Bitter Trail and Barbed Wire

by Elmer Kelton

“What we’ve got to talk about, you might not like.”

  Her eyes changed. She seemed to sense that something was not right. “You’re friends, Frio. I hope you’re not going to argue with him again about the war.”

  “Not the whole war, Amelia, just a little part of it.”

  “I still want to go.”

  He gave in grudgingly. “All right,” he acceded, against his better judgment. “I’ll be back about eight and get you. I’ll borrow a rig.”

  Later he asked Blas Talamantes if he was going. Blas shook his head. María was at the ranch, Blas explained, and a dance wouldn’t mean much without her. It had been only three days since Blas had left the ranch, but already he was homesick for his wife.

  Amelia’s face was aglow with adventure as Frio slowed the buggy horse to a walk in the heavy traffic around the Matamoros main plaza. The smell of flowers and the sound of music were in the air. Young couples strolled arm in arm along the fenced walkways that led inward toward the center circle of the plaza like spokes slanting to the hub of a wheel. Old men—and those not yet old but married long enough to enjoy getting away from their women—sat on benches beneath the trees to tell lies about their exploits in war and on the perilous trails.

  Amelia looked up in the gathering darkness at the two tall spires of the huge cathedral that sat beside the American-looking customs house. “A beautiful thing, isn’t it?” she said. “Even when they were hungry, they took from what little money they had and built a church.”

  “The soul,” said Frio, quoting a Mexican priest he had heard, “may hunger more than the body.”

  Listening in the night, he could hear voices speaking many tongues—Spanish and English, naturally, but French and German as well, and others he could not identify. All these people, drawn from across the world to this unlikely place by the smell of money—and the money because of war.

  His mind went back to the sorrow he had seen in the dark eyes of Luisa Valdez. “It’s a soul-hungry time,” he said.

  * * *

  PAPER LANTERNS OF many colors spread their light on the hundreds who were drawn to the gaiety of the fandango. By nine-thirty most of the crowd was there. Somewhere off to one side, boys were firing squibs and firecrackers, and frightened horses jerked at the reins that held them to a fence.

  The little orchestra began to play. It was made up of an old fiddle, an ancient clarinet, and a drum, the latter nothing but a barrel with rawhide stretched across the top. There was a guitar and a trumpet. Leader was Don Sisto the fiddler, a stoop-shouldered old man with a gray mustache and fiercely proud eyes, and a leather outfit that must once have been something to see. Like its wearer, it had been too many miles down too many roads.

  Her hand clasped on Frio’s arm, Amelia McCasland walked about, fascinated by what she saw. Always there had been a quiet admiration and a soft spot in her heart for the Mexicans. Benches had been placed in such a manner as to form a large square. Dancers used the center area while spectators sat on the benches. Many of the Mexican women smoked, just as did their men. Amelia watched in wonder. Across the river it was not unusual for Texas women to dip snuff, but she had never seen them smoke. Well, almost never. Now and again she had seen an immigrant Southern woman—not of the gentry—smoke a corncob pipe.

  Outside the benches, gambling tables and drinking booths had been set up. Frio didn’t count them, but he guessed there must have been forty tables, most already occupied by games of monte. The players bent in intense concentration. Men, women, and even a goodly number of children stood around the outer fringes, watching the monte with as much eagerness as did the players themselves.

  A sudden stir began at the entrance. Frio saw a bright-colored uniform and the proud bearing of the man who wore it. A worshipful retinue followed along with the officer. Even the monte players looked up, and many of the people began to cheer.

  Amelia squeezed Frio’s arm. “Is that who I think it is?”

  He nodded. “It’s Cortina—the Red Robber of the Rio Grande.”

  She said quickly, “Shh-h-h, don’t talk that way. You’re in his country now.” She stared at the fabled Mexican officer. “So that’s what he really looks like. He isn’t nearly so big as I thought he was the other time I saw him.”

  Surprised, Frio asked, “When was that?”

  “The time he took Brownsville four years ago. It was one morning before daylight. I heard horses running and people yelling. There were some shots. I ran to the window just as a Mexican loped by shouting, ‘Viva Cheno Cortina! Death to the gringos!’ Then came Cortina himself, riding at the head of a group. It was dark, so I couldn’t see him clearly, but he looked seven feet tall there in the saddle. Dad pulled me away from the window then. He and Tom and Bert kept me hidden in the cellar until Cortina and his men all left town.”

  Frio noticed that the music had slowed. Don Sisto had turned to see what the excitement was about, and his face had tightened with sudden anger. Though most Mexicans revered Cortina, Don Sisto was one of that minority who hated him with passion. Once Cortina’s raiders had picked up Don Sisto and his band on the Brownsville-Laredo road, thinking them to be Texas-Mexican government officials. They had carried the men to Cortina to see if he wanted them shot. “Damned musicians!” Cortina had shouted impatiently. “Fandango sharps! Turn them loose and get them out of here!”

  The insult had given Don Sisto’s pride a wound that would never heal. “He did not need to treat us as if we were dogs,” he had said a hundred times. “The least he could have done was to shoot us like men!”

  Cortina’s eyes touched Frio for a moment, recognizing him. Then the border chieftain found himself a seat at a table, the worshiping retinue crowding around him. Don Sisto went back to his music.

  Frio said to the girl, “If you’ve had enough, I’ll take you home.”

  “Not on your life,” she thrilled. “I wouldn’t have missed this for all of Abe Lincoln’s gold.”

  He had looked all around the place and hadn’t seen any sign of Tom. “Amelia, I’m no great shakes as a dancer, but I’d be much obliged if you’d try one with me.”

  He found the girl light and graceful in his arms. Though he was wooden and unpracticed at this, she seemed to follow along without a bobble, making him feel like a good dancer. They danced one tune, two tunes, three. Each one was faster than the one before it. When the last tune ended, Frio was puffing.

  “I’m about caved in,” he grinned, not really wanting to quit. He enjoyed having her in his arms. “Maybe we better set a spell.”

  Amelia didn’t seem to have tired a bit. Her eyes aglow, she laughed, “Who was it said this would be too tough for me?”

  He took her hand and led her back toward the benches. He stopped abruptly as he saw Tom McCasland standing there with Luisa Valdez. Tom’s face was sober, but Frio could tell it wouldn’t take much prompting to cause him to smile.

  Tom stepped forward and kissed his sister. “Hello, Sis. Never dreamed I’d see you here.”

  Amelia looked him up and down critically, as if worried about his health. “Found out Frio was coming. You couldn’t have driven me away with a club.”

  Hesitantly Tom extended his hand. “Hello, Frio.”

  “Howdy, Tom.” Frio gripped his old friend’s hand, and for a moment they stood looking at one another, searching each other’s eyes to see if the old friendship had survived the years. It had.

  Tom said, “I believe you’ve both met Luisa.”

  Frio bowed from the waist. Amelia nodded her head but stared uncertainly at Mrs. Valdez. She was plainly at a loss as to how she should accept the woman. There could be no doubt in her mind about the relationship between Luisa Valdez and her brother. It was a relationship that would have brought censure across the river. Here it seemed to be taken as a matter of course. Recognizing that she was south of the river and that it was not her place to pass judgment, Amelia said courteously, “It’s nice to see you again, Luisa.”

  And Luisa Valdez, undo
ubtedly reading everything that passed through Amelia’s mind, replied with all the grace of one to the manor born. “And you, Amelia. You are most pretty tonight.”

  Tom said, “I see an empty table over yonder. I’ve brought some brandy.”

  They sat, and Tom poured brandy into four small glasses. The two men and Mrs. Valdez sipped theirs with pleasure. Amelia went slowly, tasting with caution. For a proper young woman on the Texas side of the river, not even brandy was lightly taken. She had sampled little of it in her life.

  Amelia and Tom talked of personal things, about life in Brownsville, about their father and his store. Finally Tom looked back to Frio. “Luisa said you wanted to talk to me. I can make a fair guess what it’s about.”

  Frio glanced at Amelia. “Might be better if we went off someplace, Tom, just us two.”

  “If it’s about the war, there’s no use startin’.”

  “Not the whole war, Tom, just your part in it.”

  Tom shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. I’m workin’ for the United States government through Leonard Pierce, the consul. I keep watch, make reports about the border situation, the river trade and such.”

  Frio’s eyes narrowed. “Does that job include goin’ across the river?”

  Amelia stiffened in surprise. Luisa Valdez was staring down into her brandy, her face grave.

  Tom said, “What do you mean by that?”

  Frio glanced at Amelia and wondered if he ought to say it. But she would find out sooner or later. “Tom, I lost four teams of mules, a wagon, and some cotton. One of my men was wounded. Blas Talamantes and me, we were in the brush and saw the raiders as they came by.”

  Tom lowered his head, “And?”

  “And I want to know why, Tom. What’s the sense of it? With all the hundreds of wagons that come down the trail, what good would it do you to knock out five, or even ten or fifteen? It’s like tryin’ to empty the Gulf of Mexico with a bucket.”

  Tom put his hands together and thoughtfully pressed his thumbs against his chin. “I didn’t know they were your wagons, Frio, till we got there and I saw your brand painted on them. It wouldn’t have made any difference, though, it had to be done.” His eyes asked for understanding. “Frio, I love Texas as much as you do. I don’t want to kill anybody. The way I see it, you don’t have to kill a man to stop him; you can scare him away. If we hit a few wagons here, a few there, we can scare a lot of teamsters. We can make them afraid to start down the trail. Get enough men scared and we can slow down the border trade. Might even stop it.”

  “When a man’s fightin’ for what he believes in, he can take a lot of scarin’ and still go on. What if they don’t stop, Tom?”

  Tom’s face pinched with regret. “Then I guess we’ll have to kill.”

  Frio stared awhile at his old friend, knowing that at heart Tom was as sick of the war as he was himself. “Look at the caliber of men you’re ridin’ with, Tom. Florencio Chapa, a cutthroat. His own people are afraid of him. Even Cortina hates him, though he uses him. And Bige Campsey! Now, there’s a renegade for you.”

  “War forces a man into some strange partnerships, Frio. We need Chapa, and he’s available, so we use him.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around; maybe he’s usin’ you. He’s a born murderer. I could name you a dozen helpless Mexican teamsters he’s tortured to death on the old Laredo road. All you’ve done is give him a chance to kill and claim it’s legal. He rides out now and carries an American flag with him. No flag means anything to Chapa; not the Mexican flag and surely not yours.”

  Tom said, “He didn’t kill anybody on this raid. That’s one reason I went along, to be sure he didn’t kill anybody he didn’t have to. As for Campsey, he’s loyal to the Union and wants to fight. He came here because he couldn’t accept the Confederacy.”

  Frio said sharply, “He couldn’t accept the draft. He came here because he shot a conscript officer in cold blood.”

  He could tell by the surprise in Tom’s face that this was news to him. “This kind of business takes rough men, Frio.”

  Frio begged, “Quit this, Tom, while you still can. One day they’ll catch you across the river and you won’t get back.”

  Tom slowly shook his head. “I know what I have to do, Frio. I’ve argued with you before about the Union and the Confederacy, so I won’t do that now. Each of us has his own loyalties, and nothin’ we say to each other will change that. But I want you to think, Frio. One day soon the Union is goin’ to send troops in here and close this border. Nothin’ you can do will alter that. The trail’s goin’ to be dangerous from now on. I wish you’d go back to that ranch of yours and stay there. This war won’t last much longer. I want you to be alive when it’s over.”

  “What makes you think you’re goin’ to win?”

  “You may not have gotten the news yet, Frio. Have you heard about Gettysburg?”

  Frio shook his head. “Who is he?”

  “It’s not a man, it’s a place, a town in Pennsylvania. They’ve just fought a big battle there, the worst of the war. No one knows how many men died. When it was over, Lee and his army fell back toward Virginia. The Union will win now. It’s just a question of time.” His eyes pleaded. “See, Frio? There’s no use for you to risk your life anymore. Your cause is lost.”

  Shaken by Tom’s news, Frio still could not accept it, would not accept it. “It can’t be. We’ve hoped so long, struggled so hard.…” He looked up. “A man doesn’t accept defeat while he still stands. He fights as long as the breath is still in him. Stop my wagons? No, sir! I’ll patch them and try to buy more. I’ll haul cotton south as long as there’s anybody to buy it, and I’ll haul war supplies north as long as there’s anybody left to haul them to. Quit? Hell, man, I haven’t even started yet!”

  Tom’s eyes went cold in disappointment. “You may die, Frio.”

  “It’ll be in the service of Texas.”

  Tom said softly, “I’m in the service of Texas too. I’m servin’ her the way it seems best to me.”

  He looked up at the sound of angry voices. Frio turned in his chair. He saw El Gordo Gutierrez limping painfully toward him, his face livid with rage, his hands a-tremble. Beside him stalked the black-clad bandido, Florencio Chapa.

  “You are a thief!” El Gordo bawled at Frio, his finger pointing. “You have taken my mules and stolen my money!”

  The sight of the fat man somehow broke Frio’s somber mood. Incredibly, he wanted to laugh. El Gordo’s clothes were brush-torn from the long walk the young robbers had given him. Sweat poured down his face, leaving trails in the dust that clung there. He looked angry enough to blow apart like a runaway steam boiler.

  Innocently Frio said, “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I paid you for those mules.”

  “And stole back the money!” The fat man cursed wildly in the saltiest border Spanish. He accused Frio of hiring bandidos to steal the money that was rightfully El Gordo’s and Chapa’s.

  Understanding came into Tom McCasland’s eyes. Quickly he moved the women away. The music had stopped. The people stared.

  Florencio Chapa’s dark hand dropped to his belt and came up swiftly. A knifeblade flashed. “Gringo!” he hissed. “You are a gringo thief. I will spill your blood like a rooster in the pit!”

  Frio pushed away from the table, into the clear. He carried no gun, no knife. He crouched, waiting to try to avoid the bandit’s vengeful rush. His lips went dry, for already he could almost feel the cold steel of the blade. Chapa would be too much for a man with bare hands.

  Tom McCasland stepped in front of Chapa. “Florencio, he is a friend of mine. He is no thief.”

  “Out of the way! You are just another gringo now!”

  “He has stolen no money. He has been with me.” It was a lie, but for a moment Chapa hesitated. Tom went on, his voice holding even. “My government has given you money and guns to fight with. Do you want that to stop?”

  It gave Chapa pause. His black eyes still see
thed with anger, but reason seemed to be struggling for the upper hand.

  “Forget it, Florencio,” Tom said. “There will be other days, other rides across the river.”

  Chapa still hesitated. Then the man in the bright uniform stepped forward. No policeman would have dared interfere with Florencio Chapa, but this man had no fear of him. Juan Cortina said in swift, quiet Spanish, “Go, Florencio my friend. Do not spoil the people’s fandango.”

  Chapa glanced at Cortina, his eyes rebellious a moment, then acquiescing. He straightened. Not wanting to, he slowly shoved the knife back into the scabbard at his belt. His sharp eyes fastened again on Frio, and they spoke silently of death. At length he turned on his heel. “Come, brother-in-law,” he spoke to El Gordo. “We leave this place.”

  “But the money.…”

  “Come. I say we leave.”

  Chapa took three paces and stopped to turn once more toward Frio, his face deadly. “Gringo, I will see you again!”

  It was a minute or two before Frio walked back toward Tom and the women. “Thanks, Tom,” he said tightly. He looked at the ashen-faced Amelia McCasland. “I oughtn’t to’ve brought you.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. She didn’t reply.

  Tom said with admiration, “So you skinned them at their own game and got your money back.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.” Concerned, Tom said, “Up to now you’ve just been another damned gringo to Chapa. From now on you’ll be a prime target. You’ve made an enemy of him, Frio.”

  Frio said, “I never wanted him for a friend.” He turned to the girl. “Amelia, I better take you home.”

  The music had started again. Slowly the crowd drifted back to its dance, to its monte. Tom saw Cortina still watching him, and he nodded unspoken thanks to the man.

  Amelia said shakenly, “Yes, Frio, take me home.”

  * * *

  AS FRIO AND Amelia walked away, Luisa Valdez moved up and put her arm in Tom’s. She stared gravely after the departing couple. “He is a determined man, Tom. He will fight so long as there is breath in him.”