by Elmer Kelton
“When I get José delivered,” Charlie said angrily, “and out of the way of them chotas, I’ll see if we can’t get some law enforcement around here. I’m goin’ to the sheriff. Boy like that Danny Ortiz has got no business runnin’ around loose to prey on young girls.”
Rosa said something quickly to Lupe, and Lupe Flores nodded. “Mister Charlie, you mean the right thing, but it is better you don’t do this.”
“Why not? He’s got it comin’ to him.”
“People will make a lot of talk. Danny scared our girl, but he did not hurt her. Too much talk will hurt her. What do you think the sheriff will say? He will say she is just a Mexican girl out with a Mexican boy, and that’s the way it is with Mexicans.” He shrugged. “The sheriff will laugh at you, Mister Charlie.”
Charlie clenched a fist. “I helped get him elected. He won’t laugh at me.”
“Mister Charlie, you know Anita. But what if she was some other girl, some Spanish girl you don’t know? What would you think?”
Hastily Charlie said, “I wouldn’t think no different. I’d ...” He trailed off.
“No offense, Mister Charlie, but you would think like the sheriff.”
A sense of guilt came over Charlie, and he did not like it. Lupe knew him in some ways better than Charlie knew himself.
“But we can’t just let him get away with it.”
Lupe’s mouth went grim. “We do not need a sheriff to take care of family things.”
For a few seconds Charlie blinked in puzzlement, until he turned and saw the look in Manuel’s eyes. At this moment, Manuel could kill.
Oh my God, Charlie thought, not that!
With sudden apprehension he declared, “You’re not goin’ anywhere, Lupe, you or Manuel either, not in this mood. Anything to be done in town, I’ll do it.”
Lupe said evenly, “Anita is ours.”
“And she needs you at home. Soon as I get José taken care of, I’ll go see Old Man Ortiz. I’ll throw a scare into him that he won’t forget.”
Charlie stomped out of the house, letting the screen door slam. He heard it slam a second time and looked back. Manuel Flores hurried after him. Charlie stopped. “No use you arguin’ with me, muchacho.”
“I want to go with you.”
Charlie saw cold rage still in the lad’s eyes. Afraid he already knew, he demanded, “What you got in mind to do?”
“I don’t know yet. When I see Danny I’ll know.”
“They tell me he carries a mean knife. He’d gut you.”
“I wouldn’t give him the chance.”
Charlie shook his head. “I’m not lettin’ you tangle with him.”
“I’ve tangled with him before.”
Charlie rubbed his chin and stared hard at the boy. This was a side of Manuel he had never seen. “You don’t know how cold and mean a knife can be till you’re lookin’ at it from the other side. I faced the bayonets in World War I. I know.”
“I’d take it away from him and do to him what we did to my colt. That’d fix him good.”
“It’d fix you, too.”
Stubbornly Manuel declared, “I want to go with you, Mister Charlie.”
Charlie shook his head. “You and your folks are my responsibility, boy. I’ve always taken care of you. I’ll take care of you now.”
Flaring, Manuel said, “Dammit, don’t you think we’re men enough to take care of ourselves?”
Charlie stared in disbelief. This was the first time Manuel—or any Flores—had ever spoken up to him this way. His own voice took on an edge. “Boy, you’re overwrought.”
“Damn right I’m overwrought. The other time I tangled with Danny, it was Buddy Thompson who came in and took over. Now it’s you. Won’t you people ever decide we can do things for ourselves?”
Charlie blinked angrily, trying to excuse Manuel on grounds of strain. He didn’t understand this reaction at all. “You could get in the hospital for yourself, or jail ... one or the other. Is that what you want?”
“She’s my sister.”
“Don’t you think I understand that? And she’s a daughter to me, pretty near. I can take care of this thing for all of us, and I sure as hell won’t wind up in jail over it, either.”
Manuel’s fists were clenched like live-oak knots. “Do you know what paternalism is, Mister Charlie?”
Charlie supposed he had heard the word, but he couldn’t remember for sure. “No, what is it?”
Manuel shook his head. “No, I guess you don’t understand. I guess that’s why I can’t talk to you.”
Charlie muttered to himself. Later perhaps there would be time to study this thing out and try to understand what the boy was talking about. Right now there was no time for anything.
“Manuel, there’s one thing you can do. Help José get ready. I’ll run to the house and get my pickup.”
The word run was an exaggeration. Charlie rarely ran anywhere any more, but he limped along at a good gait. Shortly he had the pickup idling in front of the shed where José had customarily slept. Manuel carried out a canvas bag that held all of José’s belongings. He pitched it into the floorboard of the pickup, then stood and watched, still resentful.
Anita stood in the door of the shed, tears on her cheeks. José came to the pickup and stopped to look back at her. She said something to him, but Charlie could not make out what it was. José gave no answer. He climbed into the pickup and slammed the door. He looked straight ahead, face frozen like stone.
Mary came out. Charlie said, “Whatever you do, don’t you let Lupe or Manuel leave this place till I get back.”
He glanced once more at Anita and shook his head, still feeling a measure of wonder that he had never sensed anything between the boy and girl. Was he really that old? His foot was suddenly heavy, and he let the pickup lurch forward. He was doing thirty miles an hour before he reached the front gate, the dust boiling up behind him.
Neither man spoke as they lined out on the dirt road across the horse pasture toward the pavement that led to town. Charlie glanced once at José, wondering what thoughts must be racing through the mind hidden behind that mask of a face. He saw the bruised and torn knuckles and knew they must be paining José. It was pain in a good cause. Silently Charlie cursed Danny Ortiz; yet at the same time he speculated that Danny might have been of help in a way he would never have realized. Charlie had no way of knowing how deep a relationship might have developed between Anita and José. Maybe it was best it be broken off now before it led to the point of standing in front of a priest. José had no future in this country; probably his situation in his own country was little better.
The Lord moves in mysterious way, Charlie thought somberly. But dammit, he could’ve found a better instrument than Danny Ortiz!
Ahead lay a curve in the dirt road. An automobile appeared, coming rapidly toward Charlie’s pickup. Charlie knew, somehow, even before he saw the green color. “Chotas, José! Down, quick!”
José ducked below the level of the dashboard. Charlie caught a glimpse of the border patrolmen as the two vehicles met. They were giving him a good looking-over.
Charlie said in English, “Five dollars says they turn around and come check us out.” He remembered and repeated it in Spanish, the best he could. He pushed down harder on the accelerator. Just around the curve was a small culvert the county commissioner’s court had built to prevent runoff water from washing out the road, back in the times when it used to rain. Charlie jammed on the brakes. In Spanish he said, “Quick, José, into the ...” He was stuck; he couldn’t remember the Spanish word for culvert, if he had ever even heard it.
But José sensed his meaning, for he grabbed his canvas bag and jumped out. Charlie said, “Wait for me. It may be awhile.” José slammed the door, and Charlie floor-boarded the gas pedal. He watched the rear-view mirror on the outside of his door, but he could see nothing except the dust behind him. That was good, for it meant the patrolmen could not have seen José jump out and hide.
Eventu
ally, when the road made a turn to the left, he caught a glimpse of the green car rapidly overtaking him. He slowed, letting it happen. He heard a horn honking insistently. The car pulled abreast of him, and patrolman Nance motioned for him to pull over. Charlie let the pickup come to an easy stop on an area where the bar ditch was shallow and almost flat. He waited for the trailing dust to fog over him and settle. He opened the door and stepped out slowly, making a show of nonchalance, hoping his eyes did not give him away. The patrolmen had not waited for the dust to clear; they had jumped out as quickly as their car stopped. Nance was rubbing dirt from his eyes as he warily walked up.
“Mornin’,” Charlie greeted him, lifting one hand.
Nance only nodded and walked around the pickup, peering into it. Charlie saw the man’s disappointment, and he smiled a little. Thought you had me, didn’t you?
The other patrolman came up, the one Charlie remembered as Parker. Charlie tried his greeting on him and found it a little better received. “Good morning, Mister Flagg. Out kind of early, aren’t you?”
“In the ranch business you never let the sun catch you in bed.” Charlie tried to be calm, but a knot was starting in his stomach. “You-all wanted to see me about somethin’ ?”
Parker said, “We received a telephone tip this morning. Man told us you are harboring a wetback at your headquarters. Would that be true, Mister Flagg?”
Charlie sighed. “Oh, that’s what this is all about? Well, there’s no wetback out there that I know anything about.”
Parker studied him closely. “Would you swear to that?”
“On a stack of Bibles six feet high.”
Parker wanted to believe him. “Mind if we go look?”
“Help yourselves. You ought to find my foreman, Lupe Flores, out there. Tell him I said for him to help you look.”
Parker studied Charlie’s face. If he learned anything, it didn’t show. “We never caught you working a wetback, Mister Flagg. I’d hate for us to start now.”
“So would I,” Charlie told him.
The Anglo people of Rio Seco knew little of racial distinctions and considered Old Man Ortiz as a Mexican. Ortiz regarded himself as a Spaniard, one of the sangre puro, above the common herd. He lived in the Little Mexico section of town, but outside of business it was not his practice to socialize with the Mexican people more than the Anglos did. He was keenly aware where the line was drawn, and he stayed beyond it. His old house had a right to be the largest in this part of town; it was built on the. sweat and blood of the Mexican people.
Charlie punched the doorbell, then looked around while he waited for someone to answer. He could recall that years ago these flower beds were always abloom with something or other, like Mary’s at the ranch. That had been when Old Lady Ortiz was alive. She had had plenty of time to cultivate her flowers, for she could always afford to hire someone else to do the heavy work, and Ortiz himself had little time for her. It was her function simply to grace the household and see to the raising of their son; it was said to have been a lasting bone of contention between them that she had given him but one child and afterward had lost the ability to bear. Even in his young married years, Ortiz was said to have maintained a casa chica—sometimes two—away from home to take care of needs which she never satisfied. That, of course, was not considered socializing. Charlie remembered Senora Ortiz as a woman prematurely old and terribly bitter, borne to the cemetery ahead of her time. The flower beds had died with her.
An attractive young woman opened the door a little way and gave Charlie a questioning look. He said, “I’ve come to see Danny Ortiz.”
She showed no intention to open the door wider. She stared at him uncertainly, then looked back over her shoulder. Charlie heard a man’s voice demanding, “Quién es, Panchita?”
In Spanish the young woman replied that it was some guero asking after Danny. Charlie could hear the voice ordering her to say that Danny was not home. But Charlie could see a sporty-looking red sedan parked in the garage, one he was sure he had seen Danny driving around town.
The woman gave Charlie the message in English and was about to shut him out when he opened the screen and placed his hand firmly against the door, pushing it open wider. “I come to see Danny, and I’ve got a few words to say to his daddy as well.” He stepped into the tiled foyer before she had time to get over her surprise. The woman looked helplessly back over her shoulder. “Señor Ortiz ...”
Ortiz stepped into the foyer from another room, which Charlie took to be a parlor. He was gray, his shoulders stooped, a crab of a man with skin as light as any Anglo’s. His eyes were uneasy, but at sight of Charlie his mouth managed at least the semblance of a smile. “Ah,” he said carefully, “come in.” Charlie was already in. “There is something I can do for you?”
“I’m Charlie Flagg; you’ve seen me..”
“Yes, Mister Flagg, I have seen you often. How may I be of service?”
“I come to have some words with your boy. Where’s he at?”
“Danny has gone away.”
“Afoot? I seen his car in the garage. You’d just as well call him. If he don’t come out I’ll search the house for him.”
The forced smile left Ortiz’s face. “You are abusing my hospitality, Mister Flagg. I must ask you to leave.”
“Leave, hell! You trot that boy out here!”
“I want no trouble, sir, but if you do not leave, I shall have to call the sheriff.”
Charlie’s shoulders straightened a little. “That’s a damn good idea. I’d like to talk to him myself. Suppose you go phone him.”
The young woman made a move toward the front room; Charlie guessed she was headed for the telephone. Quickly Ortiz ordered her in Spanish to find something to do in the kitchen and to leave them alone.
Flushing, Ortiz turned to Charlie. “Sir, whatever little difficulty my son may have gotten himself into, it should not be enough to cause trouble between two adults like ourselves. If it is a question of damage, I shall be glad to pay.” He turned into the parlor and walked to a small safe which stood beside a roll-top desk. Charlie had heard of that safe, and of the ledgers Ortiz kept inside it regarding loans to the Mexican people, their payments at a crushing rate of interest.
“Money won’t pay for what he tried to do.”
“Money,” said Ortiz, “will pay for anything.”
“Not this time. You callin’ him out or do I have to go get him?”
Ortiz tried a moment to stare Charlie down, then gave it up and called his son. Charlie heard no answer. Ortiz called a second time, and a door creaked open somewhere down the hall. Charlie could hear the wooden floor protest a little beneath each slow step. Danny Ortiz stood in the doorway, crouched as if ready to turn and run.
The sight took Charlie by surprise. Danny’s face was swollen, his eyes darkened. Two large bandages covered spots where he had suffered cuts, one on his right cheek and one above his eye.
Charlie wheezed, “I’ll be damned! I will be damned! It’s the first time I ever saw this kid that I could honestly say I liked his looks.”
Ortiz said, “My boy has been badly injured, Mister Flagg.”
“There’s a little girl out at my ranch that always used to laugh a lot. She’s not laughin’ today. Whatever this boy got, he had comin’ to him.”
Ortiz said, “You have seen my son now, Mister Flagg. I am asking you now to leave this house.” Charlie simply stood there, staring. Ortiz added, “You are in this house without invitation. You are trespassing.”
“Your boy was trespassin’ last night, on my place. I come here with half a notion of beatin’ him into the floor myself, but I reckon the job’s been done better than I could do it.” He took two steps toward Danny, and Danny shrank back against the wall. Ortiz cried out in protest, expecting Danny to be struck. But Charlie simply raised his hand and pointed his finger, almost touching Danny’s face.
“There’s some people out at my ranch that want to kill you. I talked them out of it
awhile ago, but I don’t know how long I can hold them. If I was you I’d get out of town, and I wouldn’t wait for dinner. I’d see how fast and how far that car would go. You hear me, boy?”
Danny Ortiz nodded, his mouth open. Charlie saw to his satisfaction a gap in the front teeth. So far as he had ever noticed, it had not been there before.
Charlie said, “All right, but so you don’t forget, I’ll tell you this: if you ever again set foot on my place ... if you ever again touch that girl, or any of the rest of the Flores family ... I’ll come after you myself, with the double of a rope. And when I get through there won’t be a piece of hide left on you bigger than a postage stamp. Do you understand me, you pepper-bellied son of a bitch?”
Danny made some gurgling sound deep in his throat.
Old Man Ortiz squared himself up to his full height. “Mister Flagg, we are not ordinary poor Mexicans that you can address us like this.”
Charlie turned on the old man. “You’re right about that. I got a lot of friends that are ordinary poor Mexicans, and the worst of them stands a head-and-a-half above you.” He looked back at Danny. “You go, boy, now! And you be a long time in comin’ back!”
He stamped out of the house, letting the door slam behind him.
At the ranch he found Manuel in the corral beside the barn, loving the neck of his bay colt. Manuel did not speak as Charlie opened the gate and walked in. He gave Charlie a quick glance and looked back at the colt.
Charlie said, “I seen Danny Ortiz.”
Manuel did not reply.
Charlie walked up and ran his hand along the pony’s withers. Manuel had this colt as gentle as Candelario’s little black dog. “It’s just as well you didn’t go with me. There wasn’t nothin’ left for you to do to Danny. José had already done it all.”
Manuel thought about it awhile. His voice was a little cold. “It was still my place to’ve gone. It was my place, not yours.”