by Mike Kearby
"In this place, I think maybeso," Negras professed, then clicked his tongue and moved his horse toward an outdoor cantina. "Let's have a drink. All of your talk has made me thirsty."
Miguel kneed his pony forward, following his mentor. He watched several children arguing and pushing with one another around the Texans' bodies, fighting for the right to plunder the dead men's pockets.
Negras lifted rein at the cantina, whistled his steed to a halt, and dismounted. He took a seat at a small round table made of mesquite limbs and removed his sombrero.
Miguel plopped down across from the heavy-set, thick- bearded man.
Negras wiped his head. "Don't get too preachy, Miguel," he advised. "For when you find your men, you will wish to do as you please, no?"
Miguel leaned close. "There's a difference."
Negras patted the boy's wrist. "There's always a difference," he chuckled and pointed north toward Texas, "over there, I am a bandit, while here, I am a hero."
Miguel tossed a glance back to the street. "What did those men steal of such value to forfeit their lives?"
"What does it matter? You have your reasons for what you do and I have mine," he said forcefully and slapped the table with a resounding smack. "And in this place, my reasons are always right."
Miguel leaned back, shock showed on his face.
Negras relaxed and said in a whisper, "The road between what is right and what is wrong over there in your Texas homeland is a winding, bumpy, deadly path for our kind, Miguel."
Miguel exhaled lightly.
"Understand?"
Miguel nodded. "I understand," he answered.
An older woman dressed in black, carrying an amber bottle and two glasses approached. A raven-colored scarf covered her head. She placed the bottle and glasses on the mesquite table, and then bowed in respect to Juan. "Gracias, Juan Negras" she said, repeatedly, "Gracias."
Miguel looked over to Juan, questioningly.
The woman kissed the knuckles on Juan's right hand and then backed away, crossing herself and still thanking the bandit.
Negras stood and bowed respectfully at the departing woman. "Those men," he snarled and spat toward the dead Texans. "They kill this woman's man one year ago."
Miguel tossed a glance at the woman, suddenly cognizant of her mourning attire.
"Always make your enemies come to you, muchacho," Negras said. He tossed back the coppery liquid and then wagged a finger at Miguel. "The man who runs after his enemy…rides hot-headed and without good thinking, that man always gets himself killed."
Miguel continued his gaze on the woman in black. "Why did they kill her husband?" he asked.
"They kill him for two mules," Juan exhaled with a shrug. "Can you imagine such a world?"
Later, Negras and his band departed. On the outskirts of Matamoros, Miguel lagged behind and watched the bandits turn their horses to the northeast. When the group was fifty-yards ahead, he called out to Negras, "I think it is time for me to go home."
Never turning back, the bandit teacher shouted back, "It's probably the Anglo in you."
Miguel smiled knowingly.
"I know it has molded you like a lead bullet…hardened with little flexibility. You are a very serious hombre, Miguel."
"Not so much," Miguel countered.
"Hah," Negras laughed, muttering, "Not so much. Go home, Miguel, I think you are ready. Go deliver your payback, but never, ever forget patience."
"How could I?"
"And Miguel…"
"Yes?"
"Trust in your Colts more than God."
Miguel felt his smile broaden. "Anything else?"
"Yes, don't be opposed to shooting these men in the back or from an ambush. In the end, they will be just as dead."
Miguel felt his smile disappear. His lips formed a thin, straight line. "I understand, Juan Negras."
"Good," the bandit called back. "For our life is still better than growing corn. Por así es la vida."
Miguel watched his benefactor disappear from sight. Así es la vida, he thought and then quietly turned the stallion toward Texas.
29.
Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,
October 1848
Wes Cauble lowered the shotgun and glared venomously at his wife. Thin wisps of smoke floated out of both barrels. "That ought to bring your boyfriend a running," he spewed.
Susannah sprawled on the ground in front of the cabin. She tired to rise, only to have Cauble push her back with the toe of his boot.
"Where do you think you're going, Susannah?"
A reddish welt rose from her left cheek. The raised mark showed the perfect outline of a man's hand. "Wes," Susannah moaned. "Do what you want with me, but please leave Justus be."
Wes tossed a quick glance to Bark Turner. The lanky deputy's right arm encircled Justus's throat restraining the boy in a powerful arm lock. "Oh, Justus is just fine, Susannah."
"Wes, please," Susannah pleaded. "I'll come back with you if that's what this is all about."
"What?" Cauble started, chuckled softly, then bent over and roared loudly.
Susannah tightened her jaw at Wes's outburst.
Wes looked at Turner again and still laughing, pointed at Susannah. "Did you hear that, Bark?" he asked, choking back his laughter. "She'll come home with me if that's what this is all about."
Turner returned an uncertain grin.
Susannah's face paled in surrender. "I will, Wes," she ceded. "I'll be the woman you want me to be."
Cauble twisted his mouth into a depraved, wicked smile. "Keep it up, Susannah. Keep telling me what you think I want to hear," he growled with an instinctive viciousness found in all predators. "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?"
Susannah lowered her eyes. A slight tremble shook her chin; a soft sob hung in her throat.
Cauble laughed, crazed. "What's a 'matter? Can't find anything to say now?"
Susannah rolled her eyes up and locked stares with the Lone Star leader. Pity glowed on her face. "He's going to kill you, Wes."
The response, a lightning quick slap from an open palm stung her cheek.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Cauble glowered and then dropped to one knee in front of his wife. "Susannah," he mocked lovingly and began to stroke her hair with a gentle hand. "I've got some news for you," he whispered. "Your boyfriend is probably already dead."
Susannah instinctively tossed her head toward the east and exhaled a long breath, wondering, worried, yet hopefully doubtful.
Cauble turned her head back toward him. "And if he's not…then he's gonna ride down here for you."
Susannah shuddered.
Cauble's face turned grim. "And when he does, his head will be all full of you."
Susannah gasped and shook her head no.
Cauble chuckled. "He won't even notice that he's riding headlong into a dry gulching."
Susannah's expression turned defiant. "No, Wes," she screamed, angry, and pulled away from his grip. "It's time to stop all of this madness. How many more people have to die? How many more people do you have to rob of everything to feel like a man? How many more, Wes? How many will it take?"
Cauble sneered at Susannah's discomfort. His eyes contracted and then dilated. His expression turned crazed. A slight bead of perspiration gathered along his brow. He grabbed Susannah by the throat and then barked, "Just one, Ma, that's how many."
30.
Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,
October 1848
Five hundred yards to the east, a rumbling wake of dust rolled across the de Anza land.
Winston Brand turned back to the cabin and shouted, "There's a cayuse heading in to beat the devil."
Cauble stared from the front window of the house watching the approaching cloud with great curiosity. A hint of apprehension colored his expression, and his feet shuffled nervously on the dirt floor. "Take a look, Bark," he demanded irritably.
Turner stood on the decaying planked-porch. He lifted a long gl
ass from his belt and held the telescope on the rapidly approaching target.
"Who is it?" Cauble asked impatient.
"Dunno." Turner answered in a cautious, deliberate voice.
"Whataya mean you don't know?" Cauble called back. A hint of annoyance peppered his tone.
"If it's the half-breed, he's riding low, slung over the saddle. I can't tell yet."
Behind Cauble, Susannah squirmed on the dirt floor, her back to Justus, both tied from shoulder to hip with hard hemp-rope.
"Gimme that thing," Cauble muttered with an outstretched hand.
Turner pushed the looking glass toward the brigade leader and shrugged.
Cauble placed the scope to his left eye and studied the distant image. After a brief moment, his face dropped under a string of exasperated curse words.
Turner glanced at his boss, anxious. "What is it, Wes?" he asked.
Cauble squeezed through the open window and pushed the scope to his eye once more. "Crap!" he exclaimed.
Brand walked back to the cabin all the way looking at Cauble, waiting, and watching for some command. "Is it him?" he muttered. "Is it the breed?"
"Blazes!" Cauble let loose.
Turner swung his gaze back to the approaching dust-cloud. "Blazes!" he repeated Cauble's curse. "Johnny-boy?"
"Who is it?" Brand panted in a weak, raspy voice. "Is it Johnny?"
Cauble straightened, composed. He walked close to Turner and pushed the looking glass against his chest. "It's Johnny," he whispered.
"Darned fool," Turner exhaled, almost silent, and glanced over at Brand. "Mount up, Winston, and bring that horse in."
Brand swallowed and raced for his own mount.
Turner tossed a hard glare at Cauble. His forehead wrinkled in worry. "What now, Wes?" he asked.
Cauble rolled his eyes toward Turner. "You got something to say, Bark?"
Turner studied Cauble for a long moment before allowing, "I only want to know what we're going to do next," he said, retiring from a brawl. "This half-breed seems to be killing all of us a little at a time."
Cauble stared across the dry prairie land, watching as Brand intercepted Johnny Matthew's horse. "We're going to find that half-breed and kill him. That's the plan, Bark," he snapped harshly. "That's always been the plan!"
Turner turned away, as he walked out toward the returning Brand, he muttered to himself, "Yeah, well that plan just doesn't seem to be working too well right now."
31.
North of Arroyo
de la Soledad, Texas,
October 1848
Carrigan sat on the rocky hillside, slumped, his knees resting against his chest. Every nerve in his body twitched in exhaustion. He removed the wide-brimmed sombrero and exhaled a swell of air, allowing his gaze to fall to the whitish soil. There, between his spurs, an ant labored prodigiously. The ant tugged at a slender mesquite bean pod a hundred times its size. Carrigan sat transfixed and in awe of the insect's determination. "I know how you feel," he commiserated with the tiny creature. "Seems we're both burdened with heavy loads today." His brain worked feverishly as he tried to prepare for what awaited him at Arroyo de la Soledad…Cauble, Brand, Turner, Susannah, Justus…an ambush. No matter how careful Carrigan planned, Cauble would use Susannah and Justus to force a play from his hand. "You are a cursed fool," he swore softly, aware of how the odds were quickly stacking up against him. He could hear Juan Negras in his ear.
The lesson is this, muchacho…do not allow a woman to come into your business.
Carrigan grabbed his hat slapped it against the ground.
I understand, Juan Negras. I understand…now.
After a time, weary and battle-drawn, he lay back and studied the summer sky. Billowing clouds fattened with moisture teased the parched landscape with intermittent slices of shade. As his body relaxed, he allowed his eyes to close and counted his grim bounty.
Daniels.
King.
Matthews.
Three vigilantes dead, three to go, six men who had stolen everything from him, six men who had made him into the man he was today.
His hands clenched into fists, and his fingernails dug deep into his palms.
Papa.
He thought back to his father's face, purple in the noose. It was how he reconciled his own deadly brutality. He frowned in anger and clamped his teeth against one another.
Mama!
He lurched forward and let loose with a howl of pain.
Mama!
Her face, blank, staring, dead, rushed into his head.
Mama!
His voice, heavy and rasping, pained as if uttered from a primal beast shocked him to the core. Carrigan dragged a sweat-drenched bandanna across his face and then fixed his eyes on the cloth, thinking back, remembering…
"Mama?"
Margaret de Anza laid a final chunk of shale on the hastily dug grave before glancing up at her son. "What is it, Miguel?"
"Why did the white men kill these Indians?"
Margaret untied a bandana from her neck and wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. An uncomfortable smile strained her expression. "Because some men must fight, Miguel."
"Why, Mama?"
"Because their creator bestowed them with an extra dose of pride."
Miguel crept closer to his mother. A questioning, perplexing look shone from his eyes.
Margaret held out her hands, inviting the boy to her lap.
"Pride, Mama?"
Margaret took the boy in her arms and rocked him gently. "Pride, Miguel. It's like loco weed. Men with too much pride always act too brave and always seem to end up dead."
Miguel jerked his head toward his mother. "Do I have too much pride, Mama?"
Margaret pushed the boy to his feet and patted his back with a soft stroke of affection. "No, Miguel. I won't ever let you have too much pride."
Miguel pushed his eyebrows together. "But don't I need to be brave, Mama?"
Margaret rose, and swept her hand above the shale-lined graves. Her expression changed suddenly stern and strict. "Do these men we buried look brave, Miguel?"
Miguel allowed his eyes to roam the mass graveyard.
"No, they are only dead," Margaret lectured.
Miguel looked back at his mother and allowed her comment to roll off his tongue, "Dead…"
Margaret gently placed both her hands on Miguel's shoulders. "Miguel, fighting is vulgar, sordid craziness and to engage in fighting only serves to allow the fighting to continue, sometimes for years, sometimes for generations."
Miguel nodded, pouting.
"Promise me you will never fight unless you are given no other choice, Miguel."
"But how will I know, Mama?"
Margaret squeezed the boy's shoulders tighter. "Promise me, Miguel."
Miguel winced at the intensity of his mother's voice. "I promise, Mama."
Margaret pulled Miguel close to her and smiled. "Thank you, Miguel," she exhaled. "Remember what you see here today. These men buried so far from home, are not brave they are only victims, killed and plundered by their enemies."
Miguel twisted from his mother's grip and studied the battlefield.
"Enemies who left their bodies to bloat and molder in the Texas heat, left for wolves and buzzards to devour, that and only that is their final reward, Miguel."
"Uhhh," Carrigan gulped in a deep breath and jerked upright. He rose and caught the grazing stallion's reins. The finality of his journey crept over him. There would be an accounting for all of the dead before this thing with Cauble ended. He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to push a sweeping wave of pain from his forehead. "Sorry, Mama," he apologized and stepped up into the stallion's stirrup. He turned the horse for Arroyo de la Soledad with the somber realization that what he was doing really wasn't for Mama or Papa, long dead, and holding little care of worldly payback. This thing with Wes Cauble was personal, it had always been personal, and the conclusion wouldn't be principled revenge, only savage retaliation.
32.
Arroyo de la Soledad, Texas,
October 1848
The body, a lifeless mound of gore, seeped crimson from a dozen gunshot wounds.
Susannah flinched in horror. "Johnny," she murmured, then screamed, "Don't look, Justus!" then sobbed, "don't look."
Cauble stepped close, flashing a steel blade and with a quick upward slash, sliced at the rope binding Susannah and Justus to one another. "Oh, he's going to look, Susannah," he snarled, his lips taut against his teeth. "He's going to see what kind of an outlaw his mama has taken up with!"
"No, Wes!" Susannah jumped to her feet and flailed wildly at Cauble. "Don't do this!"
Cauble grabbed Justus by the neck and twisted the boy's head cruelly toward the dead Johnny Matthews. "See that, boy! See that mess! That's Johnny!"
Justus froze at the sight of the dead man. His mouth hung open, as if he wanted to speak, but no words tumbled out. After the initial shock passed, he began to struggle against Cauble's grip.
Cauble bellowed aloud, "What's the matter, boy, too much blood for you?"
"Stop it, Wes! Stop it!" Susannah continued to beat against Cauble's arms. "Let him go!"
Cauble stopped his laughing and threw Justus to the ground, forcefully, then leered at Susannah. "You always were too soft on the boy."
Susannah collapsed to the ground in a rush of tears and scrambled on all fours toward her traumatized son. "Justus," she choked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Justus brushed Susannah away and fixed his eyes on Cauble.
"What?" Cauble gestured at the boy. "What are you going to do? Fight me?"
Justus hesitated, but the anger inside him boiled to the surface reddening his neck and cheeks.
Cauble drew his fist back, mockingly.
Justus never flinched.
"Well, well, well," Cauble uncurled his fist. "Look at the bear cub."
In a dark, hauntingly hollow tone, Justus growled, "Don't ever touch my mother again."