The child took a deep breath for courage, went over, picked up a plate, and stood waiting. The ladies went on shoveling food into their florid faces. Maybe they hadn’t noticed him. He held his plate out, cleared his throat.
One of the ladies glanced over her shoulder, turned back to the other women. “Look who’s in line!”
“He’s got some nerve showing up here when his mother takes money from half the men in town on Saturday nights. Not my husband, of course, but I heard . . .”
He put the plate down, glanced around quickly to see if any of the children had witnessed it. The school bully had. Junior Bosner nudged several of the other boys, and they all laughed.
Behind him he heard the women lower their voices confidentially.
“. . . whore’s son . . . bastard . . .”
They would not make him cry, no matter what. He put his chin out, swaggered a little as he turned away. What was it Mona had told him? Jaunty arrogance. No one could hurt you if you pretended you didn’t care, if you pretended it didn’t matter. When he passed the school bully, he said, “I wasn’t hungry, just trying to do your mother a favor. I’ll bet her cookin’ would choke a buzzard!”
The bigger boy doubled his fists while the others laughed with delight at the smaller child’s remark. “I’ll get you, bastard,” Junior promised. “Why don’t you get on out of here?”
He knew the bigger boy would not dare attack him here in front of a crowd. Besides, he had come for the presents on the tree. Nothing would make him leave until he got that rocking horse. Surely it was there for him.
And now the lean schoolmaster, dressed like Kriss Kringle, stepped forward and clapped his hands together for attention. The ladies hurried to pick up the dirty plates and platters, and to put everything back in the picnic baskets. The schoolmaster gestured for silence, the cotton beard hanging askew on his thin face. “Now, children, we know what you’ve all been waiting for.”
The children set up a cheer that drowned him out. The boy’s heart beat faster as he pushed forward. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but he didn’t care. Surely Kriss Kringle had brought that horse just for him.
The man took a doll off the tree, looked at the tag, called out a name. A chubby little girl smiled with delight, pushed through the crowd, took it, and ran back to her beaming mother.
The boy yawned. Who’d want a doll anyway? The schoolmaster took down a toy gun, called out a name; and another child ran forward.
He didn’t take his eyes off the rocking horse. It had real horse hair for a mane and tail, and was painted to look like a pinto. It had a leather bridle and a genuine miniature saddle and red rockers. That was the only thing he cared about. He imagined himself riding it, other children dropping by the Ace High to ask for a ride. If they’d behave more politely to him, maybe he’d give some of them a ride. Everyone would want to play with him when he owned that pinto horse.
The schoolmaster called out another name, then another. His heart began to beat louder. The toys were going fast now, one name after another called out, toys lifted from the tree and placed in an eager child’s hands.
Now the only toy left was the rocking horse. The boy took a deep breath, began threading his way through the crowd. He wanted to be up front when they called his name.
He stood right at the edge of the circle, looked up at the thin Kriss Kringle with the cotton beard. The schoolmaster frowned down at him, then ignored him pointedly. He reached for the tag on the rocking horse.
“And the last and best gift of all goes to . . . Junior Bosner!”
It couldn’t be possible. The bigger boy pushed through the crowd, swaggering a little as he came up and pushed him out of the way. “Yah! You thought you were gettin’ my horse, didn’t ya?”
His fat mother said, “Now, Junior, it’s Christmas, we should be nice even to the likes of him.”
The boy grinned, revealing wide-spaced teeth, and climbed up on the spotted, wooden horse.
For a moment, the scene blurred before the smaller boy’s eyes, and then he straightened his shoulders and smiled his crooked grin. “Who’d want that anyway?” he scoffed. “That’s a baby toy!” He turned, swaggered toward the door, everything blurring before his eyes.
“Well!” Mrs. Bosner exclaimed. “Arrogant devil, ain’t he? And his mother the town whore!”
The boy turned then and confronted her. “She must be nicer than you! Mr. Bosner comes to see her or Mona every time you think he’s at a town meeting!”
The woman’s fat face turned brick red, and the people around her whooped with laughter.
The child ambled out the door, closed it behind him, leaned against it. When the tears came, they burned his eyes but left cold trails down his face in the chill wind. He ran all the way back to the Ace High.
Before he entered the back door, he wiped his face on his sleeve, swaggered in.
His mother looked up anxiously, sadly. She was more than a little drunk. “What happened over there? You all right?”
A whore, he thought, they called you a whore. It must be terrible, the way they say it. When I’m a grown man, I’ll beat up any man who makes a woman cry by calling her that. He wouldn’t tell her, she would only weep and drink more. He forced himself to yawn. “You were right, it wasn’t any fun.”
Mona came in, stared down at him. “They treat you bad, Handsome?”
He made a face. “Naw. It was just dull. I left early because there was nothin’ interestin’ going on.”
Out in the saloon, the professor struck up a song on the out-of-tune piano and the drunken cowboys sang along: “Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright . . .”
The barkeeper stuck his bald head around the corner. “Hey, Lidah, Mona, get a move on! Get out here and encourage these guys to buy a few rounds, and for God’s sake, look a little more cheerful! It’s Christmas!”
Bandit sighed now as he rode into the Falcon corral, dismounted. He’d never gone back to the school after that day. The old professor had tutored him . . . when he wasn’t drunk. He thought about Junior Bosner as he unsaddled, fed the pinto, and threw extra straw in its stall. Junior. The school bully had been killed at Gettysburg, some said hit in the back by a miniball as he fled the field of combat in terror.
Bandit thought about his own problem as he left the stable, entered the house. Just what in blue blazes was he gonna do?
He heard a noise from the library as he passed it, saw the light under the door. Curious, he opened it. Old Don Enrique sat at his desk, staring at a scrap of newspaper.
“Papá? You are still up?” The word came easily to his lips because it came from within his heart.
The patriarch started at the sound, raised his silver head. “Ah, Tony, was it a good party?”
“Sí.” He nodded. “How is Mamá?”
A shadow crossed the lined, noble face. “Feeling better. She has improved so much the last few days, I almost dare hope. . .” He looked at the news item, then at Bandit’s face. “Tony, your return has given her something to live for.”
Bandit wondered just what in blue blazes he was going to do. He went over to the sideboard, poured himself a whiskey. “Papá, I—I might have to go away for a little while.”
Eyes as pale blue as his own seemed to bore into him. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?” Falcon put the scrap of paper in the desk drawer, locked it, and stuck the key in his pocket.
Trouble. It followed on his heels like a dog. “No, Papa,” he lied, sipping the drink, savoring the taste. “I just have business to attend to, things I left unfinished behind me. Then I’ll come back.”
“But so soon after you just got home . . .”
Home. He sat down in a soft leather chair, ran his hand over the leather, sniffed the scent of it, looked into the fire. Even though it was a warm night in the middle of May, the old man kept a fire going. Bandit really did feel like he’d come home, as if all his life he’d been searching for this place. “Please don’t qu
estion me, Papá. I’ll . . . I’ll be back when I can.” He knew in his heart that was a forlorn hope.
“What about the wedding?”
There isn’t going to be any wedding, Bandit thought ruefully. Aimée was like the rocking horse. He’d been a fool to hunger for something that belonged to someone else. “Oh, I won’t be gone long,” he lied. “I’ll write. But in case I run into delay gettin’ back, I want you to ask Gomez Durango to free her from her betrothal. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Don Enrique’s lined face looked old, and he seemed very weary. He seemed to be about to ask a question, decided against it. His expression grew troubled. But he only shrugged, yawned. “Sí, we’ll talk about it mañana.” He stood up, went to the door, turned, and looked back. “Are you coming, Tony?”
Bandit took out a cigarillo, went over to the fire, and took up a small burning branch to light it. “No, Papa. You go on. I want to finish my drink.”
He heard the door close behind him, returned to his leather chair, sank down with a sigh. He hadn’t realized he was so very weary. He sipped the drink, savored the scent and taste of the smoke. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, the fire crackled. Bandit closed his eyes. Sí, he had to get out of here before that trio of outlaws showed up, maybe even on the Falcon’s own veranda as he shared breakfast with the old couple.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined the trio stepping out of the shrubbery, standing under the bougainvillea. “All right, Texan, reach for the sky! We’ve come for our money!”
The old couple would look at each other in bewilderment, then at Bandit. “Tony, what is this all about? What money are they speaking of?”
Though Bandit would try desperately to explain, no words would come from his mouth when he struggled to tell Señor Falcon the trio had stolen the money first.
The robber who looked like a used-up gunfighter would laugh and nod to the old man. “See, señor? He does not answer! He is a thief, and more than that, he is a mongrel! His mother was the town whore!”
When Bandit tried to speak in his own defense, no words came. He fought to get to his feet, but his body seemed made of iron. He couldn’t rise from his chair.
The señor and señora looked at him, horror and disbelief in their eyes. “Is this true?”
Bandit struggled to say something, but no words came.
The outlaw laughed again. “More than that, señor, you are not his father. Why, he doesn’t even know who his father is! All he has is a coin, a cougar-claw necklace, and a word.‘sokol.’”
The three outlaws threw back their heads and laughed and laughed. Bandit struggled to get up, to say something in his own defense but he had no words, no defense.
Now the old Falcons stared at Bandit in mounting horror. Then Don Enrique said, “You know how important bloodlines are to me, how important is honor! You have disgraced my family name! You are nothing but a bastard . . . bastard . . . bastard. . . .”
The outlaw in the Union blue jacket turned to his cohorts, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And now let’s tell the most terrible thing of all!”
The secret. They were going to tell the Falcons what he had not told anyone, even Romeros. He had tried not to think of it, and when it had come to his mind, he’d always pushed it away.
The aging gunfighter leered at the Falcons, then turned to Bandit. “I’m going to tell them,” he said, “and then they’ll hate you! Amethyst will hate you!”
He must stop the outlaw from telling what he knew. Bandit struggled to rise from his chair, tried to reach his gun, but his body seemed made of lead. He must shoot the man or at least scream out to stop him from telling, but he could not move or speak.
The old Falcons looked at the grinning gunfighter, then at Bandit. “What is this all about, Tony?”
Bandit fought to rise from his chair, struggled to scream out. He must protest, must stop the outlaws from exposing his secret.
The evil trio grinned at him. The gunfighter had his hand on his pistol. “Let us tell you what he’s been hiding—”
“No!” Bandit suddenly found his voice. “No!” he shouted. “No, don’t tell! It’s too terrible! Don’t tell!”
Bandit jerked up in the library chair as he heard footsteps run down the hall.
“Tony! Are you all right?” The door swung open, revealing old Don Enrique.
Puzzled, Bandit looked around. Why was the light so dim? What had happened to the patio, the bougainvillea vines?
“Tony?” Señor Falcon stood in the library door. “Are you all right?”
Bandit sat up straight, looked around. The library. It was night. He still sat in the library with a drink in one hand, a long ash on his cigarillo. He smiled with relief, feeling a bit foolish.
“Tony?” The old man came into the room. “What happened?”
The knowledge was still safe. Bandit waved him away with a sigh. “I’m all right. Nightmare. I—I dozed off, I think. Sorry to disturb you.”
The old man hesitated, his silver hair gleaming in the firelight, sympathy on his furrowed face. “You have had a very terrifying, very bad life, haven’t you?”
“Sí. I . . . I do not want to talk about it.”
The old man peered at him as if looking into his very soul. “But you’re safe now, Tony. You’re home at last. No one will ever hurt you again. You have social position, wealth, family.”
Bandit thought of the trio already searching the area for him. He’d been a fool to think he could close the door on his past, make a fresh start, step into Tony Falcon’s boots. “Sometimes, Papá,” he said softly, setting his drink on the chair-side table, “sometimes a man can’t run from his past, from what he is.”
Señor Falcon hesitated, looking puzzled. “You know, in this light, Tony, it’s almost eerie, how much you look like . . . Well, but of course, he was your uncle.” His voice trailed off in confusion, and then he said briskly, “What can I do to help you, my son?”
My son. Bandit flinched, looked away; too ashamed to look the old man in the face. If you knew, you would hate me, maybe even kill me, he thought. “Thank you, Papa, but this is something I must do myself.”
“Unfinished business?”
He thought of the trio of outlaws. “You might call it that. I must go away for a while. I’ll write,” he lied. Because of the secret, he must disappear forever. He would always live in fear that someone would tell it.
The old man distractedly ran a hand through his hair. “I had hoped you didn’t mean that. Now I see you are serious. What of your mother? What of the wedding?”
The wedding. He pictured Amethyst’s delicate face. More than anything in the world, he wanted her. But it was not to be. “I . . . I told you I want you and Señor Durango to release her from her vow, let her do whatever makes her happy.”
The old man looked baffled, shrugged. “I think we should continue this discussion later when we have both had some sleep.”
He thinks me drunk or loco, Bandit thought, but he only nodded. “Sí, Papá. The middle of the night is no time for serious talk. Go to bed. I’ll be up in a minute. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Only after Señor Falcon closed the door and went down the hall did Bandit put the drink down, snub out the cigarillo, and then take a handkerchief and wipe the cold sweat from his face.
But he had made his decision. Tomorrow would not change it. He would not endanger the two families he loved because he knew the trio of outlaws would eventually track him to this place. Tomorrow he would make what excuses he could to everyone, would ride out of here with the payroll and go back to Texas. He would return the payroll to the army, and then wait for the outlaws to find him. No, maybe he would go looking for them. If it must come to a showdown, he wanted that to take place far from the two families he cared about.
They must never know the secret. It was all so ironic. He had prayed for a miracle, but the devil must have stepped in. No matter. Bandit was going to pay for his sins by giving up everything that was dear to h
im. He sat staring into the fire until it had cooled to gray ashes.
Chapter Eighteen
At dawn Bandit shaved, cleaned up, had a quick breakfast alone. He didn’t want to talk to the elderly Falcons until the very last. Even then he wasn’t sure what he was going to tell them. First he would tell Romeros; later he would take care of the other details.
He went to the barn, climbed up in the loft, checked to make sure the saddlebags holding the payroll were still hidden safely beneath the straw. Then he descended the ladder.
Romeros entered the barn. “Oh, there you are. How was the fancy dinner party at the Durangos?” There was a touch of envy in his voice.
Bandit shrugged, his mind on other things. “I survived it, if that’s what you mean. The señorita offered to teach me proper manners so I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of elegant society.”
“Bueno, good.” The lean foreman stuck a match between his teeth, chewed it idly. “I’ve got an idea for this afternoon. You care anything about bullfighting? There’s one today in the village.”
“Only if they give the bull a sword, too, so he’ll have a fair chance.”
Romeros laughed. “There’s a bull on the Durango spread with a pair of horns that’d make you think swords! When I got nothin’ to do, I like to tease it a little, make it charge the fence.”
Bandit felt a sudden chill. “You ever do that on the pinto stallion?”
The swarthy half-breed hesitated, his expression guarded. “Maybe once or twice. Why?”
Bandit swore. “You damned near got me killed by that black bull! Señorita Durango swore that old beast wasn’t dangerous, but he took in after the pinto, I ended up on the ground! ”
“I’d like to have seen that.” The foreman smiled. “Bet it was exciting.”
“Excitement like that, I don’t need, Romeros. Leave the old bull alone! I don’t think much of people who mistreat animals.”
Romeros looked like he might argue the point; then he shrugged. “Well, anyway, everything’s working out better than we expected.”
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