The Red Sombrero

by Nelson Nye

  What he needed was a drink.

  God, but he could use one.

  He scowled about him irascibly, swearing under his breath at the way things conspired against him. Look at the months he’d put in with Sierra, living like a dog in the hope of a chance to better himself. And now look what happened!

  He threw off the blanket and pushed himself up only to discover again his nakedness and duck back under the covers, groaning and cursing at the scurviness of fate. What if the money wasn’t his — he had found it, hadn’t he? Earned it twice over. When Descardo had been killed that had cancelled Tano’s claim to it, if any could be so ignorant as to believe Sierra had one.

  Christ, if ever a man was down on his luck — He broke away from this thinking, in a flash of rare clarity seeing himself as he was. He shuddered in revulsion and then began to shake weakly. But abruptly he sat up again, stiffening, startled. Cordray didn’t know who he was — Cordray didn’t know him from Adam’s off ox …

  He commenced to feel better. All was not yet lost. So long as Cordray didn’t know him, didn’t know he’d come from Sierra, there was a fair to middling chance if he was careful he’d get out of this. They’d probably taken his clothes to clean; they were keeping him in bed because they thought he needed rest.

  He wiped the sweat off his face and even managed a parched sort of smile. The money wasn’t his but it wasn’t anybody’s else that you could properly put a tag on. “Finders keepers,” he muttered, sinking back again. If he could just get away from this place now before Sierra or some other of his agents rode up to discover why the promised guns weren’t forthcoming.

  Another startling thought rolled him onto an elbow. He thrust his feet to the floor and with the blanket around him went over and had a look through the window. This place wasn’t built in the hidalgo fashion of a square kind of box with a patio in the center; it was sprawled all over after the American manner with its outbuildings scattered like chicks around a hen. There was nothing which he had seen before. Now where in the hell was that shack he’d come up to?

  He got back in the bed, worried again, excited, nervous. Be a fine situation if he couldn’t find that shack! Then he remembered the girl and breathed easier. She could tell him.

  Where was she now? Why didn’t she come in here? Too embarrassed perhaps, now he’d got back his senses. But there would be time for that; plenty of time to find her after he got himself into his clothes again. He could sure do with a drink, though. His mouth tasted like an old sock had been wadded into it.

  The hours dragged by. He fell into a doze and disquieteningly dreamed he saw Sierra bent over Descardo’s corpse. He seemed to be enumerating the things which were missing, the hat and black coat, the quirt and the pistol; and now Tano’s eyes leaped beyond to the horse and Reno heard his snarled curse when he discovered the bags were gone from behind the big black’s saddle. He saw Sierra grab the general’s dead shoulder, shaking it so vigorously Descardo’s head wabbled. “Quick, fool! Where are they? What has happened to my onzas?” To his horror Reno saw the general’s eyes come open. The lips in his dead face began to move and he said, “That borracho — that gringo jellybean took them.” Reno watched Sierra straighten. “Oho,” Tano said with a beautiful smile, “that is all right then. He goes to pay for my rifles.” Descardo laughed harshly. “He goes with your gold to buy a chicken farm at Sante Fe!”

  It was the laugh that brought the American, wildly staring, bolt upright. The laugh was still in the room. It was Juanito chucking. “Come, sleepin head,” the fat man spoke to him in English. “I would feex up your peellows. All the morning you have cut the logs. Mira — look, I have come weeth your T-bones.”

  Reno sank back, weakly, soaked with sweat, against the pillows. The dream was too vivid and the threat of it stayed in his mind like a burr snarled into the fuzz of a blanket. He stared at the Mexican speechlessly; then spoke in a cracked whisper, “Hombre, what day is this?”

  “It is the Wednesday,” Juan smiled; and fear built its cold lump in the American’s belly. Wednesday — Jesucristo! It had been on the night of a Wednesday that Descardo had roared down into Boca Grande and had his Dorados shot to dollrags by the Federalista infantry! Seven days … Reno shuddered.

  He tried to pull himself together. “I’ve got to have my clothes.”

  “Si. On the morrow, the patron says, eef you are strong enough.”

  Reno scowled at the food the man had placed in his lap. He chewed at his lip. “Tonight,” he said stubbornly. “I will have ten pesos for you when you put them in my hands.”

  The fat man hesitated, wanting the money but not Cordray’s anger. “Tomorrow — ”

  “Tonight. I will make it twenty pesos, and twenty more if you can find me a drink.”

  “The vino?”

  “Whisky or tequila.”

  Juanito rubbed his jaw, avarice shining in the slants of his eyes. “For thirty pesos I will try, señor.”

  “Okay. Thirty pesos.”

  “Thirty pesos and twenty are fifty pesos all told.”

  Reno, scowling, commenced to eat. Juanito closed the door. The American was chewing the last mouthful of steak when the Mexican came back and, grinning, handed him a cup.

  Reno sniffed and loosed a sigh. Tequila, God bless it. He put back his head and let it run down his throat, feeling it chase the coldness out of his belly. “The money, señor,” Juan said, leaning forward.

  “Where are the clothes?”

  “I could not find them, señor.”

  Reno tossed the empty cup in a corner. “I cannot give you your money until I have my clothes. Look again.”

  “But, General — ”

  “Enough!” Reno said, and then blinked, his eyes contracting until their pupils grew bright as twin slivers of steel. “What did you say to me?”

  The man drew away from him, cheeks gray, his chins quivering. With a sudden frightened bleat he reached the door and scrambled through it.

  Reno caught up the tray and hurled it after him, cursing. “The hat — the goddam hat!” he snarled bitterly. The general’s hat had betrayed him. They thought he was Descardo!

  • • •

  Opening his eyes in the bright glare of sunlight Reno felt more like himself until he recalled the events of the previous evening. Scowling, he threw back the blanket. With some care he flexed his wrenched shoulder and grimaced. There was no help for it now; he would have to play out the hand fate had dealt him.

  Last night, after the fat man had gone, he had thought in desperation to depart through the window, but he had found it nailed shut. After adding up his chances he had gone back to bed. Now, getting up, careful to avoid the broken crockery of the cup, he went around to the hand-rolled glass of a tin framed mirror and considered his distorted reflection for some moments without enthusiasm. He’d lost weight. He’d lost a lot of it. But he could see that to a person who had never met Descardo the resemblance might stand up. Especially with that hat and with the quirt and the general’s pistol.

  It was not a role he cared for, but if they were bound to put him in it he intended to play it for all it was worth. At least until he found that shack.

  He stood a moment thinking.

  Hearing someone coming he snatched the blanket off the bed and covered himself.

  It was Linda. She said through the door, “Are you awake? I’m leaving some clothes here. When you’re dressed, if you feel hungry, come to the kitchen. Just follow the hall straight back from this door.”

  He heard her steps going away. He waited to give her time enough. Then he pulled the door open, scooped up the clothes, and shut it. He carried the things to the bed and, dropping the blanket, began to get into them. The flare-bottomed narrow-legged trousers fit like banana skin across the seat and the lavender shirt was almost too tight to button, but he crammed himself into them. Then he pulled on-the boots, which were his own that had been fixed, and shrugged into the gilt-hung weight of a charro jacket. No underwear had been
included, and no hat. It was the lack of his gun which galled him the most.

  An old crone who looked about two-thirds Indian was puttering above the stove when he appeared. He could smell frijoles y chile in a skillet and there was chocolate in a graniteware pot and a stack of tortillas in the open oven. He didn’t see anything of Linda.

  He pulled out a chair and sat down at the uncovered table. The old woman padded over and put down a cup and a fork and spoon and went back to the stove without saying a word. Despite the two open windows it was hotter than hell’s backlog. After fuming for a couple of moments in silence, Reno banged his cup on the table and in the best style of Descardo roared, “I have the thirst, woman!”

  She came over with the pot and filled his cup with steaming chocolate. Reno’s lips curled, “How is a man to gain strength on that pap? Bring the tequila, woman — andale, hurry!”

  She went to a cupboard and came back with a bottle. He was pulling the cork with his teeth when he heard heavier steps and saw the fat man, Juanito, looking in from the door, “Pardon me, General, but when you are through the patron would like to see you.”

  Reno took a long pull from the bottle and grunted.

  The Mexican’s tongue licked across his dry mouth. He wiped his hands on the legs of his trousers and, though it was plain he was aching to bring up the matter of those unpaid pesos, he finally went off without again speaking.

  The old woman brought him a plate and the stack of tortillas on another. Reno attacked the food with gusto. While he was swabbing out his plate with the last of them Linda came in and stood looking down at him. They both said good morning and she put his wallet and his Durham on the table beside his elbow.

  “What has happened to the pistol?” Reno asked with a slanchways look at her.

  “I believe Don Luis has it.”

  “So? And is your Don Luis aware upon whom he bestows so much of his hospitality?”

  Though a blush thrust heightened color into her cheeks, making it obvious she’d caught his sarcasm, she said, “I am sure he knows that you are General Don Raul Descardo, commander of the rebel cavalry.”

  “Rebel, eh?” Reno said in English, swiveling his chair to stare at her more closely. “You are brash with your description of the Liberator’s forces.” She blushed again, more painfully, under his pointed regard but did not turn her eyes away. She had spunk, he thought. “Where did I kill that mestizo dog the other night?”

  She looked away. Fingers twisted in the seam of her skirt. Then she raised her head, brilliantly alive. “About an hour’s quick ride. It is one of the Tadpole’s line camps. I haven’t thanked you, excelencia, but I want you to know I am grateful.” She spoke this last in a kind of outrush of breath, then added, “Truly.”

  “And what were you doing, alone at such a place?”

  Embarrassment was painfully apparent in her face. “I went to keep a tryst.” She said, “He was to tell me about my father.”

  “Your father?” Reno looked at her, surprised. “Don Luis, you mean?”

  “I am not related to Don Luis. My father was killed three months ago by bandits when they destroyed our home.” Her hands grew clumsy; then she said with more confidence, “It happened that I was not there at the time. Don Luis very graciously asked me to remain here while the place is being rebuilt. He has been trying to track down those responsible.”

  Out of a welter of thoughts Reno asked, “You lived near here?”

  “Our ranch, Broken Spur, adjoins Tadpole,” she nodded. “My father was Major Farrel.”

  Reno shook out the makings and twisted a smoke. He’d heard of Farrel and his artesian wells. The Broken Spur, according to rumor, was second largest and by far the most valuable holding around here.

  “What happened to your hands?”

  She fetched them up, her eyes astonished.

  “Your crew,” Reno explained.

  “Oh. Your pardon, excelencia. Those who weren’t killed, I suppose, left the country.”

  “Is Don Luis of that opinion?”

  “Yes, excelencia.”

  The American frowned. “Call me Reno.”

  “Reno’s a pretty far piece from here.”

  “Yeah. Maybe that’s why I like the sound of it.” Lifting the bottle he took another drink. A sigh rolled out of him. He fired his cigarette then and blew gray smoke from his nostrils. “Are you comfortable here?”

  “But of course!” She said it too quickly and then looked away.

  Through the whorls of smoke he considered her shrewdly. As he had previously noticed, she had a good figure but there was nothing remarkable about her face nor, he thought, about her sea-green eyes which, if anything, only tended to emphasize the signs of an acute self-consciousness. Her mouth was her most intriguing feature; its startled smiles were almost painfully bright. She had plenty of intelligence but she obviously had no experience.

  He said, watching the smoke curl round his plate, “It’s a big country, Linda. There are a lot of other places you might go if you’re unhappy.”

  He could feel the stare of her eyes digging into him. He thought about those wells and said, “How did you know the man would meet you at that cabin?”

  “I had a note.”

  “From the man?”

  He heard her breath catch, startled. “Who else would send it to me?”

  The old woman was washing pans in a corner. “If I had the answer to that,” Reno told his plate carefully, “I might be able to guess why your father was killed. What was Don Luis’ reaction to the note?”

  “I did not show it to him.”

  Reno looked at her then. “Yet he was there,” he softly said, “when I passed out after killing that Mexican.”

  Her eyes grew very wide. “No!” she said in a breathless whisper. “What you suggest is impossible. Don Luis is an honorable man.”

  “Of course,” Reno said. He stubbed out his smoke and, pushing back his chair, picked up the makings and his wallet. She didn’t move when he got up and saw with some surprise that she was almost as tall as he was. Her failure to move had brought them very near each other. The shape of her breasts pushed against the cloth of her dress and he observed again how her mouth, of no special beauty, yet managed to suggest a complexity of character which might well prove rewarding to the man who would take sufficient time to explore it.

  Heat came into his groin. Looking into her eyes, he was stirred by an impulse that was older than time. He cursed himself for a fool and was turning away when he remembered the bottle. He caught it up off the table and tucked it under his arm.

  Her eyes were still watching him. Uncomfortable, he said, “Where is the great man’s office?”

  Color again stained her cheeks. She raised a hand, awkwardly pointing at a door across the room. She said too loudly, “Go through there. It is the second door beyond that.”

  Inordinately shy, he thought, and doing her best to conceal it. Well, she was no concern of his. He jerked a gruff nod at her and crossed the room. The door opened into another hall whose lefthand wall was the side of the building. He saw the yard through a window and passed one door. The next door stood open and he saw Don Luis seated back of his desk.

  Cordray, cordial, shoved out a chair. Yesterday when they’d conversed the owner of Tadpole had spoken Spanish; Reno had, too. They did so again. Cordray said, “I believe, señor, we have some business to discuss.”

  Reno, lifting the bottle from beneath his arm, sat down with regard for the tightness of his breeches. He cautiously pushed out his legs. “A thousand thanks for the clothes. I hope my convalescence has not troubled you too greatly — ”

  Cordray waved this aside. “It is always a pleasure to make room for one’s friends.” He selected a cigar and held the box out to Reno. Reno, reminded of Sierra, took a drink. Don Luis fired up and put a haze of smoke about him. “You have the money?”

  Reno, staring owlishly, took another pull from the bottle.

  The silence built up. “Co
me,” Cordray said at last, his beaked nose twitching like the proboscis of a rabbit, “between friends there is no need for dissemblance. I have something to sell and a certain party has sent you with the money to buy it.”

  “He isn’t buying any pigs in a poke.”

  The ranchman stared a moment. “You’ll have the rifles when I get the money.”

  Reno, thinking of those seven days behind him, said, “Do you suppose they will march to the certain party by themselves?”

  “How the guns reach him is no concern of mine. You know the arrangements. Always I have had the good relations with Sierra. Bring up your men and take them and pay me.”

  “And do you think I came here on foot for the exercise?” Reno said ominously, “We ran into an ambush. All my men were killed, but still I have not forgotten them.”

  Cordray’s eyes narrowed coldly. “I know nothing of that. The arrangements — ”

  Reno set the bottle on the floor with a thump. “The arrangements have been changed!” he cried, surging out of his chair to glare down at Cordray wickedly. “You will transport the rifles to the border — do you hear me? When they have arrived and you and I, señor, are alone, I will pay you. Is that clear?”

  Don Luis shrugged. “No offense intended. Perhaps in three days — ”

  “You will move them tomorrow.”

  “Impossible! All my men are — ”

  “Nevertheless,” Reno said in Descardo’s best manner, “tomorrow you move them or the money buys guns from some other friend of Liberty.”

  Don Luis said gruffly, “I will do what I can,” and pushed the quirt and hat across the desk. “These are yours, I think … General.”

  “And where is the pistol?”

  Cordray smiled through his cigar smoke. “When I get the money you can have it.”

  SIX

  IN THE SALA of Cordray’s casa Linda found Reno half an hour later huddled in a chair beside the empty bottle. He did not look up when she came into the room. Elbows on knees, face framed by cupped hands, he was bleakly staring out across the enormity of miles that stretched beyond the window into the wastelands of Chihuahua. Something bitter as defeat lay in the glare of those fixed eyes and yet her heart beat against her ribs as it had done when they had been so close to each other in the kitchen.