The Vanquished

by Brian Garfield

  “Of course,” the comisario said reluctantly.

  “Do not be so sad,” Rodriguez murmured drily. “I only seek to save your town, comisario.”

  “Or perhaps use it for a battleground,” the comisario replied. “Which is it, Captain?”

  “Do you want me to take my troops with me and leave?” Rodriguez demanded immediately. “I should like to see what might happen to this town of yours if the filibusters were given free rein to sack it.”

  The glum comisario spread his hands. “All right,” he said. “All right. You will have our cooperation, Captain. It is just that no man wishes to see his home turned into a barracks.”

  “Of course. I understand perfectly,” Rodriguez said coolly. “My tongue is dry, gentlemen. Is there a cantina where we might continue our talk?”

  “This way,” the alcalde said.

  Inside the cantina it was cool and dark. The barkeep drew three cervezas and set the mugs before them. Rodriguez took his beer back to a rickety hand-hewn table in a corner of the room where it seemed coolest, and sat, adjusting his sword so that it did not dig against his ribs. Not far away a girl sat listlessly over a glass of tequila, staring without interest at the face of the fat young man with her. The girl wore a low-scoop blouse and a flower in her hair. Probably the local puta, Rodriguez thought, but she was less ugly than most of her kind. Her eyes flicked past him, hesitated, and came back. Rodriguez dipped his head to her and the girl smiled. That would do very nicely for later, Rodriguez decided, and thought for a moment of his wife in Hermosillo. He said to the alcalde, “It might be a good idea if you were to call a meeting of the townspeople and let me explain to them what we are doing here.”

  “Yes,” the alcalde said. “I had thought the same thing.”

  “Perhaps,” said the comisario, “perhaps we should not alarm the people unduly.”

  “They must be told,” Rodriguez said, disliking the man for his obtuseness. “Would you rather have them wonder what we are doing here and resent the billeting of my troops in their houses? They must be prepared, and it is best that they know what is going on as soon as possible. As it is, enough of them will run away.”

  “Very well,” the comisario grumbled.

  The alcalde said, “I will have someone ring the church bell,” and got up from his beer to pick a path through the tables and go out into the sun.

  The comisario was frugal enough to finish his beer before he went. Rodriguez was happy to see him leave. Afterward he sat and smiled at the girl with the flower in her hair. He remembered when he had first met his wife. She had been a girl then, no older than this whore, but she had carried herself with a fine composure. It had been, he remembered, at a ball given by the prefect of Hermosillo. A very fine ball. Chandeliers and wine, fine ladies and music. And from that he had come away to this dusty little town on the Rio Concepcion to fight against an army of foreigners. He drank his beer down and touched the hilt of his sword. At Ures they thought him a dandy, a wealthy young man who liked to show himself off in a uniform. He would demonstrate to them that he was as good a fighting soldier as any of them. He smiled at the girl with the flower in her hair.

  When Charley returned to camp in the evening it was time to eat. He spoke to no one, ate a lonely meal, and afterward cleaned his utensils with sand. The sun went down and the harmonica breathed its sorrowful way across the camp; men settled down to play cards, soap saddles, talk, sleep. There was an attitude of confidence in the faces roundabout. Charley felt adrift. He went back over the long afternoon’s conversation with the girl. Flirting and small talk—arts at which he was not expert. He had spoken, though, of little things: of the cool pleasure of the shaded cottonwood pool, of the plans in his mind, hanging there vaguely, to build a little house in Mexico and work the ground for gold, of things he had seen in Stockton and Sacramento and San Francisco, of childhood recollections of New Orleans—cotton barkers hawking at an auction, the filthy old streets, darkies hauling river barges with thick ropes bent around their shoulders, dandy swells in their finery stalking the walks, his stepfather sending him to a corner saloon with a pail for beer. The girl had showed wistful interest, and in her turn had told of a dusty little horned-toad she had kept as a pet, of a time when her father the alcalde had whipped a youth because the youth had spoken to her, of the little things that touched her heart. Hers was a romantic soul and she spoke of such things as birdsongs and a long ago friendship with a coyote cub. It was all very strange and in a way sad, for it made him think of other places and he began to wish he had not come along on this senseless journey.

  When the sky was star-peppered and campfires blossomed red and men settled in, Charley got up softly from his blankets and walked out into the desert alone. The night air carried the sharp, raw scent of the wild country. Fine short wrinkles converged around his eyes when he looked up toward the faint glitter of distant stars. Dry branches rustled before small winds.

  Indecision plagued him; he wondered if he had made a mistake coming here; he was afraid. Always inclined to stuff his feelings down inside where they wouldn’t show, he walked slowly and listened to the crunch of his feet and the occasional crackle of a creosote twig or cholla segment that would break underfoot in the dark, and in spite of his aloneness in the world his expression displayed none of the tugging that went on in his soul. He wished he could know, for certain, whether to quit or go on—or whether it made any real difference whatever he did. In that mood, a sudden mood, he sat down on his haunches and tossed pebbles.

  He had come to know that no one ever had much warning of the conflicts brought by each moment’s waking; there had to be times when, taken by surprise, he had to act and stand behind that act forever, even though he might have acted for no reason whatever. He had the feeling that most of his life had resulted not so much from will as from accident. If that were not true, there was no adequate reason for his being here.

  And the end result of it was that no living person had a claim on him and he had no claim on anybody. It made him recall what Norval Douglas had said to him one day—that every man had to live by himself, for himself; that was as it should be. “When you’ve got no one to please but yourself,” Douglas had told him, “then you’re all right. It’s a mistake to begin thinking you matter to somebody.”

  He didn’t know. A coyote yapped across the night from some distant point. He got up and went back, slipped into camp without bothering anyone, and rolled up in his blanket, thinking of the girl with the long neck on the mossy bank of the water hole. It was some time before he got to sleep.

  CHAPTER 18

  Sus came up from the camp and stood before Crabb, and looked at his feet. Crabb said, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “We’re ready to leave,” Crabb said, looking forward at the men lined up, the pack animals grouped together, the officers mounted on chafing horses. Crabb stood by the head of his horse, ready to mount. “McKinney should be along any time now with the wounded. You’ll give him my instructions?”

  “I will,” Sus said, with a tone of stiffness.

  Crabb took the attitude of a man letting pent-up air out of his lungs. “Good. I was half-expecting an argument.”

  “Would it have done any good?”

  “No.”

  Sus smiled vaguely. Crabb came forward leading the horse, his hand outstretched. Sus took it gravely. Afterward Crabb swung up into the saddle, a trifle awkwardly; he was no horseman. Sus stood back and touched his hatbrim. Crabb wheeled away from him and cantered to the head of the column. Sus watched them go, sixty-eight men, including the tall distant shape of Norval Douglas on the horizon, waving them forward into Mexico. Sus wondered when he would see them again.

  He stood by the arroyo until the last of the long gray worm of men had crawled out of sight over the distant gentle slope. By then the sun was high enough to warm the earth and make it glitter. He looked over the abandoned campground—the dead signs of campfires, the horse-hollow grazed bar
e, the confusion of footprints and litter of discarded small articles that marked a camp and said, They passed by here. Pasaron por aquí. Perhaps one day someone would put up a monument commemorating their passage.

  The dust had all settled; the land was still. Sus looked back on the months behind them and found himself most surprised by one thing: that the trek had not been marked by the kind of easy comradeship that should have been part of it. It was not as if he stood here left behind by a company of friends. He could remember a decade ago when his father had come back from the war, which had really not been much of a war, for California’s independence. On a field above the town they had mustered out the troops, and afterward there had been laughing and pushing, men with arms about each other’s shoulders, hats thrown in the air, guns wildly discharged. His father had brought home three comrades, fed them and given them shelter. But this expedition had none of that feeling; and he knew now that he had discovered its fault. There were too many resentments, suspicions, fears among these men. He had not recognized it when he had walked among them, but he saw it now in the ashes of the abandoned fires. Intrigues and secret conflicts were the premises here. There was no real common goal. In spite of the artificial bolstering that Crabb’s inspiring oratory had given them, there was no strong loyalty in the group. Crabb had been right about them. Private ambitions and greed drove most of the men. Some of them, like McCoun, were full of bluster but at bottom afraid.

  It was not an encouraging line of thought. He turned slowly toward Sonoyta and began to walk that way.

  By the time he reached the plaza he was hungry. In Redondo’s store he ate some cheese and tortillas, spiced with chili peppers and washed down with dark beer. When he went back outside, Redondo was in his customary position on the porch, one boot cocked up on the rail, picking his teeth. Redondo said in Spanish, “Your friends have all departed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you remain?”

  “There are more men coming along. I am to meet them here.”

  “More men?” Redondo said musingly, and shrugged absently, as if in the long run it made no difference.

  “Some of them may be too ill to travel farther,” Sus said. “I am to take care of them. Where can they be billeted?”

  “Not here,” Redondo said promptly.

  “Why not here?”

  “No one would take them in,” Redondo said in an offhand way.

  “Why?”

  “The people of this town know what you are. They do not wish to be caught harboring filibusters.”

  Sus made a scoffing noise. “These men are sick. They will harm no one.”

  “That is what we intend to make sure of. You might put them up at Dunbar’s trading post. That is a few miles north and east of here. It is not in Mexico.”

  “Are we in Mexico here?”

  “In truth,” said the thickset alcalde, “it is a matter of opinion. The opinion at Ures is that we are in Mexico. Governor Aguilar will probably have troops here soon enough.”

  “What for?”

  Redondo made no answer. He studied the damp softened tip of his toothpick. After a moment he threw it away and found another in his pocket. Sus wondered darkly if Redondo was bluffing, but decided there would be little point in that. But what did it mean? He could not make sense out of Pesquiera’s sending troops here to Sonoyta. It would be locking the barn after the theft of the horse. He said, “How far is Dunbar’s trading post, Alcalde?”

  “Not far. An hour’s ride, perhaps less.”

  “Dunbar is a Norteamericano?”

  “He is Scottish, I think.”

  “Perhaps we will go there, then.”

  “It would be wise for you to go there.”

  “Gracias,” Sus said drily.

  “De nada.” The fat man twisted his neck around to look at the thermometer. “In the shade,” he muttered, “ninety-four degrees.” He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “It is not yet April. What will July be like?”

  “Worse.”

  “I am sure of that,” said Redondo.

  Sus went inside the store and scooped a handful of salt crackers from the open barrel. The afternoon proceeded to drag by. He was to find that it would be two more days before McKinney arrived; during that time Sus amused himself as best he could. The next night he drank alone, and on the second morning he went for a walk in the desert, kicking stones, until it became hot and he returned after a splash in the pool to Redondo’s shaded porch. Redondo sat in his usual place; once in a while they exchanged comments. Customers drifted in and out of the place; it must have been Saturday, for a good number of farmers were in town from outlying areas. How they found it possible to grow crops in this country was beyond Sus, but he guessed there must be occasional green canyons in the roundabout hills.

  About noon a young, lean rider trotted into the square and stepped down at the well to drink and water his horse, and then came dragging his musical spurs to the store, and said to Redondo, “I wish to speak to you.” After a look at Sus the young man added, “Privately, por favor.”

  Redondo conferred with the man inside the store, and afterward, when the young man went off to the stable, Redondo said to Sus, “The troops are coming. I hope your men arrive soon, amigo.”

  “How soon will the troops come?”

  “Tomorrow, probably in the morning.”

  “I see.” Sus frowned toward the northwestern desert, from which McKinney must come.

  Through the afternoon he began to chafe. Then, at about four o’clock, a rising column of dust to the northwest brought him to his feet. He stood at the edge of the porch, rocking on the balls of his feet, and said to Redondo, “Point out to me the way to Dunbar’s store.”

  Redondo did not rise. He flung out an arm. “Northeast. You go through that notch between the two round hills. It is one mile beyond that. You will see it from the hills. It is surrounded by trees; there is a spring.”

  “Thanks,” Sus said, and stepped off the porch. He walked across the plaza and out of town, going toward the advancing dust cloud. Hot air met him in the face and sultry heat lay close along the ground.

  Distances were deceiving along the desert flats. He had walked almost five miles before he was able to separate the men and horses from the dust cloud. He sat down in the near-worthless shadow of a stunted paloverde to wait for them. It took almost an hour; presently he recognized McKinney, and stood up to wave his arm in signal.

  McKinney drew rein, halting the column. Sus looked back along the ranks. Four men clung to saddles; the rest, fifteen in number, walked, some of them leading pack animals. McKinney greeted Sus without enthusiasm. Dust caked his dry flesh and his eyes were bloodshot. He climbed wearily off the saddle and said, “How far is it to Sonoyta?”

  “A few miles. But I’ve got instructions for you.”

  “Go ahead,” McKinney said. He seemed washed out.

  “The Mexicans are making threats against us,” Sus told him. “The general decided to go on to the Concepcion and meet Cosby there before Pesquiera makes up his mind to act against us.”

  McKinney looked very tired. He nodded. “I see.” He looked back along the line of men, expectantly waiting. “How long ago did he leave?”

  “Two days ago. They were making good time.”

  “At the rate we’re traveling,” McKinney said, “it will take a week to catch them.”

  “How many men do you have who aren’t fit to go on?”

  McKinney made a gesture with his thumb. “The four on horseback.” He removed his hat and rubbed his bald, pointed head. Sus looked at the four men. They all hung precariously to their saddles.

  Sus drew in a long breath and said quietly, “Your instructions are to follow the general and catch up as quickly as you can. I’ll take these four men with me to Dunbar’s trading post.”

  “All right,” McKinney said, showing no surprise. He added absently, “I wonder what happened to the men who went to Tucson for reinforcements.”
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br />   “They haven’t had time to get here yet.”

  “I guess not.” McKinney looked back down the line. “We’ll camp here. I’ll send somebody in to Sonoyta for water and supplies.”

  “They’ll find the pickings poor.”

  McKinney shrugged. He didn’t seem to care. Sus said, “If I were you I’d try to be out of here by morning. Some Mexican troops will be coming here sometime tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” McKinney said, “fine and dandy. Do you want to take those four with you now?”

  “All right,” Sus said.

  In the night, Sus thought he heard gunshots faint in the distance, but he was not sure. It might be a trick of the night winds of the desert. Just the same, he quickened his steps.

  In the past fortnight he had watched carefully over the four men at the trading post. Two of them were so ill they were unable to sit up to eat. He had hired two fat Sonoyta women to care for them, and he had brought corn-flour tortillas, eggs, and milk from town for them. But on the second day the troops had come, and the villagers had become afraid. On the fifth day all of them closed their doors to him and no woman would come to Dunbar’s to help care for the sick. Redondo remained noncommittal, but said the soldiers would keep to their side of the border. Rumors of battles and massacres came up from the Concepcion valley on the lips of Indians and traveling men; it all sounded unreasonable.

  Sus walked across the pale desert on legs that had grown muscular. He carried five precious eggs, stolen. He traveled through the hill notch and saw a lamp burning at Dunbar’s; all seemed well. Then horsemen drummed forward in the darkness, a large party, and he knew it was too late to seek concealment; they had seen him silhouetted. He stood still, waiting for them to come up.

  The horsemen were shouting: “Viva México! Mueran los gringos!” Death to the gringos. What did it mean?

  A hoarse voice shot forward from the horsemen: “Sus—Sus Ainsa.”

  “Sí,” he answered warily. He touched his gun but saw immediately the patent uselessness of that gesture. The riders were all around him. The man who had spoken dismounted and bounded forward, cuffing back his hat. “Sus—you remember me?”