by RW Krpoun
The paper had a location sketched in neat pencil, signed ‘thanks again, Billy’. I passed it to Captain. “I think we’re back in business.”
The gunny sack contained a holstered pistol, six boxes of cartridges, and spare magazines.
“That’s one of those new-style pistols,” Mac observed as I hefted the weapon.
“It’s by Colt, the Army’s new sidearm, the M1911,” I drew back the slide and checked the chamber. “They designed it because the damned Moros chewed these leaves and came at you like a freight train on an incline.” I touched my scar. “They were damned hard to stop.”
Mac shook his head. Guns were a point of contention between us, and we three had had many extended and unresolved debates over what was best. Mac believed in speed and working in at close to medium ranges, carrying a .38 Smith & Wesson Model 1899 revolver, and the Winchester Model 1899 lever-action carbine in .30 WCF, what the Marlin Company called .30-30.
Captain was a radical, having adopted the Mauser C96 automatic pistol and a Remington rolling block rifle in the new .30-06 cartridge. His concept was that his C96, with its detachable wood holster/stock, would suffice for anything up to fifty yards, and for anything further the Remington would carry the day. He certainly was one of the best long-range shooters I had ever met.
Myself, I carried the Colt Single Action Army with a five and a half inch barrel in .45 Long Colt for the stopping power, and a Krag carbine. Speed is fine and good, but I wanted stopping power after that damned Moro had come within an inch of taking my face off. Now that I wasn’t in the Army my rifle ammunition was soft-nosed semi-jacketed rounds which were inhumane according to the nancy-boys who wrote the treaties, but much more effective at stopping a man in his tracks. The Krag was dear to me because it was the only modern rifle you could reload or top off with a round in the chamber, ready to fire.
I had handled a M1911 before-our district chief had one and was extremely fond of showing it off. I was leery of this trend towards self-loading handguns, but Captain was working on me, and I had been impressed with the feel of the M1911 and the power of its cartridge.
Disassembling the weapon, I examined its parts critically before putting it back together and stowing it. It was a thoughtful gift and I hoped Billy got some sense into his thick skull and headed back north.
“The Judge is about twenty-odd miles south of here, in the hills,” Captain declared, having consulted the map. “An old hacienda. Looks like a good place to hole up.”
I looked over to where he was pointing at the bottom of the map. “Damn. This business just keeps drawing us deeper and deeper into the revolution. You wait, he’ll send us even further into the fray. Hell, we’re at the edge of our map as it is.”
“Mexicans,” Mac sneered; he had little regard for our southern neighbors’ ability to fight.
I didn’t hold a very high opinion, either, although I acknowledge that individually the Mexicans were as tough as any. The trouble was their military had no real motivation and the rebels lacked discipline; either group was good for a lot of drama but was short on getting into a serious fight. They reminded me of the Chinese in that regard, operating with lots of looksee ferocity but at the core of it they usually didn’t want to stand up and fight. The leaders tended to be corrupt and the rankers to be unmotivated.
Mexicans tended to talk too much, too, always wanting to tell you why they were killing you, or wax eloquent on something or another. Those pistoleros yesterday would still be alive if they had started shooting instead of looking tough. One of the many things the Army had taught me that the best way to win was shoot first and keep shooting until the enemy were all dead. In my opinion it didn’t matter how you looked or what you said so long as you were still standing when the fight was over.
I drained my coffee cup. “Might as well get moving. Sooner we’re north of the Rio Grande the better I’ll like it.”
My horse is a spunky little Morgan mare I called Pork Chop for no particular reason, well-used to gunfire and hard living on the road and inclined to bite when she was in a sour disposition, which wasn’t often. She grew tired of stables after a few days and often did not mingle well with unfamiliar horses, but she was worth her weight in gold when trouble came up. I liked her for being alert-she was an inquisitive horse, and had once gotten her nose bitten by a raccoon she found rooting around in a trash pit.
We had two pack mules Mac had named Trout and Perch for reasons known only to him, which was a bit much for a quick in and out job, but the Agency preferred that we travel in suit and derby as much as possible in order to maintain the proper image, and that meant carrying more gear than I would like. Neither was fully loaded, but I had taken the opportunity to sign out some extra gear and rations on spec.
And we had certainly moved far on this trip. We were tasked to locate and return one James Arthur Sibley, a civil engineer who had departed Kansas City with a large sum of money and a wife, neither of which belonged to him. His employer, the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway, wanted to speak with him regarding the money and had contracted with the Pinkertons to arrange the meeting.
The auditors had established that the money was stashed in accounts under false names so bringing Sibley back alive was essential. We had picked up his trail in San Antonio and found the wife where he had left her in El Paso, but Sibley had proven better than most at moving fast.
We knew he was laying low in San Quierto, which wouldn’t have been my first choice of Mexican states to visit, which might be why he picked it. Unluckily for him we had been here before and had a contact who kept pretty close tabs on the comings and goings in the region. The trouble was that our contact, the Judge, was now laying low himself. This beat-up village was the third place we had been through in our search for him.
“What was this place’s name, anyway?” I asked Captain, who was keen on details.
“Sabine, same as in Texas.”
“Huh. I was thinking Sonora. Place where we’re going have a name?”
Captain passed me the map. “Xalapa. Looks like it was a village near a big estate until the revolution got started.”
“Well, the Judge is the expert, so it’s probably safe enough.”
“You trust him?” Mac moved up alongside us, Trout and Perch snorting in annoyance at the brief increase in pace. I think it is an Agency policy to only purchase mules with proven bad attitudes.
“The Judge? Yeah. He’s the sort that’s good for his word. He’s not doing it for love, mind you.”
“You’ve dealt with him before?”
“Yeah, once in El Paso and once in Mexico. He’s helped other agents, too. Makes a decent living selling information. You see the record on him?”
“Nope.”
“He’s free-born, out of California. Started out as a buffalo soldier, Ninth if I recall correctly, back when the redskins were lively. Scouted a bit for the Army afterwards, finally ended up in Fort Smith working for the Federal Court. Clerk, bailiff, ran down some warrants in the Territory.”
Mac was impressed at that-back in the day a lot more lawmen had ridden into the Territory than had ridden out of it.
“Anyhow, he ends up out to pasture south of the border, picks up the odd greenback for knowing who is where and what is what. He sounds like a lawyer, hence the moniker.”
Mac rode a tall horse so he towered above me as we rode, a fact I took comfort in as I thought it likely that any Mexican sharpshooter would aim for the most imposing figure first.
Like firearms we argued a lot about horses as well. I am a foot soldier at heart, and prefer to fight dismounted if at all possible, using a horse simply as transport. Mac and Captain, on the other hand, were raised on horseback and get the horrors if they have to walk any distance at all. Captain dismounts to use his rolling block, but otherwise both would prefer to fight mounted if given a choice.
We don’t agree on much, but what we did agree on was the important things: security, violence, commitment, loyalty.
You get those things sorted out and nothing much else really matters.
Chapter Two
Travel isn’t something I’m very fond of, although I can’t say I hate it, either. The Army shipped me all around the world which led me to discover that faraway, exotic lands are simply a slight variation of hot, smelly, and full of bugs. And the locals all hate you. If I have to travel, I prefer the train because you make good time, someone else does all the work, and you can get a hot sandwich and play cards.
It’s hard to say exactly what I enjoy anymore. I remember as a boy being excited by approaching holidays and events, of dreaming about things I would do or see, but for quite some time my days just pass by without a great deal of emotion. I don’t know when it happened exactly-I recall being very enthused when the Pinkertons hired me seven years ago, and there had been some high points since, but the colors in my life seem to have faded. It was probably just part of getting older-after all, Captain and Mac weren’t exactly vibrant with wonder, either.
As a point in fact they were currently arguing about the ancestry of a handful of cattle we had passed, which was typical. The only thing I find interesting about cows was steaks done with red in the middle, but those two would debate the merits and possibilities about a bovine until the creature died of old age.
In fact, the job was about the only thing I really found interesting anymore, being out in the field matching wits with other men in a dangerous environment. Home was a small rented room in Austin, and I did my best to avoid spending much time in it. Between bonuses and living on field expenses my savings were building up by leaps and bounds.
Or rather, my net worth-since ’07 my younger brother, a whiz-kid banking clerk, was investing my money by buying stock in the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, and the Ford Motor Company. We had argued loud and long about the latter-I didn’t see how these horseless carriages were going to be a safe bet, but he swore that Henry Ford had ideas that would someday make the business sing. I didn’t see how-they turned out just a few of the machines a week. At the rate they were going I would die of old age before the first horse ranch went out of business. Still, what did it matter? I put the shares in my safety deposit box and went about my life. At least telegraphs were a safe bet-those would be around forever.
We were following a battered, weather-worn road that would have killed any horseless carriage that risked its passage, through a dry but pretty countryside devoted to cattle, goats, and the supporting feed crops. The fall rains were expected at any time, which would perk up the grass and fill the tanks and ponds for another growing season; in fact, Mac and Captain were now arguing about the condition of the clouds to the east.
Xalapa was a battered cluster of white buildings on a low rise; blackened structures here and there indicated that it had received the vigorous attentions of one side or another, or perhaps both. It was apparent that it had been done out of meanness rather actual fighting, as the burnt buildings were scattered in no rational arrangement and there was no impact damage from gunfire. Fighting house-to-house leaves a very visible imprint on the structures involved.
Thinking on it sent me back to Peking and the insane exhilaration of breaking through the last bitter hold-outs before the city was sacked. I know men who think the Chinese are as yellow as their hides, but none of them were with the Fourteenth. They didn’t build armies worth a damn, but the individual Chinese were perfectly capable of fighting like demons, and the Boxers were highly motivated.
The peons scattered at the sight of us. Women dragged kids into houses and quite a few men found business elsewhere. Those who were unable to abandon their tasks devoted their full and complete attention to the job, their entire posture radiating a desire to be unseen.
Captain turned us off on a side street and we bypassed the bulk of the town, not that it bulked in any way. We passed the church and a graveyard that had a dozen relatively fresh graves, suggesting that the town wasn’t the only thing that had suffered.
Our destination was a two-story mansion and outbuildings enclosed within the typical white-washed adobe-brick wall you see at a lot of haciendas. This one was different in that the arched gateways in the wall had stout gates made of fresh lumber and there were catwalks along the inner side of the wall.
“Looks like the Judge expects trouble,” I commented as we approached the wall. A couple young men lounging at the main gate stood up and adopted the humble peon stance, but their positioning was wrong. These were peons who weren’t turning the cheek anymore.
“You two wait here,” I reined up at the gate and dismounted.
“Sure,” Captain scanned the outbuildings. “Two on the roofs.”
“Couple more near the stables,” Mac observed, stepping away from his horse and stretching. “You really trust this bird?”
“Him I do. Question is, is he still in charge?” I knocked the dust from my clothes as best I could. “One way to find out.”
The eyes on me as I walked towards the house were a physical itch to an old soldier. I had left off the sleeve-spring as too unfriendly, but had tucked the derringer into my right boot-top just in case.
It was a good walk under the hostile eyes and a hard late afternoon sun: I felt alive again. My blood seemed to spark, the light seemed sharper, and the scents far sweeter and homelike. On the edge of death seemed to be the only time I felt alive anymore.
Aside from the pigeon coops which were, I suspect, a significant part the Judge’s method of knowing what went on across the region, I saw wheel marks in the dust, iron-rimmed and biting solidly, too narrow for a cart. The Judge might have a fancy little two-wheel racing buggy he loaded heavy for some reason, but I figured it to be much more likely he had one or more light cannon tucked away. Probably muzzle-loaders, but still capable of inflicting a nasty, and fatal, surprise to over-confident attackers.
A pretty senorita was waiting for me at the finely-carved double doors to the mansion. “You are here to see the Judge? Follow me, please.”
She led me around to the back of the place where the Judge was lounging at a table in the shade watching a bunch of giggling girls beat rugs. The hilarity doubled down when I appeared. There’s a certain age when a girl is filled with nothing more than giggles and whispers.
“Seth Peak, the Agency’s favorite field man,” the Judge pushed a chair out from the table with his sandal-clad foot. “Have a seat. Beer or lemonade?”
“Lemonade, thanks.” I set my bowler on the table and took the chair. There was a mug of beer, a plate of fried grasshoppers, and a leather dice cup in front of him, a thin strip of paper peeking out of the latter. His pigeon notes, I guessed.
The Judge was a big man, an inch or so over six feet and broad-shouldered, still powerful despite being six decades in age. He was light-skinned, lighter than some Mexicans, with strong features set off by a granite jaw and mustaches trimmed close but running down towards his chin. His gaze was sharp, neither arrogant nor humble, and he was inclined to smile more often than not. I’m no judge of men’s appearances, but I knew the senoritas considered him handsome, and if women find you acceptable than what other men think is of no importance.
He was wearing round glasses with green lenses, a loose linen shirt open a few buttons, and trousers of the same material. A long-barreled Colt with a carved ivory grip rode cross-draw, the first time I had ever seen him openly armed.
“Thank you,” I accepted a surprisingly cold glass from the young lady and took a long, grateful drink. She set a sweating pitcher and a tray of the little folded pastries the Mexicans love on the table and swayed off.
“You killed two gunmen yesterday,” the Judge observed mildly.
“I only killed one personally, not that it matters,” I took another drink. “Things are going to hell in a hand basket down here. I was lucky to find you.”
“An urgent matter, no doubt.”
“Looking for a James Arthur Sibley. He was headed this way, last we heard. A hundred for an address,
same again if he’s there.”
“Murdered a Senator, did he?”
“Walked off with a rail company’s cash reserve and a rich man’s wife. Stashed the money and dumped the wife before he headed south of the border. He’s been a couple steps ahead of us the entire way.”
White teeth flashed beneath the mustache, which was still mostly black. “Clever lad, I take it?”
“So far. We wasted a lot of time trying to figure out what his game was.” I refilled my glass from the pitcher. “Nice place you have here. Looks like a fort up close, though. Expecting trouble?”
“These days, always.”
“Need something shipped south? Half of Texas seems to be running guns these days. Yesterday I ran into a guy I went into Peking with, when the Boxers rose.”
“Was that where you acquired your beauty mark?”
“Nah, a Moro in the Philippines a couple years later. Same basic work, though: reforming the heathen with a Krag.”
He smiled at that. “In my day it was the Springfield, Model of 1873, in .45-40. We used to slip in an infantry .45-70 when the recruits were practicing. Kicked like an artillery mule.” He took a pull at his mug. “I happen to know something of your lad. He’s in Sinaloa, forty miles south of here.”
“How fresh is your information?” I asked as I counted out the double eagles, the gold coins making a very substantial noise on the table.
“Very, not that it would matter, as it seems he has set up housekeeping with a Russian woman.”
“Huh.” I thought about that as I drank more lemonade. “She was already in place?”
“Yes, has been for over a year.”
“Did they meet by happenchance?”
“I doubt it. It was better described as a homecoming.”
I rubbed my scar and worried at the news. “He had this planned for some time.”