Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  There was a soft rap at the door, and Luis warily poked his head inside.

  “Welcome, friend of Latham, who he says I can trust,” Ramón called, pushing to his bare feet to greet the younger man. “I am Ramón Gutiérrez, former manager of the Cerveza Grande Brewery warehouse, on la Quinta.”

  “The warehouse manager?” Luis gave me a look of grudging respect. “Now I know how you obtained such fine beer for the trade.” He moved across the room to shake the older man’s hand. “I am Luis Vega, of Nogales. Like our good friend, I was also a trader along the border, although without his source for beer.”

  We settled in to eat, Luis and I sharing the bench, Ramón squatting Indian-fashion beside the fireplace where he could keep an eye on the coffee. There were no forks, and the spoons were all made from goat’s horn. Luis and I were hungry, and didn’t speak until we’d cleaned up all the eggs and bacon, and drained the coffee pot. Afterward, while Luis scrubbed the dishes, Ramón and I sat at the table and discussed my options.

  “Soto and his men have taken over the Federale garrison,” Ramón told me. “They keep the gringa and her muchachos there, in one of the back rooms. They are sometimes allowed outside, in the yard behind the barracks, but never without at least two guards.”

  “Can I get to him, talk to him?”

  “Soto?” Ramón shrugged. “Perhaps. He is expecting the guns, but his men are not true soldiers. They lack discipline. It might be wiser to have someone else approach the fat bandit first.”

  “You?”

  “Me?” The old man chuckled, then shook his head. “No, not for all the guns in your packs, amigo. You will have to find someone else.”

  “Who?”

  Ramón’s brows furrowed in thought. After a couple of minutes, he said, “There is someone … maybe. You know of Poco Guille?”

  I frowned, remembering a kid who used to hang out at some of the cantinas across the river in Little Sabana. He hadn’t been more than seventeen or eighteen at the time, always around, always underfoot. He’d wanted to go into the trading business with me, but I’d never taken him seriously. No one had, as I recalled.

  “What was his name?” I asked. “Not Poco Guille.”

  “Guillermo Calderón.”

  Maybe I ought to explain here that Guillermo is the Spanish equivalent of William, and that Poco Guille translates loosely to Little Billy. Little Billy Calderón.

  “Is he still around?” I asked.

  “Sí, if Soto’s men haven’t shot him since yesterday afternoon, when I saw him down by the river with Juan Kaspar’s daughter. His being shot is a possibility, although I didn’t hear any gunfire from the garrison. Usually I can, if it’s an official execution. Of course, there is always the chance that Juan Kaspar shot him, for hanging around his daughter.”

  “I can understand why this man Kaspar might want to shoot a brash young fool,” Luis said, “but why would Soto’s men want to shoot him?”

  “Because Poco Guille is a thief, a rascal, and a rake.” Ramón smiled, the flesh around his eyes crinkling into deep barrancas. “But he is well-liked, especially by the women.”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “Like a coyote in a hen house,” Ramón assured us.

  Luis was scowling fiercely by this time, looking at me. “He is not the man for us, J. T. We need someone we can trust. Our mission here is too important to risk on a scallywag.”

  But I wasn’t so sure.

  Watching me curiously, Ramón said, “You know Poco Guille, don’t you?”

  “Some. He wanted to ride the border with me for a while. I told him no.”

  Actually I’d told him to piss off, but I was hoping he wouldn’t remember that.

  “If he is such a great thief, why doesn’t he ride for Chito Soto?” Luis demanded, drying his hands on a piece of coarse brown jerga.

  “Because Poco Guille is not a killer, and Soto knows that,” Ramón answered solemnly. “Probably one of the Federales who joined Soto’s army warned him away from Guille, because when he tried to join Soto’s army, he was told to leave immediately or be shot. He was also ordered to leave his guns behind. Later, one of Soto’s lieutenant’s put him to work in the fields west of town, but Guille disappeared before the day was half over. He has been dodging Soto’s men ever since, but he won’t leave Sabana. It is said he hates Chito Soto, but I think he likes being a thorn in the old dog’s side.”

  I was smiling by the time Ramón finished. That was Little Billy to the core, I thought, as reckless as he was independent.

  “Does he still hang out around the Loro Azul cantina?” I asked.

  “Sadly no. El Loro’s whores were moved into the garrison last year, and the mescal and pulque was confiscated by Soto’s men. El Loro has sat empty ever since, waiting for the day Soto’s men leave the country for good. It is also unfortunately true that Poco Guille is now a wanted man. He was seen stealing a revolver off of one of Soto’s guards late one night, the guard sleeping drunk at the front entrance to the garrison. There is no reward, but Soto was said to be very angry, and had the guard flogged. Billy is to be brought into the garrison to stand trial for his theft if captured, then he is to be shot as a traitor to the revolution.”

  “But he’s still around?”

  “Sí, el chamaco loco.”

  Crazy kid or not, I thought he could still be our best bet for making contact with Soto. If not directly, then through a friend. Men like Poco Guille usually had friends crawling out of the woodwork. “Can you get word to him?” I asked.

  Ramón nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  You might be wondering why we didn’t just ride up to the former Federale garrison and announce our presence, and I’ll admit we might have gotten away with it. But I’ll also put it to you this way. Chito Soto was like a king in that part of Sonora, and you don’t just ride up to a king and start chatting. You’ve got to go through channels. You’ve got to know who to approach, and how to approach them. And in a situation like we were facing there in Sabana, approaching the wrong man could have gotten us killed real quick, while the man or men who committed our murders confiscated the Colt-Browning machine gun for themselves and tried to work their own deal with the bandit chief. Those weren’t risks I wanted to take if I didn’t have to. Not with my life or any of the Davenports’.

  I dug a single, silver eagle from the poke Davenport had given me and spun it across the table. “I need to talk to Poco Guille, the sooner the better.”

  Ramón studied the coin for a moment, then slipped it into his pocket. I considered him a friend, but he was also a businessman, and from the very beginning our relationship had been built on graft and the illicit exchange of goods. I wouldn’t expect him to involve himself in my problems without compensation.

  “Stay here, and stay out of sight,” he instructed. “If Soto’s men find out I am hiding you, I’ll be shot.” He went to the window to study the street in front of his house. “One of you should return to the stables to watch over your stock. It is known that I no longer own a jackass, and it would be bad if a mule’s bray was heard from my stable.”

  “Luis,” I said, nodding toward the door.

  “Sí.” He grabbed a clay olla filled with water and hurried out the door.

  “Why would your neighbors want to turn you into Soto’s men?” I asked.

  “Because they are frightened. The fat dog keeps them that way with periodic executions. He claims that to betray his wishes is to betray the coming revolution, but we all know he is a liar. Still, some feel it is better to remain loyal to a liar than to risk one’s life on a bandit’s whimsy.”

  “Then Luis and I should leave?”

  Ramón sighed. “Sí, but not today. It is already too late to risk it today. Maybe tonight, after dark, if we are not all already dead.”

  He pulled on a pair of leather sandals, an ol
d palm-leaf sombrero, and draped a serape over his shoulders, then stepped outside without further comment. I went to the window to watch him trudge up the hill toward the plaza. Gray light and the quivering purr of nesting hens from the old Rameriz place filled the narrow street. Despite the early hour, the town seemed unusually quiet, and that, too, was Chito Soto’s doing.

  For the next several hours I kept up a nervous ambulation, moving from one window to the next, one room to the other. Ramón’s house was small, a front room that took up half of the entire structure, a small bedroom consisting of a chest of drawers and a rope-strung bunk with a nearly flat cornhusk mattress, and a small storage room, its shelves once filled with the produce of a large garden and solid employment, now cluttered with dust and spider webs.

  Around midday I stretched out on the old man’s bunk and closed my eyes. I kept my vest on, the semi-auto a solid weight under my left arm, and placed the Savage on the mattress at my side. I slept fitfully, and was awake when Ramón returned. He grinned at my rumpled appearance, then stepped aside to allow another man to enter. I lowered the Savage’s muzzle when I recognized Poco Guille, standing in the doorway with a wide grin on his face, an old Hopkins & Allen top break revolver thrust into the waistband of his trousers.

  “Buenas tardes, my friend,” Guille sang out cheerfully. His quick smile and perpetual good humor was one of the things I remembered best about Little Billy Calderón. It was also one of the reasons I’d told him to get lost that night in El Loro Azul, when he asked to join me on my next trip north of the border. Back then I didn’t believe he had the temperament to be a successful smuggler, and I wondered that day at Ramón’s if I was making a mistake.

  “Hola,” I greeted in return, then glanced at the older man. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, fate smiled on my efforts.”

  “Maybe it will smile on mine, as well,” Guille added. “You remember me, Señor Latham?”

  “Yeah, I remember you. That’s why I asked for you.”

  “Good, I am glad you have finally realized my potential. This old man says you need my help. Soon you will know how useful I can be.” Then he leaned closer to peer at my face, the marks from Tiny Evans and Felix Perez still visible. “¡Ay, chihuahua! What happened, amigo? Did you fall off el Diablo’s corona?”

  I glanced at Ramón, who laughed softly. Tucking a couple of cold tamales under his shirt, the old Mexican headed for the door. “I will see if Luis is hungry, and say hello to your mules. It has been a long time since I’ve had guests in my stables, and I miss the smells of an active barn.”

  He went out, pulling the door closed behind him. Motioning to the table, I told Guille to sit down. “Did Ramón tell you why I wanted to see you?”

  “No. He did not even tell me it was you until we were at his door, although I warned him when we left the plaza that if he tried to double-cross me, I would blow his brains out.” He tapped the Hopkins & Allen as if to assure me he was capable of carrying out his threat. It made me remember what Ramón said of the younger man that morning.

  Poco Guille is not a killer, and Soto knows that.

  I was guessing that most of Sabana knew it, too, otherwise the cocky little chamaco would have been turned into Soto long before I arrived in town.

  Still, it wasn’t Guille’s skills with a gun that I was seeking, and I swiftly outlined my reasons for being there, my need for the younger man’s talents. When I finished, I said: “Can I trust you, amigo?”

  He laughed, white teeth flashing in the dimly lit interior of the small adobe house. “You would not have sent for me if you didn’t know you could trust me,” he replied glibly.

  “All right, are you interested?”

  “Maybe.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I am tired of this town, Latham. There is no future here for a man of my many abilities. I have been looking for another job for a long time. Not work.” He waved a hand as if scattering cigarette smoke. “I’ve never been fond of anything that raises a sweat on a daily basis, but I’ve never cared for stealing, either. These people are my friends and countrymen. They are like family to me, and what kind of man steals from his family? No, I have thought about this for a long time, and the kind of job I seek requires adventure, and maybe a little danger.”

  I guffawed softly, which brought a scowl to the younger man’s face. “You find that funny, amigo?”

  “Only because I once felt the same way. But I’m older now, and no longer have a need for danger. Maybe it’s time for me to step aside for a younger man.”

  Guille’s eyes widened in eagerness. “For someone like me, perhaps?”

  “Maybe, you and another man who also seeks adventure.”

  “Who?” Guille asked suspiciously.

  “Luis Vega. Do you know him?”

  “No. He is from Sabana?”

  “He’s from Nogales, but he knows the business as well as I do. I think the two of you would work well together.”

  The younger man shook his head. “No, it is you, Latham, who I wish to learn this trade from.”

  “It’s too late to learn it from me, amigo. When this job is finished, I’m leaving the border country.”

  After a short pause, Guille exhaled loudly. “And this Luis Vega, he will stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he is even now the man in the stable, eating tamales with Ramón Gutiérrez?”

  “He is. You’ll meet him later today, but first I want to hear about Chito Soto. Can you get me to him?”

  “Yes, that won’t be a problem. My cousin Felipe is a corporal in Soto’s command. He can get word to the major.”

  That brought an immediate sense of relief. I’d been worried that Ramón had overstated the kid’s connections that morning.

  “Have your cousin tell Soto that the guns are nearby, and that I’ll be at Dos Puentes with the first one tonight at sundown. Tell him that if he wants it, he’d better be there with the woman. Emphasize that, Guille. Make sure he understands that I want the woman first, not either of the kids. Got it?”

  “Sure, I’ve got it, but I doubt if Soto is going to like it.”

  The fact is, I was counting on him not liking it. For whatever reason, Ed Davenport wanted his son ransomed first, but I couldn’t count on Soto giving in to the rich gringo’s demands. It just didn’t work that way. Soto would expect Davenport to order his wife’s release first, so that he could get her away from the leering, lecherous bandits who guarded her. That made perfect sense to me, and I figured it would to Chito Soto, too. Which was why he’d want to hang onto the woman until he had all the guns and ammunition. It’s also why I’d demand Abby Davenport’s release before the others, as convinced as I was the bandit chief would do the opposite of whatever Ed Davenport dictated.

  “Just tell him,” I said. “Dos Puentes, tonight at sundown.”

  “Sure.” Guille pushed to his feet, then hesitated as a smile rippled across his dusky cheeks. “You know something, J. T.? It’s going to feel good to make that fat buzzard swallow a little of his own crap for a change.”

  I looked up warningly. “Don’t push him. We aren’t here for revenge. All we want is to get that woman and those kids out of there.”

  “Sure,” Guille agreed, though lightly, and on his way to the door. “But there is no reason we can’t rub his nose in it a little, too, eh?”

  “Guille!” I shouted, jumping to my feet, but he’d already darted through the door. I watched from the window as he swung astride a raw-boned gray.

  “Tonight at Dos Puentes,” he promised.

  “Don’t botch this, kid. That woman’s husband’ll kill you just as quick as Soto would if something goes wrong.”

  “Sure,” Guille replied, tossing me a quick wave as he reined away from the house. “But don’t worry, nothing will go wrong with Poco Guille in charge.” Then, laughing, he kicked h
is horse into a rough canter and disappeared around the corner.

  I cursed softly and stepped away from the window. Needing to get away—for some reason, Ramón’s little house was starting to remind me of my iron-strapped cell back at Yuma—I took my rifle and slipped outside, then made my way quickly to the stable.

  Luis and Ramón were sitting on the machine-gun crate when I walked in, but Ramón immediately stood up and left the stable. Luis was watching me closely. I think he must have sensed my doubts about the kid.

  “Do you trust him, J. T.?”

  “He’ll do fine,” I replied, feigning more confidence than I really felt. Nodding toward the crate, I said, “Do you know how to shoot that thing?”

  “No, I don’t even know what it looks like. Do you?”

  “I know how it works in theory, but I’ve never handled one. What say we break it out and set it up? It might be a good idea if we know how it works … just in case something goes wrong tonight.”

  Session Eleven

  It’s funny how your mind works. Sitting here drinking cup after cup of Folgers, remembering what it was like down there in Mexico, how terribly afraid we all were, even if none of us would admit it, it’s like I’m reliving those days all over again. Then I go to the window and look outside and I can barely make out the street light for the blowing snow. There’s at least six inches on the ground right now, and more coming down, and the streets look like a sheet of ice. You might want to consider spending the night if it doesn’t let up soon. There’s a spare room upstairs, and we’ve got plenty of blankets. Plus, if you don’t mind, I’d like to keep recording for a while. I’ve got to admit I don’t want to stop just yet.