“Papa, it’s going to be all right,” Arthur said. He was cradling his father’s head in his lap. But he wasn’t sure it would be all right. A broken leg under these conditions was no trifling matter. The Colonel looked at Arthur with pleading eyes but was speechless. Arthur knew the Old Man was fighting the urge to scream.
It didn’t take long for Cowboy Bob to be located, and he returned at a gallop.
“It’s broke,” he said after examining the leg. “Just lucky the bone didn’t poke out through the skin. Then we’d really have a problem.”
“Can you set it?” Arthur asked.
“Set it? Me?” said Bob. “I ain’t no doctor.”
“Well, we have to do something,” Arthur replied. “What do we do?”
“Well, I reckon I’ll have to try,” said Bob, “’cause it’s gonna keep swellin’, and then it’ll be impossible. But I don’t guarantee no results. If it don’t set right, there’s nothing more I can do.”
Ah Dong came back with a bottle of laudanum, an opiate. It wasn’t as good as chloroform or even ether for the process of setting the broken bone, but it would have to do. They put the bottle to the Colonel’s lips and he managed to get some down. It took a while to get enough in him to take effect. By the time the Colonel was semiconscious, Bob was ready to do his work.
They sat the Colonel up so his legs were sticking out straight. Bob had used his hands to even out the sand so it was level. The break was in the tibia, just below the knee. It would have been good to remove the Colonel’s boot, but Bob didn’t want to disturb the leg any more than necessary. With Arthur, Slim, and Ah Dong holding the Colonel up straight, Bob began to slowly pull and turn on the leg. The Colonel let out a moan. Obviously the laudanum had not killed all the pain. Using both hands, Bob felt for the break, trying to align the tibia and the fibula with the femur and the ankle bones, too, so the leg looked as normal as possible. Then he told Arthur and Slim to pull one way while he turned the other. The Colonel groaned pitifully.
“I think I got it,” Bob said, running his hands along both sides of the leg. “I don’t know how good, but it looks about as straight as I can tell. I helped a guy to do this during a rodeo once, but the feller always walked with a limp after that. Now we got to fix up some kind of cast to put it in. Otherwise, it’ll just separate again.”
Ah Dong produced some muslin from his wagon and fashioned a sort of loose stocking to go over the leg. Then he packed it with sand from the riverbank. They made some splints by pulling plank pieces out of one of the wagons and lashed them together around the leg with rope and pieces of a spare bridle. It was a crude affair, and when they were done the Colonel looked as if he’d stepped into a tall wooden garbage can. The laudanum had finally put him into a restive sleep. There was nothing else to do but camp there for the night, falling farther behind.
“Well, now what?” Arthur asked as they sat around the fire. “I guess we’d better get him to some kind of hospital.” His head was spinning at the complications—his children, his father—this threw the whole plan out of whack. They’d come all this way and now a silly horse accident had put the thing into serious jeopardy.
“Now, how you gonna do that?” Bob said. “There ain’t no hospitals unless we climb back across those mountains, and it’s gonna be snow and ice and God only knows what else before we get back down the other side. I don’t know that we could make it. Only other thing I can think is keep on going the way we are. Sooner or later we’re gonna run out of these canyons and be where there’s some civilization.”
“But what about Father?” Arthur said. “He needs medical attention.”
“Ain’t none,” Bob said. “Look, don’t worry, Arthur. I know he’s your old man, but people been breakin’ legs out here for thousands of years. He’s luckier than most—we was here to set it, such as it is, and he’s got a wagon to ride in. It’s a sure thing he can’t ride no horse. But he’s a tough old bird. He’ll make it.”
“You think Villa’s got a doctor with him?” Arthur asked. “The man must have some compassion in him, doesn’t he? This is an old man who’s badly hurt.”
“What would you say to him? We come after you with a bunch of gunmen to get back those kidnapped kids and now you gotta help us with a doctor? I hardly think so,” Bob said.
“You don’t know Villa like I do,” Bob continued. “Sure, maybe he’ll lend you his doctor and even help carry the Colonel to safety. On the other hand, he might just murder us all. Depends on whether he’s having a good day or not. You want to take the chance?”
“It was a thought,” Arthur in a low voice. He walked off a distance, kicking stones in the sand, mad at himself for not thinking clearly. It was the one thing he needed to do now. Who knew what would happen? The Colonel had been the glue that held everything together, as he had been all of Arthur’s life. Some of the things he did were crazy, but he’d always been the one in charge. Now they were deep in a place so wild and remote that all of them could be killed to the last man and probably nobody would ever find their bones or know what had happened to them.
Cowboy Bob was a good man, but in the end he was a hired hand with no stake in the outcome. So somebody had to take charge and mean it, and Arthur understood who that had to be. After all, it wasn’t anybody else’s kids, and out here you played the hand you were dealt.
Arthur stood by himself in the canyon looking up at the hard bright stars that were beginning to appear in the late autumn sky. A shiver ran through him. Despite everything else, he and Xenia had raised two good children and had become a family that, like the millions of other families when all was said and done, was alone in the world, like a little island adrift.
For all his preoccupation with the trials of the railroad company and the search for profits and security, during these last long days on the trail Arthur had begun to understand with devastating clarity that the most valuable thing a human can do is commit to another human, or humans—in this case, his family. The bleak despondence he sank into after Xenia told him about Mick Martin had turned to black despair when the children were kidnapped. Until this moment he hadn’t been able to shake it off, but now something different was happening.
There was a stone in front of him and he kicked it so hard his toe stung. All his life Arthur had never really hated anybody, not even the bully Hawkins who tormented him at Groton. But suddenly there began to well up in him such a hatred of Pancho Villa and Mick Martin that he thought his head would blow off. For others who over the years had treated him poorly, Arthur had felt either fear or apathy, but never hatred. Yet that’s what he was experiencing now, raw and undiluted, so that it actually pushed out the anxiety and despair. From childhood he’d been taught the difference between good and evil, but just knowing what evil was didn’t protect you from it. He considered that if Katherine and Timmy were somehow free and he came upon Villa face-to-face, he’d willingly sacrifice his own life just for the satisfaction of snuffing out that cruel, wicked son-of-a-bitch. In this last, he was responding to an instinct he didn’t quite comprehend, but one that he suddenly trusted unconditionally.
Finally he walked back to the fire.
“Okay, we go on,” he said. “We’ve lost time with this and we’ll probably lose more with my father and his condition. So I think we’d best get moving right after we fix some dinner. At least the canyons are easy to navigate, even at night. From now on, we’ll break for sleep four hours a day and keep on pushing.”
Slim glanced at Bob, who said to Arthur, “So what happens when we catch up to Villa?”
“I don’t know yet,” Arthur said. “I guess I’ll figure it out when I see the lay of the land. Any more questions?”
“Nope, boss. No questions. I’ll tell the men,” Bob said.
FIFTY-TWO
Johnny Ollas sat staring into the low flames of the campfire and contemplating his fate. Donita was next to him, hugging his arm. Rafael and Luis were nearby perched on logs, and Gourd Woman squatted in the
shadows. Mix hadn’t put on any extra guards; there was no need to. Where could they go if they escaped?
Johnny had talked it over with Luis and Rafael earlier. He was badly handicapped from having his cuadrilla cut in half by the deaths of Julio and Rigaz. Besides, he was pretty sure Villa wasn’t going to let Luis and Rafael ride horses in the fight, if he even let them in the ring in the first place. Actually, Johnny had tried to persuade them not to fight at all—the little band of brothers was already reduced enough as it was. But it appeared Villa would shoot them otherwise, so they might as well go down fighting. Villa had not said what he would do if Casa Grande was killed and they survived, but at least he hadn’t said they would face the firing squad anyway.
“What were you thinking, coming after us like this?” Donita said. After they had taken Johnny to her, she was so glad to see him that she’d thought of nothing but embraces and gratitude. Finally the grave truth of his predicament had sunk in.
“I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit around and wait.”
“Better than this,” Donita said. She knew enough about the bullring to understand the desperate situation Johnny was facing. Since people began recording the history of bullfighting about half of all matadors had ended their careers by being crippled or gored to death—and that happened in regular rings with a fair fight.
“Well, whatever I do in the morning, I guess it will have to be pretty quick,” Johnny observed. “I’m not going to be out there trying to please the crowd.”
THERE WAS NO SLEEPING THAT NIGHT for Johnny Ollas and the others. Dawn arrived above the canyon rim with a hellish glow that quickly turned to gray. Exotic birds began to squawk high in the trees, while all around was the din of Villa’s soldiers awakening—low muffled curses, the snorting of horses, the rattle of utensils, the sounds of hawking, spitting, pissing, and coughing—a strange and mournful cacophony to greet another day.
Except that it wasn’t just another day for Johnny Ollas. His was to be a trial by fire, or, rather, trial by el toro.
“Maybe Casa Grande will recognize you,” Rafael had encouraged him the night before. “If he does, he’ll have that little uncertainty—just a moment or two . . . who knows? It would give you a better chance.”
“I doubt it,” Johnny had replied. “When they get him away from those steers and he sees me alone, there’ll be only one thing on his mind.”
Fierro suddenly appeared, with the usual sarcastic sneer on his face. Lieutenant Crucia was with him, the necklace of noses dangling about his chest.
“Well, matador, are you ready to fight the bull?”
“I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting,” Johnny said mildly.
“You wouldn’t want to keep the chief waiting, either,” Fierro added. “Lieutenant Crucia has your gear.” Crucia produced the neatly folded bloody shirt that had been Julio’s and a gleaming cavalry saber. In revulsion, Johnny dropped the still-damp shirt on the ground. He fingered the saber and found it sharp as promised but totally unsuited to the type of sword he needed. To kill the bull it was necessary to plunge the blade deep into the muscle hump on its neck and sever its spinal chord, but the cavalry saber was honed only on one side and designed for slashing, not sticking.
“I’ll have to have more of these,” Johnny said flatly.
“More sabers? What for?”
“Sometimes they break. Sometimes one doesn’t get the job done.”
“Well, that’s all we can spare, so you better be careful. I’m sorry we couldn’t come up with a traje de luces for you,” Fierro added nicely.
“It doesn’t matter what kind of clothes I wear,” Johnny said. “What about my cuadrilla?”
“Cuadrilla? I only see two men here,” Fierro said mockingly.
“Well, they’ll have to do,” Johnny replied.
“The general made no mention of others.”
“Don’t you want it to be a bullfight?” Johnny asked. “Or just for me to go out there and get killed?”
“Well, there are time considerations. We have to be on our way. But I’ll see what I can do. Can they use knives, or do they need lances, too?”
“Can they use horses?” Johnny asked hopefully.
“I think that would be out of the question,” said Fierro. “We need all our horses. The chief would be displeased to see any of our animals killed.”
“But we brought our horses with us when we joined up. We own the horses.” Johnny thought this was a good point, and fair.
“Not anymore,” Fierro told him. “They are the property of the Grand Army of the North.”
“Then knives will have to do,” Johnny said resignedly.
“So,” said Fierro, “shall we go?”
Gourd Woman had been hovering nearby and she sidled up to Johnny and slipped something in his pocket.
“What’s that?” Fierro wanted to know.
“A good-luck charm,” Gourd Woman answered.
“So, you think I’ll need it, huh?” Johnny asked cheerlessly. “What is it—one of your bones?”
“Yes,” she said, “it will make you invisible.”
Johnny laughed in spite of himself. “Can any of you see me now?”
“No, but we know where you are,” Fierro told him. “Let’s go.”
THEY HAD SET UP THE BULLFIGHT in a little offshoot box canyon a few hundred yards ahead of the encampment. It was smaller than a regular bullring but not by much, which Johnny Ollas was quick to see. It had a narrow entrance that was marked by a collapsed debris of rocks that Villa’s men arranged so they could pile them up again fairly quickly once Casa Grande entered the arena. This would more or less form a ring, though any respectable fighting bull could climb up the rock pile and out of it, if it was so inclined.
Getting Casa Grande into the ring was no small problem. Fighting bulls are loaded through chutes from corrals into the arenas, but there were no chutes here. Fierro had sent Luis and Rafael under heavy escort to bring Casa Grande, since they were the only ones who knew how to control him with the trained steers.
But as they escorted Johnny to the ring, he could see no Casa Grande and wondered, like the condemned, when his executioner would turn up.
Oddly, Johnny wasn’t feeling much fear just then. That would come when Casa Grande came thundering out. He only hoped he could control the fear. All matadors are frightened by the bulls; being able to overcome fear was what mattered. Almost always after finishing a bullfight Johnny would go behind a wall and throw up; then the shakes would come. A stiff cup of brandy cured them.
If Casa Grande hadn’t been the bull he was, Johnny would have felt he had a better chance. Matadors can always refuse a bull before the fight, but there was no refusing this one, and Casa Grande was el toro supremo. He was of perfect fighting age, descended from one of the great strains of fighting bulls in Mexico, and Johnny knew him well. He was big, fast, brave, agile as a cat, and smart to boot.
Suddenly there was a commotion from the men at the entrance end of the canyon. Johnny could see them standing up on the rock pile and waving hats and hands. Then he saw coming through the little entrance several of the steers, and he could also see Luis and Rafael on horseback. More steers entered and Johnny could make out amid them the great hump and horns of Casa Grande. Rafael and Luis began herding the steers back outside the canyon and, when they were done, Casa Grande stood alone near the entrance, which Johnny figured would become his querencia, if the thing ever got that far.
Death and glory often come together, but Johnny was thinking about it differently. Today they became disassociated. He didn’t give a damn about glory right now; and death, if it was to be his, seemed very unfair this way. He watched Villa’s soldiers piling big logs across the narrow entrance to the canyon. They also piled some logs for a small barrera, behind which Johnny, Luis, and Rafael could take refuge during various stages of the fight. Casa Grande hulked nearby, pawing the ground and snorting, tossing his massive head. If Johnny stayed still, he wouldn’t charge. I
t was when Johnny moved that things would get dicey.
Villa decreed that the procedure would be as in all bullfights: The first tercio would be the tercio de varas, in which Casa Grande was introduced. Johnny would perform some capeos to move Casa Grande around; test him, get a feel for him and which way he hooked—but not expose himself to the bull’s horns.
Then Luis would enter with his pics. Normally, Luis would have his pics at the ends of eight-foot lances, or varas. Luis would stab them at the back of Casa Grande’s hump, or morillo, so as to make him lower his head. This was important because a bull with a raised head is hard to kill, and can kill you instead. But there were no varas today and Luis would have to do his work crudely and alone, with knives. At least Fierro had compromised and let them use one of their horses; they would have to share it.
Next came the tercio de banderillas, in which Rafael would approach Casa Grande with what, in a fair fight, would be two-and-a-half-foot banderillas with small iron barbs on the ends. He would use them to “correct” Casa Grande’s posture; if the bull was hooking the wrong way, this could generally be fixed. Except that today, like Luis, Rafael had only knives to work with and no other banderillero to help him out.
Finally there would come the tercio de muerte, the “third of death,” in which Johnny would fight Casa Grande to the finish. In a fair fight a professional matador would not have much trouble killing his bull if it was just a matter of sticking in the sword. The trick was to kill him while at the same time entertaining the fans by putting himself in harm’s way with the bull’s horns. Cowardly matadors were immediately detected by bullfighting aficionados and, in addition to the booing, often as not got pelted out of the ring with flying objects.
With Villa watching, Johnny knew he could not fight a cowardly fight today; if he was to go, he decided, he’d go with his own head held high. If the crowd was entertained by that, so be it, he decided.
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