by Steve Lee
'I went to the chapel — to pray that Sloane will return safely with the skull.'
As she spoke, Rosalia hurriedly shrugged off her clothes. Watching her, Don Luis' mood mellowed. Her high-breasted young body with its smooth tanned skin had not yet failed to arouse him. Rosalia slipped into bed beside the old man.
'You are a very considerate daughter,' he said, drawing himself onto her warmth. He moved his fingers over her body, seeking the core of her warmth. He found it between her legs. He gnawed hungrily at her breast.
Rosalia stared at the ceiling as the old man thrust into her. The thought of escape was so exciting that tonight she did not have to fake her moans of pleasure.
Chapter Ten
Sloane rode towards El Muerte's camp through a sweltering wilderness of sand and wind-chewed rock. He knew the bandits' camp had to be near and that El Muerte would have guards posted along the trail. With luck he'd see the guards before they saw him.
He was out of luck. Two mounted men converged on him from behind rocks on either side of the trail, their grinning teeth bright in dark faces.
'Buenos Tardes, Boss,' one of them called out cheerfully as if unaware that he was pointing a rifle at Sloane's chest.
'Howdy,' said Sloane, equally cheerful, as if he hadn't noticed the rifle either.
'What are you doing out here, Boss,' the bandit asked. 'Don't you know this place is dangerous — that it is full of bandits who hate gringos?'
The other bandit chuckled appreciatively.
'I'm looking for a friend of mine,' said Sloane.
'What does he look like your friend, Boss? Maybe we have seen him.'
'He's a priest. He was headed this way in a wagon.'
'Oh, «f,' the bandit with the rifle grinned. 'He was very brave to come out here all alone that priest. He sure had a lot of balls!'
'Had?' Sloane repeated. 'Is he dead?'
'No, Boss, but he sure as hell wishes he was!'
The two bandits laughed. They laughed so much they clutched at their sides.
'That's too bad,' said Sloane mildly.
When he'd wiped the tears of laughter from his face the bandit with the rifle started to get interested in Sloane's saddle-bags. 'What you got in there, Boss — gold?'
'No gold,' said Sloane.
'How 'bout that rifle-case — you got a nice shiny new rifle in there? Maybe a Winchester?'
'Why don't you have a look and see?' Sloane invited him.
The bandit rode closer, keeping his rifle centred on Sloane. 'Open it up, Boss,' he ordered. 'But slow, I got a quick finger…'
Sloane opened the rifle-case.
'Show me what you got in there,' the bandit told him.
Sloane obliged him. He pulled the razor-edged sword from the case in an upwards flashing arc. Suddenly the bandit was only half the man he had been. His rifle clattered to the ground. Half of him followed. The lower part of his body remained seated in the saddle, held in place by the tapaderos on his feet.
Without a glance at the body Sloane urged the Morgan straight at the other bandit, his dripping blade lifted to kill again. The bandit howled with terror at the sight of the crazed gringo rushing straight at him with a bloody sword. He shrieked in terror, wheeled his pony and rode out, hell-for-leather. Sloane gave chase, holding the reins of his horse in one hand, the raised sword in the other. He could have drawn his Colt and blasted the Mex off his pony but he knew a shot might draw some unwelcome attention.
The two men thundered across the desert, one after the other, raising a cloud of dust. The bandit knew the terrain. He fled down twisting rock-strewn ravines, lashing his galloping pony with the reins. But he couldn't shake off his relentless pursuer. Sloane slowly gained on him.
Glancing constantly back over his shoulder, the bandit saw that Sloane was almost on him, sword hauled back to strike. In desperation he drew a machete from its sheath and, turning in the saddle, hacked frantically at the American.
Sloane parried the blow and the downward slash of his sword sheared through the bandit's shoulder, cleaving his breast-bone. The bandit toppled from the saddle. Sloane reined in, the Morgan rearing. It was then that he noticed that he had company. All around him Mexicans were leaping up like they'd sprung right out of the ground. Most of them had guns and they were pointing them in his direction. Shouting and gesticulating, the mob of angry Mexicans closed on him in a tightening circle. He'd ridden right into a crawling nest of bandits.
Sloane cussed and raised the sword, ready to take a few of them with him before they shot him down. But then a voice called out hastily in Spanish and the seething mob of bandits grew respectfully silent as a tall man dressed completely in black shoved through them towards Sloane.
'Señor Sloane, I was not expecting you so soon,' said the man in black, with a parody of a welcoming smile. His face was gaunt as a part-fleshed skull and the wildness of the desert was in his eyes.
Sloane knew he was looking at the man responsible for killing Chang Fung and Hsiao Yu and maybe a few hundred other people besides.
El Muerte.
* * *
Carlos was surprised when he unlocked the door and found Rosalia standing there holding the plate of tortillas for Su Fan.
'Chiquita burnt her hand,' Rosalia explained.
Carlos grunted and moved aside for her to enter. He exchanged a sly grin with Pedro, the other guard. It was not often they were honoured by a visit from Don Luis' favourite daughter. Su Fan lay despondently on the bed. She did not bother to look up at Rosalia when she laid the plate down on the table beside the bed. Rosalia looked her over as she might a new riding pony.
'I wanted to see what a yellow woman looks like,' she confided in the two guards. 'She doesn't look like much to me. Do you get any fun out of her?' The two guards stared at Rosalia, startled by the leering insinuation from the lips of a girl who looked as pure as the Holy Virgin herself.
'She is too fierce,' Pedro volunteered. 'She has a kick like a mule.'
Rosalia glanced scornfully at the Chinese girl. 'She should be proud to give herself to a pair of good strong Mexican men,' she said, turning her attention back to the two guards. She looked at them in a way that said she liked what she saw. She smiled an inviting smile.
'You look like men who could scratch this itch I have,' she said. 'Don Luis has tried but that little finger of his cannot reach this big itch of mine…'
As she spoke Rosalia raised her long skirt up above her thighs. Beneath the skirt she was naked.
'Por Dios!' Carlos croaked.
The eyes of the two guards were bugging out of their heads, glued to the dark triangle of silky curls at the junction of her soft thighs. Carlos and Pedro shuffled towards her like starving men drawn forward by the rich aroma of savoury food. Neither of them saw Billy Wang slip into the room through the open door behind them. They never even noticed him until Billy chopped his hand against the back of Pedro's neck. Then it was too late for Pedro to notice anything. He was dead before he touched the ground.
Barking an oath, Carlos whirled round, raising his Sharps rifle to blast the Chinaman. Billy's foot slammed into him and the rifle fell from broken fingers. Carlos doubled up, clutching his shattered hand, howling his pain. Billy's knee rose up in an elephant kick that caught Carlos under the chin and nearly tore his head from his neck. He fell back and sprawled across the floor, blank-eyed.
Su Fan had jumped up from the bed during the brief fight. She stood with her back to the wall, one hand pressed against her mouth. She stared fearfully at Billy, cried out when he pushed past Rosalia and moved quickly towards her. He caught one of her wrists in a powerful grip.
'No!' she cried, struggling to break free.
Billy clamped his other hand over her mouth. He put his face close to hers, a warning in his eyes. 'We're here to help you, said Billy. 'We're gonna get you out of here!'
Su Fan continued to struggle, shaking her head from side to side.
'Hurry up!' Rosalia hissed urgently
from the door where she was keeping an eye on the stairs.
Billy slapped Su Fan across the face, hard. Stunned, she stopped struggling for a moment.
'If you don't come with us — they'll kill you!' he told her. 'Understand?'
Something in his eyes told her it was useless to struggle any more. She nodded weakly.
Billy took his hand from her mouth and pushed her towards the door.
'Come on, let's go!'
* * *
'So you are the gringo who laughs at guns and fights with his hands and feet…?'
El Muerte smiled a taunting smile at the lean hard-faced American who stood before him trying to look as if he was unaware of the half-dozen rifles poking into his back.
'I have heard of you, Señor Sloane, of how you killed Pancho Gonzalez.'
The eyes of El Muerte blazed like flaming jewels set in the narrow slits of a mask of beaten gold. Sloane met the burning gaze evenly. His face betrayed no emotion as he stared back into the face of the man he had promised to kill. He thought of Hsiao Yu, of Chang Fung's mutilated body, of Joe and of the nameless tortured victims he had seen on the long trail into Mexico. He thought of the pain in their faces and he wanted to reach out and crush the bandit's neck and feel his body dying beneath his bare hands.
Instead he forced his lips into a smile. 'You another of Pancho's cousins?' he asked.
The bandit laughed and slowly shook his head, the golden earring dancing bright beneath his ear. 'No, señor, I am not. This Pancho called himself a bandit… but he was a little bandit — little like a bug. He meant nothing to me.'
The bandit's mouth went on smiling but the smile in his eyes went out like a candle flame in a sudden wind. He glared suspiciously at Sloane.
'Only a foolish man would come riding alone into the land of death,' he said. 'You do not look to me like a foolish man, señor…'
'I'm a tourist,' said Sloane, 'come to take in the sights…'
'A tourist… who cuts up my men like pieces of meat on a plate?'
"They were annoying me,' said Sloane.
El Muerte looked like he was trying to make up his mind whether to snarl or smile. The smile struggled through and became a laugh. His laughter broke the tension in the camp. The hostile faces of the bandits crowding round loosened into slack-mouthed grins.
El Muerte gestured towards his men. 'They annoy me too these stinking goats. It is not easy to find good bandidos any more…'
The grins in the faces of the bandits grew even broader.
'You know something, Sloane,' said El Muerte, 'I think perhaps I like you. You are my kind of hombre.'
'Well, thanks,' said Sloane. 'That makes me feel real good.'
'I like you so much,' El Muerte continued, 'that I may not kill you until tomorrow… Tomorrow is a great day — the Day of the Dead!'
'Happy birthday,' said Sloane.
El Muerte laughed some more. Then he shouted an order in Spanish and waved impatiently for his men to disperse. The bandits stopped trying to dig holes in Sloane's back with their rifles and moved away in groups, chattering beneath sombreros. They'd relieved Sloane of his sword and pistol. He lowered his arms and took a look around the camp.
El Muerte's men were settling down to what they'd been doing before Sloane disturbed their peace — eating, drinking, smoking, cleaning their guns and machetes. There were about forty bandits in the camp, Sloane estimated, including some women. The women were as coarse-faced as the rest and except for their skirts, most of them were dressed the same as their men. Beyond the fires around which the bandits squatted Sloane spotted a buckboard. There was a coffin in the back of the buckboard.
'You want to see some sights… Come, I will show you one,' said El Muerte.
The bandit's spurs made a sound like rattling chains as he walked. Sloane followed him through the camp. Above, a flag hung from a pole, limp in the windless air. The flag was black with a white skull grinning above a pair of crossed bones. El Muerte saw Sloane looking up.
'That was the flag of my ship,' he told him. 'I loved the sea but I love my country more.'
'This why you came back — to become a bandit?'
'In Mexico a poor man has only three choices if he does not want to starve,' El Muerte explained. 'He can become a soldier, a priest or a bandit. A soldier answers to his general and a general answers to the president. A priest has to answer to God… But a bandit answers to no one but himself.'
'Depends how fast he can run,' Sloane observed.
El Muerte led him to the back of the camp. A circle of brown-eyed women with bandoliers crossing their chests were busily slapping tortillas into shape on the bare earth. Another, with a child clamped to her naked breast, was stirring a bubbling pot of stew which smelled of goat.
'This is how we treat our uninvited guests,' said El Muerte, pointing.
Behind the women, a huge cactus raised its spiky limbs towards the sky. Impaled on the spikes, his arms stretched out, was a naked man. The bandits had had their usual fun with him. The man was no longer a man. It wasn't easy but Sloane recognised Father Josef. There was hardly a part of his body that was not caked with dried blood. Amazingly, the young priest still lived.
El Muerte watched Sloane's face for a reaction. He was disappointed because there wasn't one. The American's face was as impassive as his own.
'Play the saviour and you end up crucified,' said Sloane, turning away.
'I know this saying, it is a good one,' the bandit agreed. 'But perhaps now you think El Muerte is a cruel man?'
'Whatever gave you that idea?' Sloane asked, his smile wry.
'If I am cruel it is because the spirit of my country is in my veins and it is a cruel spirit…' El Muerte looked out into the desert, narrowing his eyes against its bone-white glare.
'Out there is hunger, thirst, sickness, death… The sting of the scorpion. The claws of the jaguar. A hundred kinds of death for a man to face. In Mexico only vultures get fat, Señor Sloane. Vultures and presidents… If I have my sting and my claws, if I kill those that do not please, does that make me any more cruel than the sun that burns or the dry earth that starves? I do not think so.'
Sloane silently contemplated El Muerte. He hated the bandit who had killed Chang Fung and Hsiao Yu — who had stolen Su Fan. He hated him with a fierce burning hatred that only revenge would satisfy. Yet at the same time he felt an affinity with the one who called himself El Muerte, a grudging respect for him. He remembered one of Chang Fung's Chinese sayings -
'Heaven and earth are ruthless
and treat the beasts like straw dogs.
The wise man is ruthless
and treats other men like straw dogs…'
The Way of the Ruthless Man was the most difficult path of all for a man to take. Chang Fung had warned Sloane against it. He'd said that to be ruthless was the way of the gods not of man — and the gods were fiercely jealous. It was difficult for a man who took the ruthless way to maintain the delicate balance of Yin and Yang necessary for success in all things. The Ruthless Man needed great merits to balance his ruthlessness, to maintain the precarious balance of negative and positive. Loss of balance meant destruction. Sloane saw in El Muerte a fellow traveller along the way of the Ruthless Man. One who had lost his balance, who had strayed far from the centre.
There was another saying Chang Fung had taught Sloane -
'For him who sees only Death, there is no harmony,.'
'That is a very prickly cactus, Señor Sloane,' said El Muerte, turning from the desert back to the dying priest. 'Perhaps now you will tell me why you are here?'
'I heard you had something worth looking at.'
El Muerte watched him, waiting.
'The skull,' said Sloane.
The bandit chief chuckled. 'So you wish to see the Holy Skull.'
'Seein's believing,' said Sloane.
'Very well, I would not want to deprive a man of his last wish…'
The bandit led Sloane to a shack made from the s
pines of dried-up cadrons. Inside, a solid wooden sea-chest squatted on a bright-coloured carpet beside a foul litter of clothes, gold pesos, jewels and chewed bones. Sloane watched El Muerte unlock the sea-chest, ignoring the young girl chained up inside the shack.
From the chest El Muerte drew out a compact bundle wrapped in black velvet. He unravelled the bundle and held up its contents for Sloane to see. For the second time that day Sloane looked into the naked face of death.
The sun-glare leaking into the shack made rainbows in the hollow sockets of the crystal skull. Its teeth stretching in an eternal grin, the skull leered at Sloane. Tiny veins seemed to dance redly beneath its crystal skin. A superstitious man would have thought that the Holy Skull glowed with a life of its own. Sloane was not superstitious but he felt the skull's power throbbing, flowing out towards him. Don Luis had been right when he said the skull was more a thing of the Devil than of God.
El Muerte held the skull worshipfully, its face close to his own. 'Do you know why he grins, Sloane?'
'Tell me.'
'It is because he knows that one day when we are dead and eaten by worms, we shall all look like him.'
The bandit looked into the fathomless glowing pits that were the skull's eyes with the same affection as a man looks into the face of his lover.
'Those foolish priests think the skull belongs to their god,' El Muerte laughed. 'They think men of their faith brought the skull to Mexico. They are wrong. This skull was here mil mil years before the white men came to steal the gold from our pockets and the smiles from our faces. It was made by my people when they were Kings of the Earth, the Masters of the Sun…'
El Muerte raised the skull, putting the fleshless mouth to his ear as if to catch its dry whisper. 'The ghosts of my people are alive,' said the bandit, his eyes bright as the sun-fired crystal he was holding. 'They live in this skull. Sometimes they speak to me through the mouth of the skull. They tell me what to do, who to kill. Once Don Luis told me these things but now it is the skull. He speaks to me of you, Sloane. He tells me that you are dangerous to me — that you too must die!'