by John Horst
He looked at his partner through a haze of his cigarette smoke. Dick looked bad. The tumble from his horse had opened a big gash in his forehead and dried blood still covered his cheek and ear. His shirt was stained as well. He looked like a very old man to Arvel now. He moved about on the rubble seat as if every fiber in his being caused him pain…and it did.
Chica found her head and now focused on finding the old man. Marta’s map was clear and Chica looked up over the entrance to the dungeon and could make out the enclave where the old man lived. Kosterlitzky’s guns had dropped so much of the mountain top down into the fort that there now existed a ramp to the enclave and Alanza negotiated this with little difficulty.
Half of the cave was now exposed, and the further recesses were thoroughly open to sunlight. She looked in and could see the old man clearly. He was sitting on a little wooden chair paging through a book. He looked in her direction when she entered his abode.
“Hola, Señor.”
He looked up with vacant eyes and smiled in her direction.
“Ah, a visitor.”
“I have come on the request of Marta.”
“Sí” he motioned for her to sit down. “You are one of the fighters?”
“Sí.” I am Maria, wife of Arvel Walsh.” The old man acted as if this had no meaning to him.
“Come close, my dear.” She sat beside him and he reached out, gently running his hands over her face, touching her koyera. He had smooth, gentle hands, and they were completely clean, the cleanest thing Chica had seen that day. “Ah, Tarahumara.” He felt some more. “What a lovely”. He moved his fingers over her eyes, then cheeks, then lips. “But you do not have the right accent.”
“The Indios gave me the scarf when I moved through their land, Señor. I am Mexicana, and now an Americana.”
“Ah, I see. And the child, she is all right?”
“Sí, she is in El Mundo.”
“Ah, bueno, bueno, Señora.” He had a kind face and looked like a living corpse. A corpse of bones just barely covered with skin. He had a long white beard but no hair on his head, his moustaches started up his nose and flowed downward to his chin.
Chica liked the old man. She looked around his little half-cave and saw the remnants of Marta’s ministrations to him. She’d stored plenty of food and water for him. He had a little cook stove and plenty of coffee.
“She will live with me, now.”
“Sí, sí.” He was pleased to hear this news. He went back to paging through the book. Chica figured it was just a method for keeping his hands occupied. It made no sense for a blind man to page through a book.
“And she wants you to come with me, so that you will live with me as well.”
“Oh, no Señora, no, no.” He smiled broadly and answered in his gentle, gentlemanly voice. “I am here, this is where I belong.”
She was tired and answered him a little too tersely. Chica was not used to being refused. “Old man, the fort is no more. We are going to make it a pile of rubbles and ash. Sombrero del Oro is no more.”
“Ah, princesa. I see.” This sounded particularly amusing to Chica, and she smiled at his lifeless eyes. He grinned a toothless grin. “Sombrero del Oro always has a way of surprising you. He’ll be back. He always comes back.”
Chica pulled the head from Alanza’s saddle skirt. She dropped it into the old man’s lap. “Well, that’ll be a good trick, old man, without this.”
He felt through the burlap and knew at once what it was. He grinned broader still. So this is really the maestro? He leaned forward and sniffed around the head’s mouth. “Ah yes, it is. He had peculiar breath.” He drew in deeply, a great lungful of air and spit on the head’s face.
He nodded at Chica and smiled. “Hah, it is so, Señora, it is finally so. I think you are at last, the one to do it. You are a great little warrior, little Artemis, a great little warrior indeed.”
“Sí,” Chica looked down at him as he ran his fingers over the head, “I’ve heard this before.”
Will Panks and Raphael dynamited the dungeon closed, then methodically destroyed every structure that could serve in a capacity for defense, reducing the fort to rubble so that it could never be used in such a way again. Sombrero Del Oro had produced many monsters, and some would undoubtedly slip Kosterlitzky’s noose. At least they would not be able to revive this chamber of horrors for any future enterprises.
Alice Walsh took Kosterlitzky’s comments to heart. She worked tirelessly to get the survivors the help they needed, and moved everyone, at her expense, to San Sebastian where she got the ones who needed it medical care.
As soon as was practical, she would contact her attorneys back in Maryland and have reporters brought down from San Francisco to chronicle the horrible conditions in the region. She’d have copies sent to the various American mining companies and would offer them an ultimatum, to either make living conditions better in Mexico, or suffer the consequences once the photographs and accounts got into the newspapers. She would do whatever was in her power to make things change.
She made it back to civilization, back to the Presidential suite of the San Sebastian hotel. They had indoor plumbing and electric lights. She felt that she’d been away from such things for a decade instead of just one day.
She stripped and threw her clothes in a pile, ran the tub until it was nearly full of the hottest water she could bear. She soaked and worked the knots out of her old muscles, rubbed the worn out joints. She brushed her teeth three times, washed her hair four, got cleaned up, got into her nice comfortable bed and settled down to a good cry.
She cried for her family and for all the good men who helped them. She cried for the brutality of this cruel and ugly world. She cried for her own ignorance and innocence as she’d been on this earth for many years, and never knew, never imagined anything like this could exist.
She cried for her little Rebecca and wondered what she was doing now. Imagined the child in the nice safe convent and that soon they’d be together. She cried for Arvel and his broken body and Chica for whatever horrific life she must have led to make her the terror that she was. She was proud of her and sorry for her at the same time. She cried until she had no more tears and lay back in her bed and looked up at the fan turning above her bed.
She listened at the sounds brought in by the cool breezes of the lovely Mexican night. They were happy sounds, music far off and people laughing, singing, talking. She smelled the lovely foods wafting on the breezes and she thought about the young people, enjoying the community, enjoying their youth and the promise of good things to come. She remembered the little celebration the night before the big battle. All the fine people and how they loved and cared for their children and each other. How these people, many of them so poor, seemed to make the best of things, how they had each other and that was so much, enough for a fulfilling life.
She heard another sound, a cat meowing, down on the street below. A man was talking to the cat. He talked lovingly and she could tell that they were great friends. He was kind and decent and she could tell, from the sound of his voice that he had love in his heart.
Now she heard something new, turned her ear and listened hard, down one flight, on the balcony, just beneath her, a honeymooning couple. The woman’s voice, angelic, lilting, calm and happy. The man, tender, sweet, all consumed with his new bride. They were speaking Spanish to each other in hushed tones and Alice could not and at the same time could understand every word. She took a deep breath, held it and listened. Surmised that they’d just consummated their marriage and hoped that they were both virgins, not out of prudish moralizing, but in the hope that it would have been the first time, the first best time for both. They were taking a little break, basking in the glow, excited for their future together and it all suddenly seemed right. All was right in world at this moment and she sighed and felt the deep pain pleasure, the flutter in the pit of her stomach. She fell into a deep restful sleep.
XIX Coming Home
Wil
l Panks rode along, half asleep with Raphael by his side. The young fellow was good company. Will never had a son and never had an apprentice. He was thoroughly enjoying his new role as Jefe.
His little horse hair cross was tapping along, a constant reminder of the young señora he’d helped rescue from the barbarous Dutchman. He’d sweated both cross and chain up so much now that it became soft with the oils of his skin and didn’t chafe him anymore. Even when it had, he wouldn’t take it off. His bony chest was sore for better part of a week.
He chose to ride back home alone and Arvel was not much surprised. Old Arvel could see into a man’s soul. He certainly could see what Will was up to. Will even tried to get Raphael to go on with the party, but the young Mexican would have none of it. “I go with you, Jefe,” is all he would say, and smile broadly. Like a loyal canine, he did not want to lose sight of his new master.
He thought about what he was going to say. What would she want with him? He was such an old and awfully crippled bastard. His back healed well enough, but in a permanent question mark and it made him look even older than he was.
My God, she was more than half his age. But there was something there, he was certain of it. Arvel was certain of it. Arvel mentioned it half a dozen times. Old Arvel liked a good joke, and loved to tease his friends, but he would not joke about such a thing as this. He would not let Will Panks make himself out a fool. Arvel would not encourage a man to pursue a woman if there wasn’t something to it.
As he rode, he thought more about it. He suddenly thought it a stupid plan. He felt all jittery inside and now he looked north, just through that valley up there, between those mountains is where he’d have to turn off, go east and then the boy would wonder why they were going in the wrong direction and he’d smile and not ask, but he’d have the questioning look in his eye.
Maybe he’d send Raphael up ahead with Young Pop and Old Pop. He’d tell him to just stay on the road and he’d catch up. But that was a bad idea. He didn’t want the boy to travel alone, and it was stupid to expose the boy to danger just because he felt the old fool for his plan.
Before he knew it, he was there. The exact spot where the little boy was sitting and crying that day. No one had even been by. The remnants of Billy’s little fire still intact, untouched. Nothing had changed. He rode past it. He rode past it and was seized up by the terrible feeling in the gut that a man gets when he is in love and thinks it is the stupidest idea he’d ever had.
He rode at least a hundred yards and stopped. Raphael looked at him, then up at the sky. There was still half a day left to ride.
“Okay, Jefe?” The boy smiled. He was a delightful companion and Will looked on, then down at the ground.
“We’ve got to go and check on some folks, lad.”
“Sí, Jefe.”
Will smiled at the boy. Will could have just as well said, “We have to ride into the bowels of hell,” and Raphael’s response would be the same. He was completely dedicated to the old prospector.
They turned their little train around and got back to the burned out fire ring and then turned left and east and rode on. Will was rehearsing in his brain, silently. Again and again, he would think of what to say when they’d approached the place. Again and again, try to think of something that would make it not look like he was sniffing around, looking for a woman, looking for a wife. He was not looking for a wife, he was looking for her. His gut was hurting constantly now, and before he knew it, before he was ready, he could make out the little hovel in the distance.
It looked different now, less dilapidated. In only a few days it looked better, more complete, less dreary. He was going to ride in like a knight from Camelot and sweep her up, pull her from this hell, and now it didn’t look so hellish. He’d lived in rougher mining camps. How could this be? The woman could not have done these things in her condition. She’d likely be moving slowly for many days yet. The child was much too young, much too tiny to do any heavy work. Will knew the answer right away. This was man’s work and he now stopped short. Raphael looking on, smiling, awaiting his Jefe’s next command. Will started to turn them around, stiffly, trying to be invisible, soundless when the little boy yelled from a distance.
“Caballero! Mamma, El caballero está aquí!”
There was nothing for it now. He could not turn away. He smiled weakly and rode up, stopped outside of the hovel’s entrance, next to where the Dutchman lost his head.
Will stood up in his saddle, tipped his hat, “Señora.”
She looked better. The swelling was now gone and her face was purple, the sclera of her left eye still bloodshot red, but she looked better. He looked on at her a little too obviously, then looked away. Her hair was different. She’d combed it over to try and hide her face while it healed. It was much prettier hair than he remembered. She was a lot prettier than he remembered. She gave him a strange look. The kind of look a woman gives when she is very pleased to see a man but doesn’t want the man to know it. This made Will very confused.
A man emerged from behind her, out of the shadows of the hovel. The man who’d done all the work. Will nodded. “Señor.”
The man nodded back. He was guarded, not certain what the gringo wanted.
She spoke quickly to the man and he suddenly became friendlier.
“Ah, one of my sister’s protectors.”
Will grinned broadly. He grinned at the lady who grinned back. It was all right, it would be all right now.
Dan George sat quietly in the foyer of his home amongst a few patients waiting to be seen. He shushed them politely when they recognized and attempted to welcome him home. He could hear his wife’s muffled voice behind the door of the examination room, closed his eyes and listened, could make out the lovely pitch, the precise, direct way she spoke. He changed his focus and listened to his little boy sitting on the floor next to her, he’d learned more words since Dan was gone, and it suddenly felt to him that he’d been gone a long time, a lifetime. He reveled in the moment and the throbbing in his shoulder stopped bothering him so much. His heart rate quickened when he heard his wife’s counseling come to an end. The patient said her goodbyes, the chairs moved, a shuffle of feet. He thought his little drama now stupid and wanted to hide, run from the room as the door handle turned, he could see the shadows behind the frosted glass separating them. He dared not move, instead breathed in deeply and looking at his wife as she surveyed the room for the next patient. She did not see him at first and he called out.
“Is an appointment necessary?”
Ging Wa looked up, into his eyes. She stiffened, pulled herself together and glanced at him casually. “No, but you will have to wait your turn.”
The other patients looked on, mouths agape. Watched as Ging Wa led the next person into the room. Dan slunk down, smiled; it was going to be all right.
He dozed and was awakened to an empty room. Ging Wa led him by the hand to the examination room. She looked down to little Bob who’d fallen asleep amongst his toys as she got Dan undressed to reveal his wound. It was clean.
“Billy Livingston took good care of me.” Ging Wa said nothing. She smelled the wound, breathed deeply, and was satisfied. She cleaned it and redressed it. She looked into her husband’s eyes and gave him a long, passionate kiss.
“I hope that not everyone gets that sort of treatment after an examination.”
“Only the attractive young men.”
He held her tightly and breathed deeply. “You smell like medicine.”
“You smell like a horse.” She sat down on his lap and put his head to her breast. “I am glad you are home, Dan. I had a dream that I lost you and it made me very sad.”
“I thought I was going to die, Ging Wa and it made me very sad, too. It made me very afraid and I want to tell you I’m sorry. I’ll never go away again, I promise you.”
She held him more tightly. “You will do what is right Dan, always.” She pulled his head up and looked into his eyes. “We will do right, always, as that is wh
at we do.”
Mother superior sat and sipped tea as her little assistant moved around her bed chamber. The little nun remembered something and ran back to her cell, retrieving it, like a magpie who’d remembered the shiny object she’d secreted in her nest, the diamond ring the Mexican woman had left in her care. She looked at it one last time and hurried back to the old woman’s room.
“What are we to do with this, mother?”
The old woman looked at it, trying to remember back to the first day the señora entered their lives. She smiled and looked on at her assistant. “Give it to the child, Rebecca. She’ll take it to her mother.”
“And what of the other child, Marta?”
The old nun smiled gravely. “I believe she’s going to be fine.” She remembered the little bandit shooting the two bad hombres and could not help feeling a bit proud of the little girl. “She’s going to be a handful for the Walsh family, no doubt, but I believe they’re up to it.”
The little nun lit lamps and could now see the toll this adventure had had on the old woman. She worried over her sunburned face and hands. She looked the old woman in the eye. “I’m glad you are back home, mother.”
The old nun smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I am, too, child. I must say, I am too.”
They were interrupted by some joyful laughter in the room next door, the room that had once been occupied by the distraught señora. It was good to hear the laughter and the little nun looked on and then at the old woman, “Shall I quiet them down?”
The old woman raised her hand, airily, “no, no let them laugh, let them bring some happiness. They’ve been through a lot, and the little Marta needs to learn to laugh, needs to learn to be a little girl.”
And the little girls did bring joy into the place. Marta was quickly transformed and the mother superior wisely took everything from the child’s old life away from her. She stowed her gun and her little cowboy outfit, her sombrero, her gun belt and her daga. Nothing was left to remind the child of her previous life as a bandit.