by Steven Law
Enrique did not look long before the woman behind Mulcov noticed him and shrieked loudly. Mulcov’s eyes opened and he jerked his head sideways. He looked to see what had frightened the woman. She stood behind him now, making sure her huipil was closed tightly.
“What the hell!” Mulcov shouted.
He stood and walked away from the other woman, and she rose and joined the taller woman behind Mulcov. The Russian just stood there glaring, his oily body glistening under the lamplight. He held out his arms as if protecting the women.
“I am here to free them,” Enrique said. “Mujeres, you are free to go as you please.”
They did not move.
“Like hell,” Mulcov said. “Who the hell do you think you are?” By this time he was growling, arms arched at his sides like a hairless grizzly bear. He charged Enrique and tackled him to the ground. The weight of the man on top of him made it difficult for him to breathe, and Enrique could not move him. It got worse when Mulcov brought a forearm up and laid it over his throat and pushed down with all his weight. Enrique could feel the blood compressing in his skull and his very life vanishing before him.
Pang jumped in on top of Mulcov, but not even the swift moves of martial arts could penetrate the stout layers of this bear of a man. But a sudden noise made everything stop. It was the click of a revolver. Mulcov stopped growling, and the pressure from his arm slowly lifted off Enrique’s neck. Enrique gasped and choked. Pang backed away. Mulcov rose slowly with a barrel of a gun pressed firmly against his forehead.
As soon as he could, Enrique choked and crawled out, and watched Sheriff Dutton coax Mulcov to his feet and to the back of the lean-to.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Mulcov said.
“I beg to differ,” Dutton said. “If your brains end up splattered on that rock wall behind you, then who’s mistake will it be?”
Dutton glanced over at Enrique. “All right, you got what you wanted. Get them dressed and get them out of here.”
Enrique nodded and spoke Spanish to the women. They both hunched together and shook their heads.
“It’s okay,” he said. “We’re here to help you. You can go home now.”
“We have no other home,” the slender one said. “Our families are dead.”
“Then you are free now. You can do whatever you want with your lives.”
“And do what? We are unclean. Who will accept us?”
“You are God’s children. Do good and you will find your place in this world.”
The shorter one shook her head. “Our place is here. Mulcov will take care of us.”
Enrique was dumbfounded. Dutton was right. They had all risked their lives to save them, yet they didn’t want to be saved.
“See, I told you,” Mulcov said. “You made a mistake.”
Dutton lowered his revolver and Mulcov seemed to breathe a little easier.
“There’s one other thing,” Dutton said to the women. “We aim to kill Valdar. But if we don’t, he’ll likely find you again. Don’t think for one minute that Mulcov can save you from him.”
They both stared intently, and the slender one raised her head. “Then you must kill him.”
There was no convincing them, and Enrique ran out of the lean-to. He had never considered what such a change in their lives would do to them. He thought of his own sister, and if she was still alive, whether or not she would be able to return to a happier life. It was a new and sad reality. One that would take some time to set in.
The Hachita Trail
By noon the next day they rode into the settlement of Hachita, watered and grained their horses, and Sheriff Dutton nosed out a small adobe taberna. They tied their horses to a hitching rail and Dutton led the way inside.
Pang took the rear, and before entering he stressed his concern. “Shouldn’t someone stay with the horses?”
Dutton looked back. “We’ll only be a minute. Lube our tonsils, ask a couple of questions, then be back on our way.”
“But he is right,” Enrique said. “We’ve lost everything once. We may not find it all again.”
“I will stay with them,” Pang said.
Dutton shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m thirsty.”
The sheriff turned, and Enrique followed, and they walked out of the bright day and into the darkness of a room with the only light source a few oil lamps that hung randomly on each wall and beams of light that seeped down through gaps in the thatch above. When their eyes had adjusted, they found two tables, one occupied by an old Mexican nursing a drink and the other table empty. An Anglo, middle-aged and with a full salt-and-pepper beard, stood behind a bar wiping a glass. He wore a cotton shirt and his face perspired. In a far corner of the room a Mexican man sat in a chair playing a guitar. A sombrero hung on his back by the chin chord. A young, barefoot Mexican woman in a long red-and-yellow dress danced and twirled to his Spanish music.
Dutton walked up to the bar with more confidence than Enrique. “What do you serve in here, barkeep?”
The bartender eyeballed them both. “Cerveza. Tequila. Mescal. No whiskey.”
“Should have known.” Dutton flipped out a couple of coins on the bar, part of some expense money given to them by Benjamin, which could also be used to buy information. One coin was more than enough for the two beers Dutton ordered, and he figured the bartender would catch his drift. Judging by the way the bartender looked at the coins, as if they were something dangerous, and swiftly slid them off into his hand and into his pocket, Dutton had assumed right.
The bartender slapped two beers down on the bar, both frothing over. Dutton slid one down in front of Enrique then took a drink from his own. He smacked his lips and studied the dark amber color through the glass. “You Mexicans sure know how to brew. But different than that ol’ German beer I’m used to.”
Enrique reflected back to the vodka and wasn’t too excited about trying the beer. The priest had discouraged him from drinking, except for medicinal purposes. The father had showed him passages in the Bible that mentioned drinking but chastised drunkenness, and told him how Enrique’s own drinking could “cause his brother to stumble.” He assured him that a single drink would not curse his soul to hell, but avoiding it altogether was the best way to not go too far.
Enrique looked around the bar and didn’t see any men who would stumble any farther than they already had, and he knew he wouldn’t be in the bar long enough to find drunkenness, so he declared to himself that having a beer with the sheriff was no signature sin.
The first sip wasn’t as biting as the vodka, or the wine, but it had a different bitterness to his still very virgin tongue. He decided to take another, bigger drink, then somewhat held his breath and swallowed twice. It was hard not to gag, but he kept drinking in that fashion until suddenly the brew went down much better and almost became refreshing. It was an interesting contrast, he thought, and the priest’s teaching made some sense. He had said, “When first drawn to the temptation of sin, it is very uncomfortable. But when the line keeps being crossed, the devil shows you pleasure and tries to make his snag.”
Dutton finished his beer and slid the glass to the edge. The bartender came forward, now trying not to look Dutton in the eye. “Mas?”
“No,” Dutton said. “But I’d like to finish out my credit.”
The bartender looked around the room nervously. The music seemed to get louder, and the woman moved her feet faster to the tempo.
“We’re after Antonio Valdar,” Dutton said. “I know you know who he is. I just want to know if he’s been through here recently.”
The bartender shook his head. “I didn’t see him.”
Dutton flipped another coin on the bar. The bartender swiped it up quicker than the last ones.
“Two days ago. Outside of town. But he didn’t stay long.”
“He have anyone with him?”
He looked around the room again, and over Dutton’s shoulder. “I don’t remember seeing anyone else.”
Du
tton wrinkled his mouth and frustratingly threw out another coin.
“He had one Apache. And he had several horses.”
Dutton and Enrique exchanged glances. Enrique was a little more at ease knowing they were on the right trail, but not as confident knowing Valdar had a two-day gap on them.
The two of them turned around to leave, and a Mexican man walked in the main door. Immediately following him was a younger Mexican sporting a rifle. Compared to most in this small settlement, these two were clearly better off, judging by the way they dressed. Both wore new trousers and snow-white shirts, and the older man wore a vest. Near the placket of that vest was a badge.
Dutton and Enrique headed for the door, but the constable didn’t move to let them through.
“Con permiso,” Dutton said.
“In my town, a man leaves when I say.”
Dutton stared the man down. The young man behind him ran the lever action on the rifle and offered the same cold, blank stare.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, señor,” the lawman said. He pointed a hand at the empty table. “Let me buy you a drink.”
Dutton contemplated a fight, but decided he didn’t have enough information on this man’s intentions to start one. It was worth a chance to find out first whose side he was on, even though Dutton was pretty sure he already knew.
Dutton turned slowly toward the table and took a chair. Enrique followed, as did the constable, but the deputy with the rifle stayed by the door.
The constable sat with his belly against the table and his elbows on it. Dutton scooted away, his holstered revolver in clear view of all of them, something he wanted them to see. Besides, he’d witnessed enough under-the-table shootings in bars to know a man had a much better chance if he could see beneath the table.
“Señor, I am Juan Ortega. I am the policía here. When strangers come into town, I must know their business. Especially ones with Chinamen.”
“What about Chinawomen? When someone comes through town with one of them, do you ask their business?”
Ortega stared.
Dutton nodded. “That’s what I thought. We can cut through the sheep dip here pretty quickly, patrón. Just tell me whose payroll you’re on, and I’ll know whether or not we’ll have to fight to get out of here.”
The constable frowned. “I see you have little respect for men of authority.”
“The only authority on me is the man upstairs. Now, which is it? You work for the people or Valdar?”
Dutton already knew, simply by the way the constable dressed, but he could tell more by the contempt in Ortega’s eyes that the latter was definitely the correct answer. It also confirmed that there’d be no way out without a fight.
“You will have to come with me, señor,” Ortega said. “You may try to stop me with that iron at your side, but before your arm is bent to grab it, my deputy will have put a bullet hole through your thick gringo skull.”
Dutton glanced at the deputy, who was definitely ready to do just as Ortega said.
“Afraid I can’t go along with your plan,” Dutton said. “I’ll have to take my chances. The first move is yours.”
Ortega’s frown never changed. The guitar music that had once been soft and refreshing seemed to keep growing louder and faster, and the dancing girl kept her twirl with the pace.
Just as Dutton was contemplating what his move would be, a large ruckus came from outside the door. The deputy glanced nervously back and forth, then in walked Pang, arms hanging wide and head turning in all directions. Once he saw the deputy with the gun, he threw a forearm up against the barrel of the rifle. The gun went off, shooting a dusty hole in the adobe wall, and about the same time Pang’s foot came around and kidney-kicked the deputy to the floor.
The music stopped, as did the dancing girl.
Ortega had turned his head during the gun blast, and before he could turn it back around, Dutton’s fist caught his right temple and sent him fumbling out of the chair. He was out cold.
A shotgun blast was the next diversion. Dutton was glad to know it was the thatch roof that took the buckshot, redirected by Enrique’s knife stuck in the bartender’s chest.
Dutton drew his gun and turned quickly toward the guitar player and dancer. The man still sat, his hands over the guitar and motionless. The woman stood with her hands wide at her side, her mouth agape and her black eyes full of fear.
Dutton holstered his gun then looked at Enrique, who had retrieved his knife. “I didn’t know you could throw a knife like that.”
Enrique smiled. “Neither did I, really. I just had to pretend he was a saguaro back by the Santa Cruz.”
“Damn glad it worked.”
“That makes two of us.”
*
When the three men walked out of the taberna and into the daylight, they stumbled over three men who lay unconscious on the dusty ground, their rifles next to them.
“What the hell?” Dutton said. He turned to Pang.
The Chinaman grinned. “They insisted they had me outnumbered.”
Dutton shook his head and patted Pang on the shoulder. “You are some hombre.”
The trio rode out of town with just a little more than they rode in with. They now knew what they needed to know about Valdar, and they knew they needed to pick up their pace to catch him before he left El Paso. Traveling in the territory, and battling the natural and social elements there, was one thing, but doing the same in Mexico was a much different game. The country was much more primitive, and the sight of gringo travelers—especially with a Chinaman—was more apt to land them in prison than anywhere else, or working for some greedy patrón in his quest for money and power.
That whole scenario had been a concern to Enrique as much as to Dutton. But one thing that was new to Enrique was the money he now knew that Dutton carried. They rode for almost an hour before he drummed up the courage to ask him.
“Where did you get it?” he asked.
Dutton turned his head and his brow furrowed. His shoulders tipped back and forth to the horse’s footing. “Get what?”
“The money. You lost all you had to Valdar, and neither Pang nor I had any.”
“Benjamin gave it to me. He knew you wouldn’t accept it.”
“He was right. It is my pleasure to kill Valdar. Money will not make me want it any more.”
“It’s not that, Enrique. Benjamin knew we’d need some to buy more supplies and maybe information. Though you might consider it a bounty, I think of it more as expense money. Benjamin just wanted to help out. Hell, it’s no different than that horse you’re riding or the saddle you’re sitting in. It’s all to help get the job done.”
Enrique looked straight ahead. The sheriff was convincing. Father Gaeta had warned Enrique of the temptations of money, and how greed could bury a man’s soul in hell, but this seemed like nothing that could harm them. Besides, the money was in the hands of the sheriff. Enrique had nothing to do with it.
“How much did he give you?” Enrique said.
“Fifty dollars in silver. It’s not a lot by any means, but enough to get us through the ordeal.”
Enrique nodded. “I suppose.”
“You know, Enrique, money is not a bad thing.”
“I have survived just fine without it.”
“But there’ll be a day when you can’t.”
“I don’t see how. I can hunt game to eat. And I can build my shelter from the gifts of the land as well. If I need clothes, I can trade for them. I have done it all my life.”
“I understand that. But something you don’t know is that my race of people intends to change all that. They may not realize it, and that’s the sad part. But more and more of them are coming to this part of the country, and all the game and timber in the mountains won’t last ten years. They already did it to the buffalo and deer on the upper plains. It’s only a matter of time before it happens here.”
“Then how will they survive? What good is money if there is nothing to buy?”
“It’s called the railroad. Them iron rails is like the new bloodline that feeds the West. Boxcars full of livestock going back east to slaughter, and banks here to put all that cattle money in. And when the trains come back west, they bring goods ready to use. They hang ’em up on a wall or put ’em on a shelf in a mercantile and all you need is money.”
To Enrique it sounded like a strange fantasy, but he’d seen it going on in Tucson, which was enough for him to believe it. “This money, how will we get it?”
“You find yourself a trade, Enrique. Something that you enjoy doing. Something that you’re good at.”
“I’m not sure what I would do. All I’ve ever been good at is hunting and living off the land.”
“You can read and write, can’t you?”
“Yes. Father Gaeta educated me well.”
“That’s a hell lot more than I have. You’re a good fighter. Good with a bow and arrow. You can throw a knife. You might just make a good lawman.”
Enrique shook his head. “I know a little about politics, and that is something I would not like.”
Dutton laughed. “You got me there. That is definitely the fly in the buttermilk. Always something getting in the way of doing your job the right way, or even enjoying it at all.”
They rode for a little while in silence, pondering all that had been shared.
“This way of life that you say is coming,” Enrique said, “I’m not sure I want it.”
“Don’t think you’ll have much choice, pardner. I suppose you could go live in the hills and fend for yourself, but what kind of life is that?”
Enrique nodded. “It may be the life for me. I’m not sure.”
“Then I suppose you have a lot to think about.”
“Yes,” he said. And more than I’d like right now, he thought.
Paso Del Norte
The three riders pushed the horses as much as they could. Dutton, the better and more experienced rider, knew exactly when to give the animals a rest. He’d look for lather around the rigging strap and watch carefully for rocks and cactuses along the trail that might lame a horse.