“This man says,” Saffire told me, “that you and the rest of the Americans can take your steam shovels and drop them in the ocean.”
Odalis groaned, finally on his feet, moving to the other side of me. “That’s not how I heard it. It would not be possible, however, for steam shovels to fit where he instructed Holt and all Americans to place them, one by one.”
“Saffire”—I spoke as firmly and calmly as possible—“I can figure out where this is going without any translation. I need you to move aside to give me room. Lots of room. If you do that, everything should be fine.”
Keeping my focus on my opponents, I leaned down to reach into my boot for my police badge.
Saffire spoke in Spanish to the two men, and finally their expressions shifted. The older man reached behind his back and pulled out a knife.
I froze, then straightened. Badge in hand.
Odalis groaned again. “Señor Vaquero Americano, you should ask instead that the girl keep her mouth shut. She just told them that you have two pistols and are the best shooter in all of the Wild West. So indeed, if this is true, I would dearly like to see either or both of those pistols.”
“As would I.” I held up my badge, hoping that would defuse the situation. One of the men laughed. The other spit to the side.
I slipped the badge into my pocket and said to Saffire, sternly this time, “Move away. I need room.” I stepped back, grabbed the round top of the stool, and flipped the four legs out in front of me.
The two men focused on the stool legs, and Saffire took that opportunity to kick the younger man with the mustache squarely in the crotch. His eyes bulged and he clutched himself.
In turn, I used that distraction to charge forward with the stool, forcing the knife man backward in staggering steps until I had him pinned against the wall. The cross rungs at the bottom of the legs of the stool pinned the man’s biceps, and the remainder of his knife arm from the elbow forward didn’t come close to reaching the top of the stool, so the blade was well away from doing any damage.
“This would be a good time to ask the bartender for help.” I spoke to Saffire without turning my head from the man I had pinned. “English. Spanish. I don’t care.”
I heard a thump and a short cry from Saffire. I maintained pressure with the stool and darted a look backward. She was on the ground, holding her ribs. The second man was now easily fending off Odalis. He’d planted his left hand on Odalis’s forehead, so none of the short man’s swings made contact.
I had to keep leaning against the stool to pin my opponent against the wall.
Would anyone else step up to help?
The mustached fighter kicked Odalis’s legs out from under him, then pulled a revolver from his belt, under his shirt. He advanced on me—a steady hand aiming the dark hole of the barrel directly at my head—and spoke a quick barrage of Spanish.
No translation needed.
The man at the end of the stool legs was still waving the knife at me, and the mustached man with the revolver was two steps closer. So much adrenaline surged through me that I had no room for fear.
That would come later.
Then the man with the revolver simply collapsed. Onto his knees, then a topple sideways, the revolver spilling from his hand. His fall revealed someone standing behind him, someone with a full bottle of wine in his hand, holding the bottle by the neck.
It took me a moment to first comprehend that finally someone had stepped in to help, and a second moment to comprehend that this someone had used the bottle like a club. The someone was the man in a shambles of a coat who had been sitting near Saffire earlier.
It took me another moment to comprehend a third fact. The effort of clubbing the second twin thug had twisted the bottle man’s hat, and his face was out of its shadows to reveal rounded spectacles and familiar features.
“Muskie?” I grunted, trying to keep my full weight pressed against the nearly horizontal barstool.
Miskimon walked around me, toward the first man, who was spewing Spanish from behind the legs of the stool.
“The skull is built to protect the brain from blows that come from the front or back.” Miskimon spoke in the neutral tones of a teacher in front of a class. “So I find blows to the side take much less effort and are far more effective. But one must use precision because too easily one can kill a man. Hold him steady, please. I’ll be aiming for the gray patch of hair near his temple.”
He whacked at the knife man’s right hand until he’d forced the knife loose. Then he held the man’s wrist with one hand, and with the other hand used a sideways blow to smack the knife man’s temple with the wine bottle. But it only dazed the man, who bellowed more Spanish.
“It’s been a long day.” Miskimon brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his coat. “Normally, I’m able to judge the first blow more precisely than that. On the other hand, considering what he just said about our mothers, I don’t mind a second shot.”
The man was spitting out more venom, and midbarrage, Miskimon smacked the man’s temple again. This time I felt the knife man’s full weight sag into the stool.
I dropped it and let the man fall at my feet.
Miskimon faced the onlookers. “Does anyone know either of these men?”
No answer.
“With this many people in the bar, someone should be able to identify them.” Miskimon sounded mildly impatient.
“Not really my fight,” I said, “now that it’s over.”
Miskimon sighed and spoke again to the crowd. “¿Alguien sabe cualquiera de estos hombres?”
He was answered by murmurs and shuffling as onlookers began to retreat.
I moved to Saffire and helped her to her feet. She wiped away a silent tear.
“Where did he kick you?” I steadied her. “In the ribs?”
Saffire nodded.
“We can get you to a doctor. There won’t be a next time, but next time, no help, okay? And this time, thanks for trying. You are a brave girl.”
“Next time is maybe now.” Saffire pointed at the entrance. “Those men are National Police. But I am not stupid enough to try to fight them. Nor should you.”
I looked for Miskimon, but the man was gone. Then the police were upon us. Two took Saffire and Odalis, and the rest took me. They separated us outside, putting Saffire in a wagon that started downhill.
Mine went the opposite direction.
January 11, 1909
Col. Geo. W Goethals,
Chairman, I.C.C.
Culebra, Canal Zone
Sir:
In a former report on this matter, I said “Mrs. Penny states she has no knowledge whatever of how the screen at her apartment was torn. She states, however, that she feels satisfied it was done by the workmen resting their hands, etc., against same. Contrary to this however, is a statement of Star Foreman Dixon and his men, that when they left at 11 a.m. there was not a hole in these panels of screening, and when they returned it was in the condition above stated.”
You will note in Mr. Penny’s letter he says, “The hole still remains where the last man crawled through after kicking down scaffolding.” On the morning I made this investigation, accompanied by Acting Superintendent, Mr. Greer, there was no hole large enough for a man to crawl through. In fact these damaged pieces look more like tears. Even had these men damaged any of the old screening, while working on the house, it hardly looks like they would have neglected to repair same.
It is peculiar, indeed, that in using the same method in working on other houses, these same workmen do not leave screening which is damaged as a result of their work. It looks like the case resolves itself like this: Mrs. Penny denies damaging the screening, while the workmen insist that when they left there at 11 a.m. it was in good order, but when they returned at 1 p.m. the damage had been done.
You will note that Mrs. Holland, having apartments in the same building, admitted causing the damage in the screening at her apartment, and has so far made no objections to pa
yment for same.
Respectfully,
Inspector T. B. Miskimon
Even though the felt of my cowboy hat wasn’t the perfect material for the Panama heat, it bothered me greatly that I no longer had it. It took months to shape felt the way I wanted it, comfortable on the skull, enough of a brim to keep sun off the face and neck, a decent tilt so that rain ran onto the back and not down the collar.
I missed that hat.
In the chaos at the Coconut, someone had knocked it off my head, and I’d been too busy fighting arrest to retrieve it.
I believed now I was in a hut somewhere on the hill above the Coconut. Six armed men in National Police uniforms had sealed the exits from the bar, which made Miskimon’s disappearance a mystery. A mystery, however, I gave no effort to solve in my current situation.
At the Coconut, one of the cops had engaged in a short conversation with the bartender, while the others kept me and Odalis at gunpoint and Saffire’s arm in a firm grip. The cops placed me and Odalis in handcuffs. I’d been forced onto one wagon outside with four cops, and Odalis and Saffire onto the other with the remaining two cops.
A cop threw a burlap bag over my head. It smelled like potatoes, and the rough fabric scratched my skin.
I could only guess by the lean of the wagon that it had turned uphill. After ten minutes of the steady clip-clop of a horse straining against the traces, I’d been bundled through a doorway, my shoulder banging into the side. Then I’d been guided a few steps inside, where the I had been briefly stripped of the handcuffs, only for my hands to be wrenched behind my back and around a pole with the handcuffs replaced.
Alone now, with the sounds of night insects my only company, I guessed I was inside a hut, handcuffed to the center pole. I’d deduced this from the three stumbling steps I’d taken into the hut. I pictured the pole supporting crossbeams of a tin-sheeted roof above me. As I slid down to sit, my boot heels scraped the loose dirt. Thank goodness I had enough slack in the handcuffs to shift my shoulders and find the most comfortable position. I listened for any conversation to alert me to my captors’ presence.
All I heard was my own breathing inside the burlap and the cacophony of insects. During my time in Cuba, fighting under the command of Roosevelt, I’d been astounded at the variety and size of the beetles and butterflies and cockroaches and all the other flying swarms that I could not identify by species, let alone name.
Then, my fellow soldiers and I hadn’t paid much attention to the mosquitoes, except to swat the irritants. In retrospect, we should have been terrified. Fewer than a thousand men had died in combat in Cuba, but over five thousand had died of yellow fever.
Not everyone who contracted yellow fever died from it. I had been one of the survivors. Yellow fever signaled itself with high fever and intense muscle and joint pain. The only cure was patience, and after a few days, the symptoms disappeared. But with the expected cessation and physical relief also came the dreaded wait and mental strain. Because it might only be a respite. For the unfortunate, the fever would attack again with a ferocity that led to projectile vomiting of black blood and the jaundiced skin that came with destruction of the man’s liver. Then, slow and anguished death.
In Cuba, I had seen the death wagon too many times—a box on two wheels, with the single axle centered below an X on the side, and a single horse between the railings, pulling the box. I had stood at too many mass funerals, the coffins lined end to end, each draped in American flags, listening to the bugler with a combination of guilt and relief that my own body was not among the dead.
Then, with the brief Spanish-American War almost over, came the bleakest day of my life to that point—the hot July morning in Havana when James Holt Senior died in the sweaty canvas confines of an army tent, a victim of the same disease that had randomly allowed me to survive. My only grace had been the chance to reconcile and the deathbed promise I’d made to my father to take care of his ranch.
Because of my exposure to yellow fever and because of my father’s death, I had followed the subsequent medical debate with interest as the search for yellow fever’s source played across the newspapers. On one side were the traditionalists, who believed that bacteria in filthy conditions caused the disease and that strict hygiene could control outbreaks. On the other were advocates of a novel theory that mosquitoes carried both yellow fever and malaria and passed them along to humans.
Barely a decade had passed since my exposure to the disease. Since then, a military doctor had done the necessary experimentation to prove that the novel theory was accurate. Because of this, he was the man in charge of sanitation for the Canal Zone, and his near eradication of mosquitoes within the zone was probably the single biggest reason the Americans might succeed in connecting the Atlantic to the Pacific. Forty-thousand workers had died from yellow fever during the French attempt in the 1880s. In the five years since the United States had begun working on the canal, fewer than five hundred had died and the rate of deaths had trickled to less than one per month.
A man who survived yellow fever was immune to future attacks. Still, there was no cure for malaria, and while that disease probably wouldn’t kill me were I to contract it, the recurring attacks would follow me back to my ranch in the Badlands and make me miserable for the rest of my life.
For that reason, with my back against the pole, I was in one sense grateful for the burlap sack that screened my face and neck from mosquito attacks. I was equally grateful for long sleeves and trousers, which gave me the necessary protection everywhere except for the skin exposed on my wrists and hands. When I felt a pinprick of a mosquito bite against the back of my right hand, I squashed the tiny attacker against the pole. I had to be vigilant. While years of travel had taught me that I could sleep anywhere, including with my back against a pole, I wouldn’t allow myself that luxury in the darkness of the hut.
After waiting a sufficient time and not hearing sounds to tell me the police were in the hut watching me, I decided to experiment with an attempt at escape. I stood, squared my back against the pole, and pushed hard, my boot heels skidding against the dirt. The bottom of the pole barely moved, indicating that it had been buried a few feet into the hill. The top of the pole swayed a few inches however, and the roof creaked.
That immediately brought a shout from what must have been the doorway. At least it hadn’t brought a bullet.
I slid my back down the pole and sat again. It was obvious that this had not been a typical arrest for a barroom fight. Any arrest after a brief fight like that would not have been typical. And to be taken not to jail but to a hut where the poor lived in squalid housing—hidden, anonymous—added to the curiousness of the events.
I wasn’t afraid. Not only did the burlap sack protect me from mosquitoes, but it also served as a clue that whoever had ordered the sack over my head probably wanted to prevent me from seeing anything incriminating.
Odds were good that I’d not been brought to this place to be executed.
So the more important question was why had this happened? And the obvious answer was that my questions about Ezequiel Sandoval had triggered it. Except for those questions, to all appearances, I would’ve appeared a typical American loose outside the Zone, interested in what typical Americans pursued. Chasing liquor and women did not result in kidnappings by the Panamanian police. It would be bad for business, not to mention risky, to aggravate the US government as represented by Colonel Goethals, who needed his workers.
Even if asking questions about Sandoval was dangerous, I had other assumptions that set me at ease about the situation. Miskimon was working for Goethals. Therefore, he had to protect me so that I could report again to his boss.
Ah, Miskimon. I’d seriously underestimated the man. First, he had street smarts. He had played the role of a clownishly inept follower from the steamship in Colón to the stop at Culebra, lulling me into believing that he would always be that obvious. As a result, I had not spent much time looking for him in Panama City. Come to t
hink of it, would I have been able to spot him even if I had been looking for him?
Second, during the fight in the Coconut, I had to admit the prissy man had showed physical toughness and an unhurried lack of fear. I might not like his fastidiousness and apparent worship of rules, but I had to respect the man.
Miskimon, I decided, had not run away from the Coconut out of fear of the National Police but, more than likely, because he’d assessed the situation and realized the best course of action was to escape arrest. Then he could, in an official capacity, extradite me later. So he would show up sooner or later.
Unless.
If Goethals, as explained, could not involve himself in the Panamanian squalls, would he order Miskimon not to intervene on my behalf?
No. Goethals still had to report to Roosevelt. And that meant Goethals had to send Miskimon.
With my fears thus allayed, I allowed myself to recall the earlier part of the evening—at the National, when I’d so enjoyed watching the curve of Raquel Sandoval’s smile, smelling the fragrance of her skin.
It was a strange sensation, mooning like a schoolboy. I wasn’t sure if I liked how much I liked it.
I slapped the back of my hand against the post to mash another attacking mosquito. As I allowed myself to pass time by picturing her eyes in that face and how her dark hair had outlined her cheekbones, I told myself that all this mooning was for the best. I needed to wear out the memory of our short meeting so I could forget about her as soon as possible.
The creaking and buzzing and whining of insects began to lessen, gradually replaced by the songs of birds. I began to sweat under the burlap sack over my head.
My bladder hurt.
I’d paced myself on beer at the Coconut, but since arriving here I’d been alternately sitting and standing for hours, sliding up and down the center pole to stay awake, growing more aware of the pressure of my bladder.
I called for the guard.
No response.
I pushed against the center pole and heard a warning shout as the roof above me clattered. Tin roof.
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