Guns on the Border

by Ralph Cotton

  ‘‘Come on, damn it!’’ White cursed. ‘‘He gave us the slip somehow, but I know damn well I saw him come this way.’’ He jerked the horse around and headed back out onto the street. ‘‘I’ll take Prew’s horse back and get my own. We’ll ride every street, alley and mudhole.’’

  ‘‘So we’re gonna keep looking?’’ Hallit asked, riding right behind him.

  ‘‘Hell yes!’’ said White. ‘‘Prew said find the kid and take care of him, and that’s what we’re going to do.’’

  Hallit cursed under his breath but stayed right behind White until they had ridden to the livery stables and started inside. But he stopped when White all of a sudden said, ‘‘Hey, look who’s going there. It’s that damn accordion player. Looks like he’s sneaking around, up to something too.’’

  ‘‘Him too, huh?’’ Hallit gave White a questioning look. ‘‘You’re not starting to think everybody here has a hand in hiding the kid from us, are you?’’

  White gigged the horse forward without answering. Hallit hurried his horse along behind him. When they turned a corner and saw the accordion player look back at them and start to run, White sped up, came alongside the man and gave him a sidelong kick that sent him sprawling in the dirt. A large grass sack rolled from under the accordion player’s arm.

  ‘‘You’re not going anywhere, amigo,’’ White shouted, coming down from the saddle and grabbing the man by the back of his shirt as the man gained his footing, grabbed the bag and tried to make a run for it.

  ‘‘Please, mister! Let me go!’’ the accordion player pleaded in better than average English. ‘‘I have done nothing! I have no money!’’

  ‘‘Money, ha!’’ said White. He shook him by the nap of his shirt. ‘‘Are you saying we look like a couple of thieves?’’ He gave Hallit a knowing grin.

  ‘‘No, mister, I am not saying that. I am only saying please do not harm me. I have done—’’

  ‘‘Shut up,’’ White growled, cutting him off with another hard shake. ‘‘I heard you the first time.’’ As he held the man, he knocked the grass sack from his hands and opened it with the toe of his boot, enough to look inside at the folded accordion.

  ‘‘It is only my music instrument, mister,’’ said the frightened musician. ‘‘It has no value, except to me. It is the only way I have to make a living. Please do not take it.’’

  ‘‘I see what it is,’’ said White. Knowing the man wasn’t about to leave his instrument behind, he turned him loose and gave him a rough pat on his back. ‘‘Don’t worry, amigo, we’re not going to take your squeeze-box. Are we, Riley?’’ He looked up at Hallit with a grin.

  ‘‘I guess not,’’ Hallit shrugged, starting to feel the shaky aftereffects of the waning drugs and mescal.

  ‘‘No sirree,’’ said White to the Mexican. ‘‘What we want to know is where the Americano is who got shot in the cantina. You were there when we all left, so don’t try lying to me.’’

  ‘‘Yes, mister, I was there,’’ said the musician with a curious look. ‘‘Why would I lie?’’

  ‘‘Hey, hombre!’’ White slapped him roughly on his thin shoulder. ‘‘I ask all the questions—you give the answers.’’

  ‘‘Yes, of course,’’ said the Mexican. ‘‘I saw the man who was shot leave with the young scrubwoman, Caridad. I do not know where she took him.’’

  White slapped him again, this time on the cheek instead of the shoulder. ‘‘Don’t make me wear you out, hombre,’’ he said. ‘‘I want to know where the Americano is. You will tell me.’’

  The musician shook his head. ‘‘I do not know, mister,’’ he said.

  ‘‘All right, hombre,’’ said White. ‘‘Let’s do this another way.’’ He drew his pistol from his holster, cocked it and aimed it at the grass sack on the ground. ‘‘Every time you give me an answer I don’t want to hear, I’ll put one more bullet hole in your squeezer. ‘‘Now where the hell is the Americano?’’

  ‘‘Please, mister, don’t shoot,’’ said the musician, breaking down at the sight of a gun pointed at his accordion. ‘‘Caridad would have only taken him to one person—the holy man, Sabio.’’

  ‘‘Where will we find this holy man?’’ White asked, looking pleased with himself, his pistol aimed loosely at the accordion.

  ‘‘Sabio is everywhere,’’ said the musician. ‘‘He is like the wind.’’

  ‘‘That kind of talk will get your little friend here killed,’’ said White. His grip tightened on the gun pointed toward the accordion.

  ‘‘No, please, mister!’’ said the musician. ‘‘I am telling you what you ask. Sabio is everywhere, or so it seems. The elderly of Esperanza say he was touched by a bruja. By a witch, señor.’’

  ‘‘I know what a bruja is, hombre,’’ said White, his pistol still cocked and pointed. ‘‘Keep talking.’’

  ‘‘Others say he was not touched by a bruja, but that he himself is a mago . . . a wizard, señor.’’

  ‘‘A witch-man,’’ White said, considering it with a disbelieving grin. He already had a hunch who it was they were talking about. ‘‘What does he look like, this mysterious Sabio the mago?’’

  ‘‘He is a small, hairless man,’’ said the Mexican. ‘‘I call him ‘el sin pelo.’ The hairless one. But never where he might hear me,’’ he added in a lowered voice.

  ‘‘Yeah. ‘El sin pelo,’ eh?’’ White grinned, making the connection.

  ‘‘You have seen him, señor?’’ the Mexican asked.

  ‘‘Oh yes, I’ve seen the hairless one all right, that little bald-headed mud-dauber.’’

  ‘‘Please, señor,’’ the musician said, looking around nervously, not knowing how bad a name ‘‘muddauber’’ might be. ‘‘Do not curse him or speak ill of him. He has power that we do not understand.’’ As the musician spoke he crossed himself quickly, and his voice began to take on more of his native tongue. ‘‘Some say he is a blasphemer who has offended God Almighty with his unnatural powers. Others say his powers come from God’s own hand.’’

  White took on a curious expression. ‘‘When you say he’s everywhere, does that mean sometimes you see him going somewhere, but when you get there you find out he’s not there at all?’’

  The accordion player gave him a puzzled glance; so did Hallit.

  ‘‘Never mind, damn it,’’ said White, looking a little embarrassed. ‘‘Where would this hairless one, ‘el sin pelo,’ have taken the wounded Americano?’’

  ‘‘I do not know, señor,’’ said the musician, ‘‘but if I were looking for him and did not want to wait for him to appear before my eyes, I would go up there to the old mission.’’ He nodded up the trail to the thick brush and foliage surrounding the peak of a hilltop in a long line of taller hilltops.

  ‘‘That figures,’’ Hallit said with an exhausted puff of breath, looking at the long climb before them.

  ‘‘The hairless one lives way up there, eh?’’ White asked. He watched the Mexican’s eyes for any sign of guile or deception.

  ‘‘Some say he lives up there—some say he lives everywhere, like the—’’

  ‘‘Don’t start with that,’’ said White, cutting him off again. He holstered his pistol, reached down, picked up the grass sack and climbed back into his saddle.

  The Mexican looked up at him and said, ‘‘Señor, I have been forthright with you. Please give me my accordion, I beg of you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I’m going to give it to you all right, amigo,’’ said White. ‘‘Just as soon as we’re all three standing atop that hill looking at the hairless one’s domicile.’’ He gave Hallit a smug grin and nudged his horse forward.

  Hallit shook his aching head and followed.

  ‘‘But, señor,’’ said the Mexican, with his thin arms spread, ‘‘it is a long hard climb up the hillside. I cannot keep up to your horses.’’

  White looked down and spoke to the grass sack on his lap, ‘‘Hear that, little friend? It sounds like he just told you adios.’�
� He patted the grass sack. ‘‘Now we’ll just ride up to the top of this hill and see if you can fly.’’ He grinned cruelly at the grass sack as if it were a living thing.

  ‘‘No, wait. I am coming, please!’’ said the accordion player. He trotted up quickly alongside White’s horse, staring nervously at the grass sack.

  Chapter 4

  The ranger stopped his horse and lifted the battered army telescope from his lap and raised it to his eyes. He gazed out across a deep valley at the roofless, vine-covered ruins of the old Spanish mission. The outcropping on which he and the two horses stood sat higher than the mission, giving him an inside view of the overgrown courtyards and empty stone chambers. In an open courtyard he saw the same young woman he had seen earlier as he’d looked down on the winding trail. She had been leading the donkey cart, tugging on the rope, hurrying it forward. Now this.

  ‘‘You are a busy girl today,’’ he murmured to her as he adjusted the telescope and brought her image in closer.

  In the circle of vision, he watched her swipe a hand at a fallen strand of dark hair and hurry back across the dirt floor of the courtyard to where the young man sat slumped against the wheel of the donkey cart. An American from his clothes and features, Sam surmised. Ten feet away the donkey grazed on a patch of wild grass growing up through a low tangle of rich red and green mountain orchid. Sam studied the young man’s bloody shirt, the bloody bandaging, and the fresh blood running steadily down his side.

  Seeing the young man’s condition, Sam lowered the lens and looked down the trail, judging the fastest route across the valley and up the other hillside. In the far distance below, at the end of the winding trail, he saw the thatched rooftops in Esperanza; nearing the top of the steep trail were two riders and a man on foot struggling to stay a few steps ahead of them. Looking back at the young man and woman in the old mission, Sam sensed a connection as he backed his horse and put the telescope away. With luck, he should arrive at the mission ruins not long after the two men on horseback.

  In the courtyard, Caridad had looked up for a moment and caught a glimpse of the two horses’ rumps as the animals turned away and moved out of sight. ‘‘Up there? How can this be?’’ she asked under her breath. But she had no time to think about it. The Americano’s condition had worsened. The bleeding had increased instead of lessening. ‘‘Wake up, por favor!’’ she pleaded, stooping, taking him by his other shoulder and shaking him.

  ‘‘Please let him awaken,’’ she prayed quietly in her native tongue, making the sign of the cross. ‘‘And please bring Sabio quickly,’’ she added.

  She squatted down in front of the wounded American and studied him closely, seeing only the slightest rise and fall in his chest as she tore the hem out of her peasant’s skirt and ripped strip after strip of cloth for fresh bandaging. ‘‘Look at me. Now I have ruined my only skirt for you,’’ she said. ‘‘Please wake up!’’

  As if suddenly enraged by him and his gunshot wound and her entanglement in his situation, she reached out and slapped his cheek, hard. His face rocked back and forth; his eyes opened halfway. ‘‘Why . . . did you do that?’’ he asked in a weak whisper.

  Caridad looked stunned. ‘‘To awaken you. You must stay awake!’’ she said, realizing there was more to the slap than she wanted to tell him. She watched him try to hold his eyes open as his head drooped sidelong onto his shoulder. She shook him. ‘‘Please stay awake! What is your name? Tell me who you are—where are you from?’’ She asked to keep his mind occupied.

  ‘‘I’m William’’—his voice trailed off for a moment, then came back—‘‘William Jefferies . . .’’

  ‘‘That is good, William!’’ Caridad said, surprised that what she’d done seemed to help. ‘‘Now tell me more,’’ she said, looking at the stream of fresh blood down his side. Had it stopped, or at least slowed down? She couldn’t tell.

  ‘‘Let me look at you,’’ she whispered more to herself than to him. She leaned in closer and started to peep down behind the blood-soaked bandage. But upon seeing a shadow fall over her from behind, she jerked her head around and looked up into Sabio’s dark eyes.

  ‘‘Yes, go ahead, loosen his bandage,’’ said the former monk, standing with his hands raised and spread, the sleeves of his frayed robe pulled back on his bony forearms. Caridad saw the sunlight behind him glisten and shine above his smooth hairless head.

  ‘‘Thank God you are here,’’ she said. ‘‘I am preparing bandages to—’’

  ‘‘Take off the bandages.’’ Cutting her off, Sabio stared at her, his dark eyes grave and intent. ‘‘Take off the bandage and remove the block of wood.’’

  ‘‘You—you are going to heal him?’’ Caridad asked in an awestricken tone.

  Without answering her, Sabio repeated, ‘‘Take off the bandage and remove the block of wood.’’

  ‘‘But he has bled so much,’’ said Caridad. ‘‘If I remove the bandage and block of wood, he could die quickly if what you do does not—’’

  ‘‘Shhh,’’ said Sabio. ‘‘Do not question what I do. Do not question God’s work.’’

  ‘‘I—I am sorry,’’ Caridad said submissively. ‘‘Of course I will remove the bandage.’’ She lowered her eyes away from Sabio and slowly removed the blood-soaked bandage and the chunk of wood from under the young man’s arm.

  The young man stirred into consciousness and asked in a weak shallow voice, ‘‘Wha-what are . . . you doing?’’

  Caridad brushed his hand away from the bandage and said quietly, ‘‘He is a holy man. He does God’s work on earth. Lie still. He is going to stop the bleeding.’’

  ‘‘Holy man?’’ Even in his weakened state, the young American stiffened at Caridad’s words. His eyes opened, looking worried. ‘‘Please . . . don’t kill me,’’ he said. ‘‘Is there a doctor . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Silence,’’ Sabio said in a firm tone, stepping forward and leaning down over him. When Caridad removed the chunk of wood from under the wounded man’s arm, a fountain of fresh blood gushed from the wound. But Sabio seemed not even to notice it as he placed the widespread fingertips of his left hand on the young man’s head.

  ‘‘Oh, God,’’ the man moaned. He swooned from the sudden rush of blood from his already depleted system.

  ‘‘Ahhh,’’ Sabio moaned. He jammed his right hand roughly up into the young man’s armpit, causing the flowing blood to spread in all directions, but then to come to a halt.

  Caridad sat staring transfixed as Sabio’s right hand probed and poked and suddenly stopped as his finger found the bullet hole and jammed into it. ‘‘Ahhh . . . ahhh,’’ the holy man muttered in discovery, his fingers seeming to have disappeared into the young man’s chest.

  Caridad watched Sabio’s thin frame tremble beneath his robe as his fingertips delved farther up into the young man’s shoulder, the fingertips of his left hand bearing down. Was he reaching inside the man’s brain? No, of course not, she told herself. And yet . . . She blinked her eyes, knowing they were playing tricks on her.

  ‘‘Ahh, there!’’ the holy man said intently, his body nearly collapsing from his efforts. His hand came out from under the young man’s arm with a long thick string of blood swinging from his fingertips. ‘‘There is the demon who did this!’’ He slung his hand toward the ground. ‘‘I cast you out, demon!’’ he shouted. A bloody lead bullet plopped onto the soft earth.

  ‘‘Sante Madre!’’ Caridad said in a hushed tone, seeing the bullet as some living thing. She stepped back farther away from it, hiking up her already shortened and tattered skirt.

  Sabio plunged his bloody cupped hand back up under the young man’s arm and breathed in and out deeply and slowly. Caridad watched in silent awe for over ten minutes until Sabio seemed to come out of a trancelike state and declare in an exhausted tone, ‘‘It is done.’’

  ‘‘Praise God, and the blessed Holy Mother!’’ Caridad gasped, again crossing herself.

  This time, as Sabio removed his hand
from the man’s armpit, he did so carefully as if not to upset what he had accomplished under there. Caridad gasped again upon noting that the bleeding had stopped, as if Sabio’s fingers had closed a valve inside the young man. Sabio kept his fingertips on the young American’s head as he slumped forward and muttered what Caridad considered words of prayer, under his breath.

  ‘‘Yes, it is done,’’ he repeated, straightening and stepping back. He folded his forearms and shoved his bloody hands into the loose baggy sleeves. He stood in silence, his head bowed as if in meditation.

  Caridad scooted around wide of him, watching him warily until she reached the side of the wounded American. She bent over his lap and looked up under his arm, seeing no flow of blood from the wound. ‘‘It has stopped!’’ she exclaimed in her native tongue, sounding surprised, as if having dispelled any slightest lingering doubt.

  Without raising his head or opening his eyes, Sabio replied to her in Spanish, calmly saying, ‘‘Of course it has stopped, by God’s will. Is this not what I said I would do?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Caridad, ‘‘it is what you said. But in Esperanza in Louisa’s home, you said you did not always have God’s power to do these things.’’

  Sabio lifted his face and opened his eyes patiently. He stared at her in silence for a moment, then said, ‘‘And before you left I told you I would come here and try, did I not?’’

  ‘‘Sí, you did,’’ said Caridad.

  ‘‘All right.’’ Sabio gave her a curt nod. ‘‘I came, I tried, and now it is done.’’ He gestured a hand toward the American. ‘‘As God would have it done.’’

  Already the young man appeared to have strengthened. He opened his eyes halfway and raised a hand to the wound up under his arm. ‘‘It . . . stopped,’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘Yes, it stopped,’’ said Sabio. ‘‘Now poke at it with your fingers until you cause it to start again.’’ He shook his head as if cross and impatient with the wounded young man.