by John Benteen
The frown vanished as he confronted the prisoners. Again gold teeth showed in a wolfish smile. “Well, gringos, are you ready?” In reply, Concho spat.
Fierro stepped back. The guards arranged themselves in a rank. “Such men need no blindfolds,” Fierro snapped. He turned his head toward the guards. “Listo!” They raised and aimed their rifles.
Ramsey gasped, “Steady, Nora.”
She answered something, but he never heard it. Her words were drowned in the sudden frightened squawking of the chickens about their feet. The skinny fowl ran frantically, crouching low, cackling in fright. Across the plaza, a horse reared and neighed.
Suddenly Sanchez sprang forward. He yelled something at the guards, seized Fierro and spun him around, pointing upward. Ramsey raised his head, and then he saw it, too.
It came out of the westering sun, like an enormous hawk. Even above the squawking of the chickens, the braying of burros, the frightened whinnying of horses, they could hear the thin popping roar of its engine. Prisoners forgotten, the firing squad turned to stare.
“Whut the hell—?” Concho blurted.
Hope sprang up in Ramsey. “It’s an airplane!” he yelled. “It must be one of Villa’s. They say he’s got half a dozen!”
Dropping below the line of the great escarpment, the craft skimmed toward them over the plateau. As its shadow seemed to blot out the plaza, devour it, the village was in a turmoil. Animals plunged and ran, one of the guards crossed himself. Ramsey could see the pilot now, leather-clad, amidst a cat’s cradle of wires and struts. Then, dropping ever lower, the airplane turned and sailed out across the desert.
“Oh, God, let it land,” Ramsey grated.
Sure enough, it disappeared below the thickety rim of the chaparral. Fierro stared, frozen; then, in the midst of uproar, turned to the disorganized firing squad. “Fall in!” he shrieked. “You fools, back in ranks. We have business!”
“No!” Sanchez bellowed, breaking from his trance-like fascination with the landing aircraft. “Ground your arms! That is my order!”
Fierro’s flat face was savage. “General Sanchez—!”
“My order, you understand?” Cords stood out in Sanchez’ neck. “The flyer of this thing has come from General Villa, and will return to him. Shall he report three dead Americans in my camp?” Sanchez whipped a pistol from its holster. “I’ll kill the first man who shoots until I give the order!”
“Oh, God,” Nora said, and sagged against Ramsey. He told himself, his own knees weak, Count on nothing. In this country, count on nothing ...
Already, riders were thundering out of the plaza toward the place where the plane had landed. Women and children, shrieking with excitement, ran after them on foot. Sanchez, lowering his gun, drew a dagger from his sash. “Turn around,” he said to Concho and began to saw at his bonds. Fierro rasped, “Sanchez, you fool—”
“Not fool enough to forget I command here and am responsible to Villa.” The ropes parted, Sanchez moved on to Nora. Then, as he sliced Ramsey’s bonds, he said, “You will not try to escape. What disposition will be made of you will be decided later. But if you try to escape, you will be shot.” He was breathing hard, as if his moment of decision had cost him most of his strength.
Ramsey didn’t even hear him. He had turned to Nora, gathered her into his arms. Soldiers moved in to ring them with pointed rifles.
Then, from the rim of the plateau, there was noise—an excited, fiesta chorus of shouts. Two riders appeared over the rim, and one of them, awkward in the saddle, was the leather-clad pilot of the airplane. As he came into the plaza, Ramsey saw with a kick of his heart that the man was an American.
“Hey, buddy!” Concho bellowed. “Hey, American, over here!”
The rider raised himself in his stirrups, sweeping back his goggles. Sanchez and Fierro strode toward him, but he rode past them, bouncing loosely in the saddle. He pulled up in front of Ramsey.
He was lanky, young, and had three days’ beard. His face was smudged dark, and he reeked of castor oil. His pale-blue eyes swept over them, and he blurted: “What the hell?”
“Man!” Concho said jubilantly. “You got here jest in time! We was bein’ ’dobe-walled!”
“The hell you say! Americans?”
Sanchez came trotting up, Fierro behind him. Sanchez said, breathlessly, “I am General Sanchez. I command here. You come from General Villa?”
“Yes. My name’s Bill Weber. But what are these three Americans doin’ up against this wall? And a woman, too!” He looked down at Sanchez and his eyes were hard.
Fierro came up. “They have been tried and are being executed for crimes against the Revolution!” he snapped.
Weber stared at him blankly, then spat tobacco juice into the dust from an enormous cud in his cheek. “Aw, come off it, Fierro. You know Villa’s orders about American citizens.”
“These are guilty of special crimes!”
Weber swung down off the horse. “Listen, Fierro, nobody shoots an American in Villa’s army without Pancho’s personal okay, and you know that as good as I do. What are you up to, you bloodthirsty little—”
“You’re insubordinate!” Fierro screamed. “I’ll have you tried and executed!”
“You do that,” Weber said, and he spat again. “Soon’s you find somebody else knows how to fly.” He turned to Sanchez. “General, I don’t know what these folks have done, but if you value your hide, you won’t harm ’em without Villa’s written permission. You do, and you’re liable to be ’dobe-walled yourself. The General don’t want the American Army comin’ in here after him.”
Sanchez swallowed. “I assure you that there will be no violation of the General’s orders in my command. Nevertheless, these people have committed serious crimes against us.” He looked at Fierro. “However, in view of the General’s orders, with which I was not familiar, perhaps it would be better if the sentence were not carried out. Instead, they shall be expelled from Mexico.”
“Oh, Sam—” Nora buried her face against Ramsey’s shoulder.
“That sounds better,” Weber said. He turned to Ramsey. “I thought everybody from the silver mine had beat it back to the States.”
“We’re not from the silver mine. They picked us up in Texas and brought us across the Rio. I’m Sam Ramsey, this is Nora Stewart, Concho Piatt.”
Weber jerked his head around. “Concho? Not the same one that was with Villa against Diaz—?”
“That’s me,” Concho said.
“Judas Priest! Villa still talks about you and those damn machine guns.” He grinned. “But I got a wilder racket than that. I fly over the Federales and drop hand-grenades on ’em. You oughta see what confusion that causes.”
Sanchez said, almost pleadingly, “Senor Weber. You have orders for me—?”
“Yeah.” Weber drew a packet from his coat. “Villa wants you in Torreon—a new offensive.” He handed it to Sanchez. “This is the most out-of-the-way spot in Mexico—that’s why I brought ’em by plane. I understand there’s some gasoline up at the silver mine; you better send somebody after it, because I’m gonna need it.”
“That will be done!” For a moment, Ramsey thought Sanchez was going to salute. Then the Mexican turned away with the packet. Weber spat into the dust again.
“God, I’m dry,” he said. “They got a drink in this town? I reckon folks that was almost shot could stand a drink. Anyhow, I got to hear your story. I’ll have to make a full report to General Villa.” Nora was crying, her face still buried against Ramsey. “Don’t take on so, ma’am. You’re gonna be all right. You got Bill Weber’s word for it, and I rank just as high as any other general this side of Francisco Villa himself. You’re gonna be just fine.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly and looked at Ramsey. “Come on,” he said. “I’m buyin’. Lord, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a drink with Americans!”
Chapter Twelve
Bill Weber, a South Carolinian, had built his own airplane and had taught himself to fly f
our years ago. Barnstorming around the country, giving rides and exhibitions, he’d wrecked his craft beyond repair in El Paso and, stranded, had responded to an offer from Villa, who had purchased a motley fleet of secondhand planes for use against the Government. “Flyin’ that old Curtiss pusher for Pancho,” Weber told them over beer in the cantina, “ain’t what you’d call the way to a ripe old age, but it pays good. And since airmen don’t grow on every bush, I draw a lot of water. That’s why I can afford to cross Fierro, which generally ain’t a wise idea. Even Pancho himself thinks twice before he does it.” He signaled to the bartender to set up a round for the three guards who still surrounded the prisoners. “I might not have got away with it if Pancho really hadn’t laid down the law about Americans. Anyhow, I’m gonna see to it that you git your guns back, food, water, and three horses. They got to bring gas down from the mine and I got some work to do on the kite, so I’ll be here until late tomorrow. The sooner you can head out before then, the longer I’ll be around to make sure that damned Fierro don’t send nobody after you.”
“We’ll go soon as the horses are ready,” Ramsey said.
“And ride like hell,” Concho added.
“That’s the ticket. You know somethin’? You’re lucky Boquillas ain’t got no telegraph, no post office, and that it’s damn hard to reach on horseback. This plane was about the only way to git a message to Sanchez that wouldn’t take two weeks.” He pulled some envelopes from his jacket. “Speakin’ of post offices, what about mailin’ these for me when you git back to the States? I reckon the folks back home in Columbia think I’m dead by now.”
Sam Ramsey took them. “Friend,” he said fervently, “I’ll even pay for the stamps.”
Weber was as good as his word. The horses and equipment were ready in an hour—though what it cost in argument to get them must have been considerable. Weber shook hands with them after they were mounted. “Good luck,” he said. “Now, hightail it while Sanchez and Fierro are still wavin’ their hands at each other.”
Nora leaned down from the saddle and kissed his forehead. Then they galloped across the plaza, down the slope of the plateau, through the willows and reeds along the river, crossed the ford, with Concho in the rear, hand on his gun, head craned back over his shoulder; and then they were back on American soil.
From then on, they pushed the horses without mercy, pausing for an hour’s guarded rest only when they struck water. Always, either Ramsey or Concho was on lookout for the remnants of Sheep Kelly’s band or any pursuit from across the Rio. But they pushed all the way up the dry bed of Tornillo Creek without seeing another rider. Where it crossed the old Comanche war trail, they left it and rode hard, due north, toward Persimmon Gap, the main pass through the Santiagos. Once Concho thought he saw a horseman on a distant butte and they unsheathed their rifles, but the rider vanished and never reappeared.
Then they were through the mountains, so weary that they reeled in their saddles. Mile by tortuous mile, the last of the desert fell behind them. At last they were clear of it, in the high grasslands, and now, finally, it was safe to relax. They reined in and looked behind them at the long, blue barrier of the Santiagos, shimmering in the distance, and Concho let out a long whistling breath. “We made it,” he said.
“Thank God,” Nora said, voice trembling.
Ramsey stared at that shimmering wasteland and had the sensation of waking from a nightmare. He looked at Nora and for a moment she seemed unreal, only something out of that tortured dream. Then he edged his mount closer, put out a hand and touched her, and her eyes met his, and there was no more unreality. He had gone down into deep Big Bend and come back with a woman. As her hand closed over his, he knew the trip had been worth it.
Concho’s voice sliced through the moment, harshly. “No time fer lollygaggin’. Let’s git on.” The Negro pulled his horse around and kicked it savagely.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, their straining horses topped a rise. Below them lay miles of good grassland, and, near at hand, a scatter of buildings, corrals, and a slowly turning windmill.
Ramsey swallowed hard, pulling up his horse. “There it is,” he said, gesturing. “That’s my place.”
Nora stood up in her stirrups. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
Ramsey’s eyes swept the empty pastures. It would take a long time to fill them again. But that did not matter now. “Let’s go down,” he said.
Homecoming. Ramsey showed Nora through the house, proudly, glad that he had kept everything meticulously neat and in repair, and she exclaimed delightedly over it all, while Concho stalked along behind them, silently, a huge, black shadow.
Not until Nora had seen everything, even to examining the cook stove and checking the inventory of the food safe, did their fatigue hit them. Then it came like the hammer-blow of a fist, and when Ramsey saw Nora sway, he caught her and eased her down into a chair at the kitchen table. Then he felt his own weariness.
The indestructible Concho looked at them with contempt. “I’ll see to the hawses,” he grunted and strode out.
Nora gave a long, shuddering sigh. “Oh, Sam, I can hardly believe it. To be safe again, in a place like this—”
Ramsey touched her hand. “You can believe it,” he said. His voice was soft. “You’re safe and I’m gonna keep you that way.” Then, wearily, he stood up. “Come on,” he said, took her hand, and led her into the other room. There was a trunk in one corner, and he unlocked it. “These clothes,” he said, “were my mother’s. I know they’re all outa style, and we’ll buy you new stuff in North Wells. But for right now, maybe you can find something in here you can use. She was about your size.”
Nora dropped to her knees by the trunk, lifted out the crisp but faded garments. “Anything,” she whispered. “Anything clean ... This and this and this.” Then she froze, looking up at him. Her eyes were embarrassed. “Sam,” she murmured, “after what I’ve been ... You’re sure you want me to wear her clothes?”
Ramsey nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. He helped her to her feet. “There’s a shower out back.”
He had expected a transformation in her, but not that much of one. A half hour later, when she came in through the back door of the kitchen, Ramsey, turning away from the stove, gaped.
The swelling in her face had gone down over the past few days; her eyes were normal and only the faintest suspicion of a bruise remained on her cheek. She was clean-scrubbed and glowing, her chestnut hair a long, glittering, damp fall down her back. She wore a frilly white blouse that had belonged to his mother, a flowered skirt, and sandals. Refreshed, free of fear, vibrant with happiness ... he saw her as he had never seen her before, and he whispered, “My God, you’re beautiful.” Then he took her in his arms and kissed her, and she held him tightly and returned the kiss hungrily.
The back door slammed; Concho entered. “Hawses rubbed down and—” he broke off. Then he said, softly: “How long Hank Stewart been dead now? Two weeks?”
Nora turned. “Oh, Concho—”
“Never mind,” Concho said in a voice of contempt. He turned and went out again, the door slamming once more.
Nora pulled away, and the light that had made her glow died. Ramsey said harshly, angrily, “Forget it—”
Dully, Nora said, “I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do.”
Ramsey reached for her again, but she eluded his grasp. Not looking at him, she went to the stove. “You’ll want to get cleaned up, Sam. I’ll finish the cooking. It’s woman’s work, anyhow.”
Nora sliced a country ham, fried it, cooked rice with peppers and stewed canned tomatoes. Delicious as it was, the meal was eaten in silence, partly because their hunger was so great the three of them wolfed their food, but mostly because of the tension that settled over the table the moment Concho took his seat.
When every dish was cleaned, the silence persisted. Then Concho took out makings and began to roll a cigarette. As he licked it, his eyes met Ramsey’s,
and there was ugliness in them. Concho rammed the smoke between his lips, lit it, and let blue vapor trail from his nostrils. “Now,” he said. “We got one problem left. Them men that hanged Hank Stewart.”
Nora sat straight, her hands lacing and unlacing nervously.
“Well?” Concho snapped.
Her voice was shaky. “Concho, we’ve already had so much trouble—”
“Then a little more won’t hurt. He was your husband, woman, and he fresh in his grave.”
“Concho, please. Won’t you try to understand? We—”
“I understand this man make us a promise. He say, if we turn around, go back down into deep Big Bend with him, he sic the law on them men that hanged yo’ husband.”
“But Hank’s dead!” Nora’s voice rose. “And making more trouble won’t bring him back! Sam’s told you—those men that killed him are the most powerful in this county. If he sets himself against them—”
Concho slammed the table and shoved back his chair. “He was yo’ husband, Noracita! You sittin’ here now in a nice clean kitchen in nice clean clothes. But where you think you be now if he hadn’t married you out of that place? You forgot where you was—?”
“I haven’t forgotten!” Nora screamed. “But I’ve been through enough, can’t you understand? I’ve had all I can take, I don’t want any more, I can’t stand any more—”
Concho got to his feet. “Okay,” he said flatly. “Well, I handle it alone, then. I go into town tomorrow, settle it myself. My own way. Then you got no more trouble.”
“Concho—!” Nora screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!”
“He yo’ husband, he my friend. I keep my promise, anyway.”
Ramsey got up and faced Concho.
“All right, Concho,” he said evenly. “You and I’ll ride into town and see Sheriff Williams tomorrow. But we go unarmed, you understand? No guns, no knives, no anything.”
“Sam, no!” Nora seized his arm. “It’s not worth it! Hank’s dead, we can’t bring him back. You’ll only ruin it here for yourself, for us—”