Jim Bob McGuffy, whom Bachelard had known since the war, said, “You’re gonna ride down there all by your lonesome, Major?”
Bachelard had already started walking his horse out along the ridge. “A man’s work is never done,” he said with a selfimportant sigh.
He didn’t trust any of his men—not McGuffy, not the two surviving bean-eaters Miguel Montana had sent along with him—to ride down to the house without making a bunch of noise and getting them all shot out of their saddles. As far as he was concerned, they were all dull-witted honyonkers, better with a plow and a scythe than a rifle.
But they were all he had. And he knew, from his considerable studies of world history, that revolutions often started with men such as these, led by great men like Napoleon, Caesar, and himself.
Sometimes all it took to change history was one great man leading hordes of cannon fodder into battle. Bachelard was optimistic that it would take only him and perhaps Miguel Montana, coordinating their revolutionary efforts, to take northern Sonora from the Mexican federales and retake his beloved Texas from the Union, forming a separate country … with Bachelard himself, of course, as commander general.
He made his way around the ridge, circling the ranchyard, then dismounted and tied his horse to a cottonwood tree that stood in a shallow ravine, about a hundred yards back of the hut. Walking as quietly as he could over the rock-strewn ravine bottom, he came to the ranchyard and took cover behind a chicken coop.
He looked around the coop toward the house, spying no movement there, hearing no sounds. He figured Ramón Martinez and his wife and lovely daughter were wide-awake, however. They’d heard the horses tearing around the corral. That’s why the light in the window had gone out, so their shadows couldn’t be targeted as they scurried around in the cabin like rats in a cage.
Bachelard smiled. He’d stopped here on several occasions to water his horses and to eat meals he forced Julia Martinez to cook for him and his men. He liked the Martinez family, mostly because he liked the daughter, Juanita, who was beginning to fill out her cotton dresses rather well, and because he liked the look of fear he evoked in the dark eyes of her parents—peons, peasants, low-rent farm stock.
They were a fun lot, the poor. Easily frightened. Easily outwitted. So, so much fun on an otherwise uneventful night. And when Bachelard’s fun was through, he’d have a bed to sleep in—a real bed for a change, not the cold, rocky ground. A general deserved to sleep in a bed now and then.
He made the back door of the hut and pressed his cheek against the rough, gray wood. He dimly heard someone mumble something in Spanish. As Bachelard had predicted, the greasers were expecting trouble to come from the front.
He took one step back, then rushed forward, kicking the door open. It splintered as it slammed back against the wall. He remembered where the wall separating the kitchen from the main living area was, and he hunkered quickly behind it just as Martínez’s old muzzle-loading rifle boomed. The ball hit the wall with a thunk, spraying chunks of adobe that clattered to the floor like hail.
Two screams followed the thunder of the blast, and before their echoes died Bachelard was out from behind the wall and moving toward the ghostly white powder still hanging in the air. He glimpsed a shadow and pursued it, stretching out his hand, grabbing the gun out of someone’s grasp and flinging it across the room.
A man yelled in Spanish, “My God! Who goes there?”
“’Tis I, good man—Gaston Bachelard!” the Cajun yelled theatrically. “You must have mistaken me for common bandits or Apaches.”
“Bachelard!” the man yelled in a voice thin with sorrow.
“Light a lamp or I’ll start shooting.”
“Sí, sí.” In Spanish, Martínez told his wife to light the lamp on the wall. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, por favor.”
When Julia Martinez had lighted the lamp above the fireplace, Bachelard saw Ramon standing near the window, hands raised high above his head—a short, squat Mexican with an unruly swatch of curly gray hair, dressed for the chilly highcountry evening in a striped serape.
Julia—stout, broad-hipped, with a pretty, delicate face, braided hair turning gray—stood before the fireplace, looking with bug-eyed horror at their visitor, whom she’d come to know only too well over the last several months he’d been raiding in the area.
Why, in the name of the saints, did this madman have to stop here? Hadn’t she and Ramón always done well by their beloved Jesus? They kept up their shrine on the ridge over the valley, even rode to church in the village twice a month—and it was a twenty-mile journey over the mountains!
Bachelard removed his gray Confederate campaign hat and flourished it with as much Southern gentleman’s charm as he could muster, bowing elaborately. “Senora,” he said, drawing it out, then raising his cold gray eyes to her and grinning. Then he frowned and looked around. “Where … where is the senorita? Oh … there she is! ¡Hola, Juanita!”
Bachelard had caught a glimpse of the Martinezes’ daughter in the open loft above his head. The pale, round face of the girl drew back in the darkness.
“Oh, but Juanita!” Bachelard yelled, as though a lover spurned, “it is your prince Gaston. Please come down here, ma chérie, and give your prince a kiss!”
Outside a dog barked furiously. “Major Bachelard,” someone yelled from the stoop. It was McGuffy. He pounded on the door.
Bachelard threw the bolt and opened the door. “Yes, yes,” Bachelard said impatiently. “What is it?”
“Everything secure here, sir?” McGuffy said. A dog stood off a ways, barking at him.
“Yes, everything’s secure. Are the horses put up?”
“The greasers are doin’ that now.”
Bachelard sighed and threw the door back. “Well, then, come in if you must.” He stopped, yelled for the dog to shut up, then turned to Julia Martinez.
“I am so sorry we’re late for supper, but my men are very hungry, señora.” He spread his arms and left the demand at that, little more than the request of a reluctant guest.
Julia Martinez stared at him with her terrified, furious eyes, then shifted her gaze to her husband. Their eyes locked for only a moment.
“Sí” she said, and moved slowly into the kitchen.
“Sit down and rest yourself, Mr. McGuffy,” Bachelard said.
“I’m sure Señor Martínez will be happy, as always, to make us feel at home after several long days on the trail. Are you not, Ramón?”
The rancher said nothing. He stood stiffly against the wall, shoulders back, and seemed to be holding his breath. In the guttering lamplight, his dark eyes were shiny as a wounded deer’s. There was a gilt-edged crucifix on the wall to his left. It seemed to hold him there.
Bachelard’s voice grew tight. “Now kindly ask your daughter to come down and visit me.”
A moan sounded in the loft.
Ramón Martinez stared at Bachelard and said nothing.
Bachelard moved toward him, gritting his teeth. “I am not going to rape her, you fool. I am saving her for when she is old enough to bear my children.” He gave a thin-lipped smile. “I simply want to say hello.”
Still, Martinez said nothing.
“Call her! Or I will go up and drag her down myself!”
Martínez’s chest fell as he exhaled. He wet his lips and lifted his eyes to the loft. “Juanita,” he said softly in Spanish, “come down here. It is all right.”
“No, Papa!” the girl cried.
“Do as your father tells you, you little brat!” Bachelard spat, losing his patience.
“Come down here, Juanita. I will protect you,” Martinez said.
“Yes, your dear old papa will protect you from the desires of your adoring prince!”
After several seconds, boards creaked and the girl appeared, looking down from the loft. She was fourteen years old and bore all the finer attributes of her mother. Her hair was long and straight and shiny. She wore a white cotton nightgown, and she was barefoot.
>
“Come, my dear,” Bachelard cooed.
Giving her frightened eyes to her father, the girl grasped the ladder, turned, and started down, planting each delicate brown foot in turn. With admiring eyes Bachelard watched the roll of the girl’s buttocks as she descended.
“Ah … my lovely señorita!” Bachelard cooed as she stepped to the floor and turned away from the ladder. “You grow lovelier with every visit.”
Again the girl shuttled her stricken gaze to her father. Her face was as white as her gown.
“Juanita,” Ramón demanded. “Come here!”
The girl started toward her father. Bachelard stopped her abruptly, drawing her back with an arm.
“No, no, Ramón. It’s okay. Really. Juanita and I need to reacquaint ourselves. Come, my dear. Sit with your prince Gaston.” Still holding the girl’s arm, Bachelard sat in a creaky chair and drew the girl onto his lap.
Stiffly she complied, keeping her eyes on her father. She straddled one of Bachelard’s knees, one bare foot on the floor, the other hanging free.
Bachelard stared up at her lovely face above his, his own features an amalgam of pure insanity and storybook infatuation. “‘What light through yonder window breaks?’” he recited from Shakespeare. “‘It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.’”
It was obvious by the way the girl shook that she was more afraid of this demon than anything her childish nightmares had ever conjured.
When Bachelard glanced up and saw McGuffy’s lusty eyes on the girl, he snapped, “Get your eyes off my bride, sir, or prepare to draw your weapon!”
The tall, lanky man’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in his unshaven throat, and he flushed. “What? Oh … I—Sorry, sir.” He dropped his gaze to the floor.
Soon the smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. Julia Martinez brought the big stone pot and set it on the table with cups. McGuffy got up from his chair by the hearth and sat at the table, then poured a cup of coffee. Bachelard remained in his chair, with the white-faced Juanita on his lap. He had just rested his head against the adobe wall and closed his eyes when the dog started barking again and the outside door suddenly opened.
He jerked awake, starting for his gun, nearly throwing the girl to the floor. “Don’t you two knock?” he snapped at the Mexicans standing there in their Texas boots and sombreros, worn leather cartridge-belts crisscrossing their chests, half the loops of which were filled with tarnished brass. The men smelled like gunpowder and horses and stale human sweat.
They gave lipless smiles to Bachelard and the lovely little girl on his lap, who did not look at all pleased about being there, then tossed their sombreros onto the floor. Believing he saw something lascivious in their faces, Bachelard drew his gun and aimed it at them.
“If either of you so much as lays a hand on my sweet Juanita, I’ll blow your heart out through your spine and chop you up in little pieces!”
Everyone in the room stiffened. In the kitchen, Julia dropped a pan and muttered a prayer.
The two Mexicans looked at each other, turning white, and looked back at the long-barreled Confederate revolver aimed in their direction. The one called Jesus thought at first the man was joking, and he gave a tentative smile. It quickly disappeared when he looked into the crazy man’s eyes, and dropped his gaze to the plate Julia now set before him.
“Sí, jefe,” he muttered, and leaned forward, grabbing the wooden spoon and digging it into the stew Julia had brought to the table, keeping a watchful eye on her daughter.
Bachelard looked at Martinez, who had taken a seat on the hearth, his stubby hands laced together, staring at the floor. The ex-Confederate gave the girl a less-than-gentle shove as he got to his feet, walked to the table, and sat down. Not hesitating in the least, the girl grabbed the ladder and climbed quickly, short, terrified bursts of air escaping her lungs with every move.
“Ramón,” Bachelard said, retrieving a tortilla from a warm plate on the table. “I want you to always remember that your daughter belongs to me. As soon as she’s old enough—you know what I mean—I’m going to take her away and make an honest woman out of her. You know what I mean by that, too. So you make sure she stays pure. Make sure none of these little desert rats from one of these ranchos gets their dirty hands on her. I want her clean, understand? Pure. Virginwhite. No Cleopatras for me. I’m Romeo and she’s my Juliet. Comprende?”
Ramón Martinez looked at him, vaguely astonished, thoroughly confused. He hadn’t understood more than five words of what the man had said.
Bachelard turned to him severely.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Ramón?”
Knowing it was the only answer that would satisfy this demon, Ramón Martinez gave his head several resolute nods. “Sí, señor. Si … sí.”
Bachelard filled his tortilla from the stew pot and bit into it, eating hungrily, groaning as he chewed. He told Ramón to run and fetch the wine he’d served them before. Martinez went into the kitchen and came back with a crock jug. He filled each of the cups on the table.
“Well, it’s not Napoleon brandy and Toumedos Madeira, but it ain’t half bad. No sir, it ain’t half bad. Is it, boys?”
Stuffing their mouths as quickly as they could, the men agreed, nodding and grunting, not lifting their faces from their plates.
When the men had finished eating, Bachelard ordered them all to bed down in the barn. They donned their hats and belched as they headed out the door. Bellies full, they were ready to sleep.
When they’d left, Bachelard refilled his cup from the crock jug and sat in the chair he’d shared with Juanita. He crossed his legs with a pleasant sigh, sipped the wine from his cup, and turned his eyes to Ramón.
“I’ve had a change of heart, Ramón,” he said jovially. “At first light tomorrow morning, I’m taking your daughter with me.”
Clearing the table, Julia dropped a plate.
CHAPTER 15
CAMERON KNEW THE only place he could get a decent night’s rest in Contention City was at Ma Jones’s Boarding House. It sat well off the main street, where cowboys whooped and hollered all night, and the din of piano music and occasional gunfire made sleep, at least for Cameron, virtually impossible.
And tonight, of all nights, he needed good, sound sleep.
The only problem was, Ma Jones closed up at nine o’clock every night and went to bed. She believed that anyone out later than nine was up to no good, and she didn’t want “nogoods” in her hotel.
When Cameron had ridden into town late in the past, she’d opened up for him and given him a room. His Apachefighting exploits were known and admired in the area, and she was proud to have him stay at her place. She even had a signed picture of him, wielding a Spencer rifle and decked out in a tan hat, fringed chaps, and red neckerchief—his scouting garb—hanging in the dining room in which she served her guests.
As he climbed the porch steps now, saddlebags draped over his shoulder, rifle in hand, he hoped she’d be as happy to see him tonight as she’d been in the past. He also hoped she wouldn’t mistake him for the “rough element” and blow him into eternity with the fabled double-bore with which she always greeted after-hours callers.
He had to pound for five minutes before a light appeared inside. A thin figure clad in white appeared, holding a lantern in one hand, the storied shotgun in the other.
“It’s Jack Cameron, Ma,” Cameron announced through the glass.
Ma came to the door, raised the lantern and peered out. Her face, drawn with sleep, appeared deathly gray in the lantern light. She threw the bolt and opened the door with more disgust than exuberance. It appeared Cameron was beginning to wear a little thin.
“You’re keeping some sorry hours, Jack,” she said.
“Sorry to wake you, Ma. Thanks for opening up for me.”
The old woman turned and moved toward the desk at the back of t
he room. Cameron followed her contritely. Hoping to arouse some motherly approval, he added, “I’ve been tracking an Apache,” which was as much of the truth as he wanted Ma to hear.
The woman stood the shotgun against the wall and made her way behind the desk. “When are you gonna get married and settle down, Jack Cameron?”
“When the Apaches give me a chance, I reckon.”
She set the lamp on the desk, where it brought out the deep grain of the wood, and produced her spectacles from the pocket of her robe. Cleaning them against her robe, Ma said, “You know, my daughter fancies you—Ruth Agnes.”
“Right pretty girl,” Cameron allowed, wishing like anything that he could get off his aching legs.
“She’s a little lazy now, but I think all Ruth Agnes needs is a husband to bring her around, show her the way. Get her to cookin’ and cleanin’ for him, makin’ his breakfast of a mornin’, his supper of an evenin’. I believe marriage would change her for the good.”
“I believe in marriage as an institution,” Cameron said woodenly, about to fall asleep on his feet. “Listen, Ma, it’s late, and—”
“I think it would do you some good, as well, Jack Cameron. You wouldn’t be gettin’ bored and lonesome out there, just you and that hammerhead boy, Jimmy What’s-His-Name. You wouldn’t have to go to Tucson and come here two, three times a year, and practice the evilness that goes on over there … You know where I’m talkin’ about, and you know who I’m talkin’ about, too—that tart.”
Cameron just stood there, feeling more than a little like he was standing before Saint Peter at the pearly gates. Finally Ma gave a disparaging sigh and opened the register. Cameron could have kissed her. Placing the glasses on her nose, she ran her finger down a page of the open book.
“Room seven,” she said wearily, as if there was no getting through to this sinner. “That’s right next to your friends that come in earlier.”
The Romantics Page 11