by Steve Lee
'I've heard,' said Sloane.
'The priests say it is a holy relic but I saw only its beauty not its holiness — beauty that seemed more of the Devil than of God. When I saw it I felt as a boy who desires his first woman. I wanted it — and so I took it. Señor Sloane, I am no longer the same man as him who killed those people so that they could be liberated. I am not that same man who took the skull from the altar in the mission. I no longer believe in the Revolution. Why fight to give votes to peasants if all they can do with their votes is elect some cut-throat like Juarez? No, Señor Sloane, to be strong Mexico needs strong men with strong ideas. And strong men need a strong God…'
There was a portrait of the Madonna and her child hanging from the wall of Don Luis' study. The aristocrat looked up at the portrait. He seemed to draw strength from it. 'Once I hated the Church and its priests. Now I love the Church as I love my own mother.'
His gaze shifted to Sloane. 'When I returned to the bosom of the Church my soul was stained with sin as my hands were stained with the blood of innocents. I have made payment for those sins, Señor Sloane. I have paid many times over. I have paid with gold so that masses are said every day for the souls of those killed by my men. I have paid for candles to be lit in their honour — hundreds of candles, thousands! And after all I have done, all I have paid, do you think those priests at the mission can find it in their compassionate hearts to forgive a sinner?'
Don Luis shook his head, his shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. 'No, Señor Sloane, they cannot! They refuse to forgive me. Me, who has given them so much… They withold from me the forgiveness they would give to a common bandido!'
He leaned urgently across the desk towards Sloane, close enough so Sloane could see the fear in Don Luis' eyes. It wasn't fear of men or even of death — but of what came after death.
'Señor Sloane, I am a believer. I believe in Hell and its torments, I believe in its everlasting fires which roast the souls of sinners… I do not want to go to Hell — and those pigs of priests refuse to forgive my sins, refuse to give me Absolution unless…' The words trailed off in his throat. Don Luis' face was full of despair at the thought of Hell. He swallowed heavily.
'Unless?'
'Unless I return the holy skull to the mission!'
Sloane shrugged. 'So give it back to 'em,' he said.
'Two years ago,' Don Luis told him slowly, dejectedly, the skull was stolen from me — by El Muerte!'
Sloane nodded, a faint smile on his lips. The pieces were all fitting together. He understood. 'And you want me to go after him and bring the skull back for you so's you can go to heaven?'
The aristocrat made a despairing gesture with his hands. 'Who else can I turn to?' He rose from behind his desk and strolled over to the window before speaking again.
'My men are too afraid of El Muerte's reputation to go after him. Some of them actually believe that he is a dead man who has returned to life. The government troops leave him alone because he is a hero to the people…'
He turned back to Sloane, an appeal in his eyes. 'But you… You are not afraid of him. You wish to kill him — and the way you fight I believe you have a chance. I ask of you that at the same time you return to me the crystal skull.'
Sloane leaned over and crushed to death the butt of his cigar on the smooth polished surface of Don Luis' desk. He rose to leave.
'Thanks for askin', Don Luis, but I'm not lookin' for any jobs right now…'
'I'm sorry to hear you say that, Señor Sloane,' said the Spaniard.
'Life's full of Utile disappointments,' said Sloane making for the door.
When he next spoke Don Luis' voice was harsher, the words coming fast and confident. 'I am sorry because now I shall have to ask you to look out of this window and see what will happen if you do not do as I wish!'
Sloane stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned to face the aristocrat. The way Don Luis had spoken he expected him to have a gun in his hand. He didn't. His smug expression suggested he had something better than a gun up his sleeve. Sloane crossed the room and joined Don Luis at the window. He looked out.
The window gave a good view of the smaller adobe building next to the casa. He noticed for the first time that the windows of the building were barred like a jail. On the balcony of the building, between two grim guards aiming rifles stood the dainty figure of a Chinese girl, her pretty face filled with fear.
It was Su Fan.
Chapter Nine
'You bastard!'
Sloane spun towards Don Luis, his face ablaze with anger. The Spaniard raised his hand meaningfully. Sloane looked into the prim black mouth of a Deringer 42. The sight of the small elegant gold-handled pistol brought an ugly smile to his lips. He judged the distance for a kick.
'Please, Señor Sloane,' the Spaniard warned him impatiently. 'I have no doubt you can take this gun from me with one of your tricks. But think first of the girl — my men have orders to kill her the moment you offer me violence.'
Sloane's hands were fists primed to explode into punches. But the thought of danger to Su Fan made him hold his attack. He swung away from the dapper aristocrat, back towards the window. The two vaqueros on the opposite balcony were holding their rifles to Su Fan's head and their expressions meant business. Su Fan saw Sloane. She called out to him, her voice high and strained.
Sloane turned quickly back to Don Luis. 'What's your price?' he snarled.
'Only what I have told you, señor. Return the skull to me and the girl goes free.'
'And if I don't get it back?'
The Spaniard shrugged regretfully. 'Then she dies.'
The look in Don Luis' face was coldly fanatical. Sloane had no doubt he meant what he said. He pushed back the surge of impotent fury that heaved his chest. He felt like smashing his fist into the wall. Or Don Luis' face.
'I thought El Muerte had her,' he said. 'What's she doin' here?'
'My men came across some of El Muerte's bandidos… There was a fight. The bandits escaped but they left something behind — her!'
'Careless of 'em,' said Sloane.
'But very convenient for me. 'And now I suggest you go, Señor Sloane. It is a long ride to Lascara. There is a report from one of my men that he was in the village last night. He may still be there. And wherever he goes, he takes the skull with him.'
Sloane looked back at the balcony. It was empty. 'How 'bout the Chinaman?' he asked.
'He may go with you or stay as you wish. But warn him not to attempt anything foolish. There will be two of my men with her at all times. She will be the first one to die if anyone tries to rescue her.'
'How do I know you won't kill her anyway?' Sloane asked. 'Even if I get the skull?'
Don Luis looked seriously pained.
'I am a man of honour, señor. You have my word as a Spaniard, as a gentleman.'
'Sure,' said Sloane, turning to leave, heading for the door. 'I was forgettin' you were a man of honour.'
'Don't disappoint me, Señor Sloane,' Don Luis cautioned, raising his voice. 'I very much want to go to Heaven.'
Sloane paused in the doorway, contempt in his face. 'Somethin' tells me you won't find many friends up there,' he said then slammed out of the room.
He passed Rosalia on the stairs. When she saw the look in his face, she drew back. Fast. Sloane made straight for Billy Wang's room. The young Chinaman was gouging the air with fingers hooked into claws — practising his tiger stance. Sloane told him what had happened.
'Su Fan here?' said Billy incredulously. His surprise quickly became joy. 'Let's go get her!'
'They'll kill her,' said Sloane. It was a statement of fact. 'You got a choice — you come with me or you stay.'
Billy pressed a fist against his palm, his face tight with concentration.
'How're we gonna get the skull off El Muerte?'
'I was figurin' on askin' him for it,' said Sloane wryly.
The Chinaman looked at him like he'd gone screaming crazy.
'You got
any better ideas?' Sloane asked him.
'I'm staying,' Billy decided.
'Good,' said Sloane. 'You'd only get in my way.'
Billy glared at him.
'She'll need someone to get her out of here — I don't think you'll be comin' back alive.'
'You're real encouraging,' said Sloane, turning to leave.
'She's my woman, Sloane,' Billy called after him. 'Don't you forget it!'
Sloane looked back at him, his face a mask. He said, 'Right now she ain't nobody's woman but Don Luis'.'
Back in his room Sloane ripped off the velvet jacket and ruffled shirt. He put on his own sweat-stained shirt and the filthy blood-splashed suit that had once been white. He felt cleaner wearing them than the fancy new clothes Don Luis had given him.
He saddled his horse and rode out.
Leaning over a corral fence, Toro and Aguilar watched him. Toro only half-watched him because one of his eyes was swollen closed in a purple bruised face.
'Bring back two heads, señor,' Aguilar called out, 'the death's head and the head of El Muerte!'
Aguilar laughed but Toro did not. He would have liked to but his face hurt too much. Both men knew the gringo would never come back. Either he would run and hide like any sensible man. Or he would die.
If Sloane heard Aguilar's laughter, his face did not show it. He laid heels to the Morgan, heading for Lascara. In the distance, he saw a pack of vaqueros exercising the remuda. It could be the glare of the sun playing tricks with his eyes he thought — but it seemed to him that the herd of horses was chasing after a bright golden streak of sunshine.
* * *
Through the barred windows of her prison, Su Fan watched Sloane ride out. She watched until he merged with the horizon, until she could no longer see him. Her jade eyes misted with tears. Earlier, when she'd seen Sloane at the window, she'd almost wept with joy. She thought he'd come to pay a ransom or make some other kind of deal that would get her released. She'd waited and waited for him to come and take her away. But he hadn't shown. And now he was riding out. Without her.
She couldn't understand it. She'd tried asking the guards but they'd just laughed at her, undressing her with their eyes as usual. Chiquita, the girl who brought her meals had told her there was another stranger in the hacienda. A yellow man, she'd said. A Chinaman. Chiquita had said he was young and not bad looking for a man who was the colour of a piece of cheese. It sounded like Billy Wang. Su Fan's heart hammered when she thought of that name. She feared and hated him — hated him almost as much as the killers who'd butchered her parents before her eyes.
He'd seemed pleasant enough when he first started working for Chang Fung. Eager to please he'd worked hard and always with a smile on his face. Then he began to get interested in her. Too interested. She'd told him that there was someone else, someone she was waiting for. She'd told him about Sloane. He'd called her names because she loved someone not of her own people. Then, one night when she'd gone to the well to fetch water, he'd attacked her, tried to force himself on her. Chang Fung had heard her screams. He'd come running, waving his sword, and chased Billy away. Before he left Billy had threatened them with the power of the Tongs, the secret societies that ruled the Chinese community in San Francisco with an iron fist of terror. He'd promised that his uncle's Tong would send assassins to kill Chang Fung. Her father had laughed and swiped at him with the flat edge of his sword. Billy ran off. She'd seen him a few times after that, lurking around the house, waiting for a chance to get at her. And now it looked like he'd followed her all the way to Mexico for his revenge.
Su Fan moved from the window, hiding her tears from the guards behind a mask of anger. The fat guard called Carlos scrambled back from the sudden movement. He knew what had happened to Alfonso when he'd come too close to the yellow she-devil. She'd kicked him hard in the parts that made him a man. It would be weeks before he could even look at a pretty woman again without pain. Carlos retreated until he felt the wall at his back. Beside him stood Pedro, tall and silent. Together the two guards watched the despair of the fragile-faced Chinese girl, their eyes and their rifle-barrels following her as she paced helplessly inside the small locked room.
* * *
Father Josef reined in, bringing the buckboard to a groaning halt outside the mission. Almost immediately the buckboard was surrounded by squealing children admiring the coffin that the priest had brought back from the next village. It was a good coffin. Pascual the coffin-maker would go to his final rest in a better coffin than he had ever made in his whole life.
Father Josef sprang down from the wagon. He shook the dust from his cassock as a woman shakes crumbs from her skirt. When he looked up Father Francesco had emerged from the mission, drawn outside by the cries of the children. The older priest looked joylessly at the coffin in the back of the wagon.
'A fine coffin,' he said without enthusiasm. 'A pity you brought only one.'
Father Josef looked sharply at his fellow priest, a question in his eyes.
'It would have saved you a journey if you had brought back more,' Father Francesco told him.
'How many more?'
'Three,' replied the older priest. 'José the pulque-vendor, his daughter Consuela and the old vaquero, Horacio.'
Father Josef clutched at the buckboard for support. 'El Muerte?' he asked in a tired voice.
Father Francesco nodded. 'They came last night. He has ordered that the village honours him with a feast on the Day of the Dead.'
'Is there no news of the Americanos?' Father Josef asked with a faint hope.
'One is dead. Perhaps all three.'
The young priest lowered his head. He stood in that position for a long silent moment, his face working as he listened to the words of his heart.
'We can only pray that God sends us help,' said Father Francesco bleakly.
Father Josef raised his eyes to the older man. They were fired by a new fierce determination.
'God helps those who help themselves,' he said firmly, resolutely.
His face set with purpose he moved past Father Francesco and entered the mission. When he came out again there was a bandolier of bullets slung over his shoulder, and in his hand he carried an ancient rifle. Father Francesco watched him, speechless.
The younger priest approached the buckboard. He laid a hand on the coffin. 'We will need four more coffins,' he said. 'This one is for El Muerte.'
Hours later, Father Francesco was still praying for the soul of the misguided priest when a panting boy tugged urgently at his cassock and told him there was a stranger, near the mission, a tall gringo. The priest ran towards the man on the horse, calling out for him to wait. Sloane waited.
'A terrible thing, Señor Sloane,' said Father Francesco breathlessly when he'd caught up.
'Father Josef has gone to kill El Muerte… a priest and he goes to break the Lord's Commandments!'.
'Guess he found he was more of a man than a priest,' said Sloane. He'd liked the eager little priest with the bright eyes.
'Please, señor, bring him back! Do not let him die with sinful thoughts.'
Sloane looked down into the imploring face of Father Francesco. 'I'll bring him back,' he said. 'If there's anythin' left to bring back.'
He put heels to his horse and followed the deep-grooved trail of the buckboard into the land of death.
Billy Wang sprang from his chair, snapping instantly into a defensive position when someone suddenly entered his room. It was Rosalia.
Billy relaxed, grinning. 'Guess I'm jumpy tonight,' he apologised.
Rosalia put a finger to her lips, cautioning him to silence. She stood stock-still by the open door, listening. Then, satisfied she had not been followed, she closed the door.
Frowning, Billy watched the girl cross the room and sit down on his bed. Her face was unsmiling, purposeful. He saw a strength in her he had not noticed before.
'The Chinese girl Don Fernando is holding hostage — do you want to help her escape?' she asked. She s
poke urgently, her voice hushed as if afraid of being overheard.
Billy hesitated to answer.
'You can trust me,' Rosalia assured him.
'Sure I want to help her escape,' said Billy. 'I want to get her as far away from here as I can.'
Rosalia nodded. 'Good. I will help you — if you help me escape from here also.'
Bewilderment showed in Billy's face. 'But you're Don Luis' daughter…'
Rosalia laughed, a hard scornful laugh. 'Don Luis has no real daughters,' she told him, 'but there are many girls he calls his daughters. When he tires of them he gives them to his men to play with. I have been his daughter for five months now. A woman knows when a man begins to lose interest in her. Soon he will be looking for a new girl to be his daughter. Then he will give me to Aguilar. And when Aguilar has finished with me he will give me to that brute Toro.'
She shuddered. 'I would rather die.'
Billy looked at her thoughtfully. 'How about the guards? They've got orders to kill her if there's any trouble.'
'I know how to take care of the guards,' said Rosalia. 'But we must act soon. Tomorrow!'
"What's the hurry?'
'Once a month an Americano called Sullivan comes with a wagonload of guns and ammunition for Don Luis. The guns are for the army he hopes to raise to fight against the Juaristas. In exchange Don Luis gives to Sullivan young girls who are sold to rich men across the border.'
'Guns for girls… not a bad trade,' Billy admitted.
'I have heard Don Luis say he will give the Chinese girl to Sullivan. The day after tomorrow it is the Day of the Dead in Mexico. Sullivan is due here by then.'
'So it has to be tomorrow…'
'Yes. Don Luis will not let you live after the Day of the Dead.'
'He sure is a hospitable man,' said Billy easily. 'What's your plan?'
Rosalia told him. Afterwards, she left the room taking care not to be seen. Don Luis was waiting for her in bed, naked beneath the crisp sheets.
'Where have you been?' he asked in a voice taut with displeasure.