by F. M. Parker
"All right, El Paso it is."
"So you agree to hunt and kill him?"
"I'll take the job. We were heading north anyway."
"When can you start?"
"For this kind of money, right now," Tattersall said.
"Excelente. But not today. Start tomorrow morning. I will tell Carlos and Leo to prepare to leave with you."
"Who? Why?"
"Carlos and Leo are my sons. If you cannot kill Hawkins, they will."
"We don't need help to kill one man. Hell, I can kill him by my lonesome."
"Do not underestimate this hombre Hawkins. He will not be easy to kill."
"Bullshit!" exclaimed Tattersall. "No man is too tough for me."
"Carlos and Leo will meet you here at daybreak tomorrow," Valdes said, ignoring the scalper's outburst.
"I said I don't want them."
"They go, or we have no agreement. Besides, how will you be paid when Hawkins is dead?"
Tattersall stared across the table at the Mexican. "So your sons will have the money with them, is that it?"
"No." Did the man really think he would send his sons off with him carrying such a large amount of gold? "But they can draw it from the bank in Ciudad Juarez just across the Rio Grande from El Paso."
"All right then. If that's what you want, that's the way it'll be." Tattersall picked up the pouch of gold. "If they're late, we leave without them."
"They will not be late." Valdes rose to his feet and looked down at the scalper. "Be very careful what you say to Carlos and Leo. They anger quickly and will shoot the man who insults them."
Tattersall grinned "I'm scared already."
"Listen closely to what I'm telling you." Valdes's voice was heavy with a warning. "I want you to kill Hawkins, not fight my sons." On the heel of a boot, Valdes pivoted away from the scalper. The American was suspicious, but that was a long way from knowing. With his silver spurs chiming, a sound that Valdes like to hear, he went across the cantina and out the door.
Tattersall was locked in thought as he watched the caballero leave the cantina. Why had Valdes forced his two sons on him? The reason Valdes had given, that they would draw money from the bank in Ciudad Juarez to pay Tattersall, was logical. Perhaps that was all there was to it.
The two Mexicans rode the most beautiful horses Tattersall had ever seen.
Tattersall and his band of gunmen sat their mounts in front of the cantina and watched the armed men draw close. Carlos and Leo were easy to identify for they were close copies of their father Ramos. They even dressed like Ramos. The only difference Tattersall could see was that their skins were much lighter in color and they had blue eyes. Perhaps Ramos did have a gringa for a wife.
Carlos and Leo seemed to swagger even seated upon their horses. Being the sons of a very powerful man, they must believe they owned the world, at least this part of it.
"Ustedes listos? " Tattersall said. Are you ready?
"We are both ready," Carlos replied. "My father wants this thing done quickly so we should not waste time talking." His English was excellent.
"Well, we don't want to disappoint the great man," Tattersall said. "Let's ride."
The band of gunmen spurred their horses off along the street. Carlos and Leo gently tapped their mounts with spurs, and the animals in half a dozen strides had overtaken the Americans and were running side by side with them.
The band of hunters hurried north on the ancient El Camino Real.
TWENTY ONE
The July sun blazed down from a sky bleached to a shimmering gray by the intensity of its rays. The flat Llano Estacado fumed and hot updrafts soared. No bird rode the elevators of wind rushing skyward, nor did any animal of the ground venture out, but instead they hid in their cool burrows, or in the shade cast by the few stunted bushes. Only the five horses moved on all the broad land, and their gait was a slow walk.
Riders were mounted upon three of the horses, and they sat with bodies drooping and shoulders hunched against the scorching heat. The two remaining horses were pack animals. The riders were two days west of Abilene.
"Goddamn, it's hot," John said as he wiped sweat from his face with a bandana.
"Even for Texas," Evan added. "We need to find shade and get out of the sun."
"The Colorado River shouldn't be far ahead, maybe ten miles," Ben said. "There'll be plenty of shade there, and fresh water from the springs along the riverbank.
"You up to it, Evan?"
"Do I have a choice?" Evan said.
The men fell silent, locked within the realm of their own private thoughts.
* * *
The blood red sun was sinking into the bottomless pit behind the rim of the world when the three riders reached the Colorado River. They guided their mounts and the packhorses out onto the bank above the river and surveyed the quarter-mile-wide valley of the river below them.
The Colorado was a blue-green strip of water meandering back and forth as it made its way south down the valley. One loop of the river was but a few hundred feet in front of the men. Several oxbows, abandoned meanders of the river, partially filled with aged, stagnant water, lay here and there on the flat bottomland. Broad expanses of dark green marsh areas of willows, sedges, and tall, rank grass crowded each other for growing room in the low, wet spots. On the edges of the marsh where the sites were slightly drier, large cottonwoods grew. The periphery of the green oasis of the river was dotted with huge walnut trees.
"This Colorado River sure ain't big as the one in the Arizona Territory," John said.
"You've seen that one?" Ben asked.
"Yep. About seven years ago. It's wide and deep enough for big steamboats to come up from the ocean and the Gulf of California to Arizona City."
"What were you doing there?" Ben asked.
"Another fellow and I went there to work in the silver mines near Arizona City. I want to tell you we saw something strange. The town's ferry slides on a long steel cable that's stretched over the river. The ferry can be made to cross the river just by being angled this way and that way against the current. The river water hitting the slanting side of the ferry just simply pushes it back and forth from one bank to the other."
"I've heard about that ferry," Ben said.
"Let's not sit here in the sun and talk," Evan said. "There's shade under that big walnut tree."
He reined his mount to the side toward the tree. The horse had taken but two steps when one of its front feet broke through the crust of the bank and the animal went to its knees.
* * *
The wild boar slept soundly on the cool, damp earth in the shade of the hollow beneath the undercut river-bank. He was big and black, and at the moment his nose was twitching and moving up and down with his dreaming, as if he were rooting for a tasty, buried tidbit.
A piece of dirt broke loose from the roof of the bank overhang above the boar and fell to strike him on the side of the head. He grunted in a coarse bass tone and his ears flared. He jerked to consciousness and his head rose to look at the ceiling. Something large and heavy was shaking the ground directly over his head. More clods showered down upon him from the dirt roof.
The boar came to his feet in one swift movement. He snorted loudly in alarm.
The leg of a horse crashed through the thin, weak top of the bank overhang and landed upon the boar. His snort changed to a shrill squeal and he flung himself into open sunlight. He had no thought of direction or destination. He only knew safety lay elsewhere. With his short, muscular legs driving like pistons, he raced away plowing through the marsh grass of the river bottom.
Ben yanked his rifle from its scabbard and snapped it to his shoulder. He tracked the running hog in the grassy vegetation of the marsh. The front sight settled on the animal and then the rear sight came into alignment. He fired.
The black boar felt the pain from the strike of the bullet and that served to drive him to greater exertion. But something was wrong; the sturdy legs that had never failed him began to
fail him now. They swiftly weakened, and instead of tearing through the tough grass, became entangled in it. He went down hard on his stomach.
He tried to rise, but could not. He tried to look around, but could not lift his head. The world around him faded and then went black forever.
* * *
"Fresh ham for supper," John yelled gleefully.
"A damn fine shot, Ben." John uncoiled his lariat. "I'll get him," he said.
He cautiously walked his cayuse out into the mud and grass. With a deft toss of the lariat, he snared the boar's snout just above the tusks, tightened the loop there where it would not slide loose, and dragged the body to the dry land.
"We have a shady camp and fresh meat," Evan said in a pleased voice.
"We're in Comanche territory," Ben said. "That shot could've been heard. I'll find a high spot and keep watch for a while."
"I'll carve out a big piece of ham from that boy and cook up the best feast you fellows ever had" John said.
* * *
The lookout point Ben had selected was downwind of the fire John had kindled and the aroma of the cooking ham came to him. The smell of the food made his mouth water. It also caused a pleasant mood to come over him for soon he would be eating with John and Evan, two men for whom he had a strong feeling of comradeship. It was good that he had found them, soldiers who had been wounded terribly in war like himself and now showed no revulsion at sight of his horrible face.
"Meat's ready," John called.
Ben came down from the raised point of land and joined with Evan, who had lain resting under a tree, and they went together to take seats on the ground where John had spread the food.
"That looks great," Ben said. "And I'm damn hungry."
John had taken provisions from the packsaddles, and now in addition to a huge chunk of roasted ham steaming and dripping juice, there were hot bread canned peaches in heavy syrup, cheese, and tins of sardines.
"Hurry up and hand me one of those tin plates," Evan said to John.
The men loaded their plates with thick slices of ham, cut with their belt knives, and sardines, wedges of pan bread, and cheese. The sweet peaches went for dessert. They ate heartily.
"The leg hurts, eh?" Ben said.
"Yeah, now and again," John said as he rubbed his damaged, badly scarred leg. "A cannonball exploded and a piece of it like to rip my leg off here just above the knee."
He looked at Ben. "Godawful thing to see one of your legs just barely hanging on."
The men had swum and bathed and now sat on flat rocks near the river's edge with their feet in the cool water. Evan had not swum, but only bathed and now slept on the grass beneath one of the trees growing several yards back from the river.
"You're lucky to still have a leg with that kind of wound" Ben said.
"It was a hell of a bad one, all right, with the flesh ripped and torn and the broken ends of the bones sticking out, but it wasn't luck that I still have it," John replied still massaging his leg.
He looked at Evan lying in the grass on a blanket. "Wasn't luck at all. Evan saved it for me."
"How so?"
John turned back to Ben. "Well, several hundred of us tried to break out of Vicksburg through the Yankees' lines when they were shelling the hell out of us. We thought that with all the dust and smoke in the air and the wind blowing it back over their lines, and with all the noise, that we could maybe make it past them. That's when I was hit. Yankees took me prisoner. I come to with a couple of their surgeons having me on a table and getting ready to cut my leg off."
John chucked a thumb in Evan's direction. "Then this other surgeon comes in. He takes a look and says to the others, let's try to save this fellow's leg. That was Evan, the youngest one of them. This head surgeon says that it'll never heal right and that it'll get gangrene. Evan says, if it does, then we'll cut it off. He really said amputate, but that means the same damn thing. I was one sick fellow, but I saw the others didn't like Evan bucking them. They said, you go ahead and try to save it, and they both left. And by God, Evan did save it and I didn't get gangrene."
"Some story. I didn't know Evan was a surgeon."
"The best Grant had in his army. I heard that the general had given orders that if he was ever wounded that only Evan should doctor him."
John extended his leg and looked at it. "With a wooden leg, I'd have a hell of a time getting a woman. Now with this leg, even if I limp, I think one would marry me. Hell, by using my leg I'll probably get to walking even better than I am now."
An embarrassed flush swept over John's features and he looked quickly at Ben's scarred face. "I'm sorry I said that, that about getting a woman."
"It's all right," Ben said, hiding his emotions. "I hope you do get a good woman."
"How'd you get yours?"
"A cannonball saw me as a target and hit me," Ben said shortly. "Do you think Evan would operate on my face?"
John looked doubtful. "He had me give away all his surgical instruments. Damn fine steel set too. Told me he made an oath that never again would he cut on a man. Still, you might ask him. The worst he can say is no. If he did agree, you'd be getting the best there was."
TWENTY TWO
Evan lay in the deepening dusk of evening and watched the valley of the Colorado River fill with purple shadows. The breeze moving the leaves of the walnut tree above him was still hot, but the peak of the day's heat was gone with the vanished sun. In the darkening sky, the nighthawks hunted.
The nighthawks were nimble birds, gray in color, with streamlined bodies and narrow tapered wings spanning nearly a foot. At least half a hundred of them hunted within his view along the river. They darted and dove, turning on a wing tip to catch the night insects rising up from the lush vegetation by the water. They called out with shrill shrieks as they chased their evening meal. They snagged the living morsels of meat from the aerial larder with quick mouths and swallowed them whole.
Many times as a boy, Evan had seen the amazingly agile nighthawks feed with their wild acrobatics. He had lain on the ground as he did now and watched them weave about through the evening skies in a feeding frenzy. The sight always brought pleasant memories.
After eating and a nap, he felt stronger. He was healing, with the bullet wound totally closed and only the bright pink scar remaining. The injured lung had regained part of its capacity to draw air. He knew it would never be totally whole. There had been too much damage done to it. He had seen men function with but one lung. He had one lung and half of the other, so eventually he should be able to perform nearly to his previous vigorous level.
Ben and John were within Evan's view sitting near the river's edge. They were talking, and he could hear their voices but could not make out the words. Brutus grazed on the riverbank near Ben. Evan smiled as the thought came to him that the horse acted more like a huge dog than a horse. Brutus never let Ben get far away. Frequently he would raise his head from grazing to check his master's location. If Ben moved beyond fifty yards or so, the horse would close the distance, and then again begin to graze, or stand surveying the land all around.
Evan saw Ben leave John and come toward him through the shadows. He squatted beside Evan.
"Evan, John said you're a surgeon. That so?"
"I was," Evan replied looking into the man's shattered face. In the gloom of night, the man's appearance was gruesome.
"He said you're the best that ever was. That you saved his leg when other surgeons wanted to amputate it."
"There's some truth to that." Evan was immediately afraid of where the conversation was heading. "I was lucky enough to help, but most healing is done by a person's own body."
"Did General Grant appoint you his personal surgeon?"
"He did do that."
"When he had hundreds of them to choose from?"
"Less than one hundred. We were always short of surgeons."
"Still, he chose you." Ben studied Evan, who had now risen to a sitting position. The man had a tense, wary ex
pression, and Ben believed he was thinking of the oath he had made to never perform surgery again.
"I've got a favor to ask you, Evan. I want you to fix my face."
"I can't do that."
"Does that mean you can't or you won't?"
"Both."
"Both? Don't play games with me. Look at me, damn it. I'm a monster."
Evan shuddered, and Ben saw it. Still, Ben drove ahead. "I want to look human again. I think you can do that for me."
"I've cut the flesh of too many men. I can't stand to do it again." He held up his hands and examined them in the half-light. "Do you know how many arms and legs these have severed from men's bodies? Hundreds, Ben, hundreds. And dozens of men have died from the pain while I cut and sawed away on them. I just couldn't save them, no matter how hard I tried."
Evan's whole body was shaking now. "I'll never take a scalpel or saw in my hands again. Not for you, Ben. Not for anybody. I couldn't stand for another man to die with my knife cutting his flesh."
A heartrending moan escaped Evan, and he lowered his hands and clenched them together in his lap to stop their trembling. The thought of cutting into Ben's face made him almost vomit. Never, never would he agree to it. His growing revulsion to performing as a surgeon had begun months ago. The last days as a surgeon with the general's army had been horrible. Yet he was a soldier, and had continued to perform his duty and operate on the wounded. Then at the last, he had made the oath to himself, and with that done he had thought he would have some peace from the heartrending images of men dying under his hands. Instead, with every day that passed, he was repelled more and more from his profession.
"Don't give me a crybaby story," Ben said harshly, boring in. "Your actions didn't kill them. The goddamn war caused the wounds and the pain that killed them."
He caught Evan by the shoulder. "I'm asking you again, help me get shut of this face that scares even grown men."
"I'm not going to operate on you," Evan said, controlling his voice with a determined effort. He pulled loose from Ben's hands. "And anyway, several operations spaced over months would be required. One to do so much, then time to heal, then another operation, and time to heal, and so on. I would have to literally cut your face away from the whole side of your skull and start rebuilding and shaping from the beginning. The pain would kill you, or drive you mad."