by John Horst
“Ah, sí, sí, mierda. You understand. You are not so estupido as you look. Sí, it was your brother. You were always known as Sombrero del Oro, because you always wore a gold hat, and he was known as Gold Tooth, no?” She watched him, waited for his acknowledgement. “Well, one day, Gold Tooth, came to my village, and he hurt a little girl. A beautiful sweet, innocent little girl, and guess what, mierda?”
The old man looked on at her, vacantly. “I cut his goddamned head off.”
Chica smiled as she picked up her cigar and blew a plume of smoke over the old man’s head. “Then, I carried the head around for a few days, and I sold it to a prospector, and guess what, mierda?” She waited for some kind of reaction. “I thought that would be the end of the head, but, later I went to a traveling show, and I saw the head again, my head, your brother’s head, and it was in a jar full of spirits, and it looked estupido. He was in a jar and all the gringos, all around the world got to look at his estupido head, floating in a jar.”
She stopped and looked more closely at him. Great tears were running down his fat cheeks. “Awe, it makes you sad, mierda? Your brother, you never seen him for years and years, you thought perhaps he was up in California or maybe down south in Columbia or Bolivia, living a good life and now you know, he is dead, and not just dead, but his goddamned head is off, and his body wanders around hell and cannot see little girls to hurt anymore.” She poured another mescal.
“Don’ cry, mierda. Soon, all your troubles will be over.” She then smiled. “Or, maybe, they will be just beginning. That is if you believe in heaven and hell, and mierda, I think you do. You very much believe in heaven and hell, don’ you?”
He looked down at his rotten leg. It no longer hurt as the nerves in it were now dead. Chica smiled slyly, “oh, no, mierda, the leg will not kill you.” She moved her head solemnly from side to side.
She stood up and pulled the big knife from its sheath on her belt. She pushed it against his round belly, slowly, with increasing force until it entered, punctured his skin, then deeper. He cried out, arched his back, tried to recoil but there was no place to retreat. “This is for all the poor women you abused, mierda.” She sunk the big blade to the hilt, with surgical precision, avoiding any arteries or vital organs. “This is what it feels like to a woman who gets penetrated by a pig like you. Not funny is it, mierda?” She retracted it, blood and offal pouring freely from the wound. She picked another spot and jammed the blade in again. “This is for all the little girls you abused.” And finally, she struck again, a third time, slicing into his liver. “And this is for my little girl and for my Arvel and for Abuelita.” She pulled the knife out and cleaned it off with the big gold sombrero sitting next to his bed. “Such a nice sombrero, and now it is ruined with your blood and shit.” She sat and watched the life go out of his eyes. “One more thing before you go on to hell, mierda.” She leaned in close, “you will walk around hell with your brother, but you won’t see nothing either.” He was dead.
Chica rode hard, well into dark, south. Her eyes were wet and she suddenly felt herself crying, hard, as she had never done before, harder than at the depths of her sorrow and despondency, when she was lying in the little cell of the convent. Her little girl was safe, the worst bandit of her life was now dead, and she was going to see her Arvel. She was emotionally spent and excited and exhausted all at once.
She did not like this mount, she did not trust him and the saddle was not a good one, yet she rode him hard, over unknown terrain. But she, as if guided, on a tether, could not stop herself. The horse fought her, did not want to gallop so fast, and Chica quirted him hard on the flanks and he responded, flying across the dark desert, too quickly.
She wished to have Alanza under her. Her pony, her constant companion, the most perfect creature she had ever owned, ever ridden. She wanted so desperately to get her Arvel and Abuelita, Uncle Bob and Uncle Alejandro, and Dan George, Dick Welles, and all the good men who'd come to her aid back home, back to safety.
She would do this and she would never ever again leave her ranch. She’d live out the rest of her days caring for her family, keeping them safe, help raise the little wild Marta. She laughed out loud, into the desert night when she thought of the little wild girl. She reminded her so much of herself when she was a young girl and thought of the effect little Rebecca had on her, as if two little Chicas shared the same universe, the pure and the impure Chica. And little Marta would be good. She was good, inherently good just as Chica had always been inherently good, and little Rebecca who was also inherently good and pure of spirit would cleanse little Marta, cleanse her of all the evil and impurity and depravity she had known.
She was happy and excited and overcome with a sort of mania that would not be quieted. She suddenly felt so alive and free and liberated she touched the old gelding’s flanks, again urging him on, faster, recklessly into the night when the inevitable misstep of the old palomino brought her crashing to earth. She tumbled, headlong, over the horse, onto the rocky, dusty, hard floor of the Mexican desert. The magnificent, incorruptible, valiant Chica was down.
XVI Sappers
Will Panks rode south through the night. He led an unlikely little war party, consisting of Old Pop, Young Pop, (Will was never creative with naming his mules), and a young Mexican boy who instantly attached himself to the old prospector when the Americans first arrived in San Sebastian. The boy lied and said he was seventeen and Will was certain that he’d not yet reached his fourteenth year, but he was a strong boy and quick both in mind and body. He could not stop asking questions about the dinamita Will was toting. He wanted to know everything about it and soon Will was patiently showing him how it worked, what the copper wire was used for, what the funny box with the plunger did. As they rode, Will looked back at the boy, proudly riding the little roan that Will had selected for him. The lad looked odd in his white peon clothes and huaraches, stuffed precariously into the stirrups.
The lad would prove useful in escorting Will to the old fort as well. They made it to the place with two hours until sunrise to spare. The fortress was formidable from a distance, sitting out, odd, incongruous in its manmade form, pressed against the side of a giant mountain. The Spaniards who built it were a resourceful lot. The base of the mountain held good water and the occupants would be able to withstand any sort of siege for many months. The mountainside itself was honeycombed with little cells throughout. It was easy to dig and with little effort, a horrific dungeon had been created.
Only three sides of the fort were constructed, thereby saving one entire side from the labor required to build it. It served the Spaniards for as long as it took them to extract every last grain of gold from the region and was placed strategically in the center of the country.
Sombrero del Oro knew the place since childhood. He used to play amongst the ruins, even before his aspirations to become the meanest and cruelest villain and slave trader since the conquistadores roamed the land. He’d wander about the place for hours, down into the recesses, to the dungeons where unspeakable cruelty had been meted out. It was one of the many experiences that helped corrupt his diseased mind, the training ground for his malice toward humanity.
By the time he was twenty, he was regularly retreating to the fort with his various riches, his slaves, and his growing gang after he’d carry out his attacks on the villages, then later towns, then cities, then as far as Texas and Arizona and New Mexico. Soon he had the wells cleaned out and good water, livestock, a blacksmith, carpenters, and a remuda of some of the hardiest mustangs found in the desert. By his mid-twenties he had a haram of twenty concubines and a burgeoning family.
As expected, the bandits were casual in their security while the maestro was gone. He’d been a task master for years, forcing them to secure the walls of the fort through the night, yet for years, no one ever needed to raise an alarm. No one of any consequence, such as Colonel Kosterlitzky bothered with them, and other bandits or Indians had not a prayer of ever penetrating the thick w
alls. So the bandits all fell into a kind of complacency, and now that Del Oro was not around to make them do it, most spent the nights snug in their cots and hammocks.
They hobbled the horses and mules a distance away and Will looked on at his companion doubtfully as the boy literally glowed in his white peon suit in the moonlight against the blackness of the desert floor. This would not do. He thought hard on this for a moment and called to the boy in a hushed tone.
“Raphael, get the lamps off of Young Pop.”
“Sí, Jefe.”
In short order they were stripped of their garments and smeared liberally with the lampblack rubbed from the lid of the old coal oil lanterns. Raphael was amused. He watched everything the old miner did and mimicked his every move. They made their way silently to the base of the fort and Will was pleased when he picked at the mortar holding the stone walls together. To his delight, three hundred years of desert wind had undermined the base and there was a good two feet of crevice here and there. He patted Raphael on the back and gestured with his hand. The clever lad understood everything.
Back at their base of operations, next to the horses and mules, Will pitched his little canvas tent and covered this with blankets. He lit one small lamp for light and they both squeezed into the space together. They prepared eight charges and Will was delighted to see his prodigy learn so quickly.
“Now, the trick is,” Will started with the first charge, opened one end of the cartridge, making a hole in the end with a hard wood instrument, “to get the hole the right depth,” he looked at his handiwork and showed it to Raphael. The boy was fearless, not out of ignorance, he knew that he was quite literally handling dynamite, but had a resolve and confidence shown by few men twice his age. “There, now, for the fuse.” He held up an implement, “this is the most important tool you’ll ever use, my boy,” Raphael picked one up from the pile of tools and material at their feet and worked it deftly. Will snipped off the end of the fuse, “there, nice and square.” He looked at the boy and grinned, “even though all your work is going to be destroyed, it has to look pretty, Raphael, it has to be perfect.” He placed a copper capsule on the end of the neatly cut end of the fuse and used the fuse cutter to crimp the cap on. He waved a finger in front of the boy’s face, “never, never, never bite a cap to crimp it on a fuse, Raphael,” He gestured, pretending to do what he’d just warned the youth against and made a noise, “kaboom! No more Raphael.” the
Will drew a little map of the fort on the ground at their feet. He noted the old Napoleons that pointed out from each corner, then the reinforced towers on each side of the great entrance. Sombrero del Oro neglected the stone walls, but with the aid of his carpenters and blacksmiths, he maintained a formidable gate. He’d constructed two thick oak doors, each eight feet wide with heavy iron hinges. In front of this were two grates, so that during daylight hours, the doors could be left open for ventilation and light into the center of the interior plaza. These great grates were carefully maintained as well. Little Raphael whistled lowly between his teeth when they’d surveyed it, and was curious as to why his boss seemed unfazed. The lad thought about this as he finished the last of his bundles. “How will we get through the gates, Jefe?” Will smiled and patted the lad on the arm.
“You see a lot, lad, you see a lot.” He was pleased with the young fellow’s quick and curious mind.
When they had fully prepared, Raphael began scurrying back and forth, placing the charges as his new boss had instructed him. He packed them tightly against the deepest recesses of the eroded walls, then packed rock tightly around each, then payed out the wire he and his boss had inserted in each charge. Will watched him, amused. The young fellow, wearing nothing but his sandals, covered in soot, ran like a little monkey from one place to the other. In short order, he was back at Will’s side. He was smiling, proud of the work he had done. They looked to their left and saw the slightest hint of the sun working its way toward them.
Will looked at his watch and grinned at the boy. “Just a little more, lad, just a little more to do.” He went back to his map and showed Raphael the wiring plan for their little fireworks display. The boy nodded energetically and ran with two coils of copper wire. Will watched him as he worked. When he had returned, Will had already taken down the tent. He had the animals packed and they rode up the incline back north another two hundred yards from the fort, unrolling copper cable behind them. This is where they would make their attack.
In the dawning light, Will had four Du Pont blasting machines set up, side by side. He wired one, then let Raphael handle the rest. “Good lad, good lad.”
He poured water into the boy’s cupped hands then did the same for himself. They washed up, dressed, and had a breakfast of cold coffee and chicken. They hunkered down, low, so that they would not be seen on the horizon. A cock crowed at the fort and soon they could see people moving about, smoke began to rise here and there as the inhabitants of the fort began to stir, preparing their morning meals. The odor of bacon wafted over them and Will’s stomach began to growl. He wished he could prepare of good breakfast for himself and his companion. Some bandits wandered about along the parapet. They did not seem to be guarding, but rather simply starting out the day, surveying their surroundings and nothing more.
The two sappers sat together, lying on their bellies, enjoying the dawning of the new day. Will would have enjoyed at least a cup of hot coffee, but he did not want to risk the fire, not even his little alcohol stove, so he resolved to wait and relax. He put a hand on Raphael’s shoulder, and told the lad to get some sleep. The boy did not need much coaxing.
XVII Tarahumara
She woke with a start and recognized where she was immediately, sat up and lost her balance. She’d been bleeding but was now clean, cleaner than she’d been in many days and lying in a comfortable and spotless bed. The Indians who had rescued her were sitting around the little cabin, waiting for her to wake up.
She looked at each of them, bowing her head solemnly to every occupant in turn. Chica loved the Tarahumara. These were the famous runners. They were a proud people, with such a code of honor that it was impossible for them to lie. She had known many Tarahumara in her life and every one was fine and decent. She’d never steal from them in her younger days, she always treated them and their lands with the utmost respect.
She’d not had dealings with this bunch, but they seemed to know her. They’d been through her traps and recognized the special cargo she was carrying. They’d also encountered some of Sombrero del Oro’s band moving through their land, heading back to the fortress, and knew from what they had told them that some serious and terrible thing had happened to the bandit and his gang.
They knew Chica was not one of them and that she had been responsible, at least in part, for the calamity that had befallen the gang. They treated her with great humility and she thought back to her indios, up in the red rocks, how they were so similar.
Yet the Tarahumara were very different. They were always more fit, the men were present, they thought too much of their family unit to go off looking for work, and resolved instead to make the best of what they had, at least they would be poor together.
Chica had never seen an ugly Tarahumara, and this group was no different. The children were pretty, the men handsome, the women beautiful, and more so with their lovely colorful clothes. Their bright koyeras brought out the striking contrast of their raven tresses. Chica could have easily been mistaken for one of them.
They weren’t violent people, yet they showed a certain reverence for Chica’s obvious warrior behavior, as she had finally put an end to the one man who, more than any other, more than the Spaniards, and the Mexicans, more than any corrupt Jesuits, had ever injured them in the recent past.
Sombrero del Oro had made their lives miserable for many years, and now, it was obvious to them that this diminutive little señora was the reason for his demise.
A pretty young girl helped Chica to the edge of the bed, gave her some wa
ter and a stew of potatoes, beans, a little goat meat and apples. She smiled at the child and thought immediately of Rebecca and little Marta. She wanted to cry again. She patted the child on the cheek, then reached over and kissed her. Without really thinking about it, she hugged the child, squeezing her tightly to her breast and held her for a long time. The others approached and all patted Chica gently on the back. She looked up and smiled at them with tears in her eyes.
Her horse was dead. He’d fallen hard and broken his neck. The Tarahumara had pulled Chica’s traps and saddle off the beast and everything sat in a little pile at the foot of her bed. She looked through her saddle purse and found some good old gold eagles that she’d only recently liberated from the bandit boss. She pulled the child’s bright skirt up to form a pocket and dropped the pile of coins in, one by one. It was a king’s ransom, or rather a villain’s cache. It was just a small token to repay them for what they had done for her.
She fell back onto the bed and the child covered her with tightly woven colored blankets, then retreated with the others from the room. The woman needed to rest, alone, without any distraction.
In another two hours she was up, dressed and peering out the front door of the little cabin. A fresh mount was waiting for her and while she slept, they’d retrieved her traps and saddle from the foot of her bed, had the animal ready and waiting for her as soon as she was able to move on.
The Tarahumara had anticipated that she would not be with them long, knew that the resolute young woman would not be kept in any sick bed. The little girl who’d tucked her in approached with a scarlet koyera. Chica knelt down like a warrior being knighted and the child deftly, ceremoniously, tied it around Chica’s head. She was now one of them. The little girl looked her over and nodded approvingly.