.’’
The captain nodded, seeming satisfied. He motioned for his sergeant and his men to come forward to the bar. They did so eagerly.
Prew turned and grabbed two clean glasses and set them in front of the captain and himself. In broken Spanish he said to the barkeeper, ‘‘Whiskey para nosotros ambos.’’
‘‘Whiskey for you both?’’ the barkeeper said, as if uncertain of Prew’s words. He held the bottle half tilted, ready to pour.
‘‘You know damn well that’s what I said,’’ Prew growled, snatching the bottle from his hand. ‘‘Take care of these soldiers. I’ll pour for the capitán and me.’’ He filled the captain’s glass, then his own.
Out back of the cantina, White walked along, his head bowed, following the dark blood trail until he spotted one of the mercenaries, Riley Hallit, leaning against an adobe building. The man was half-conscious, a bottle of mescal hanging from his hand. ‘‘Hallit, wake up!’’ White said, stepping ever closer to the drunken man. ‘‘Did you see the kid go by here?’’