The Man from Misery

by David C. Noonan

  Emmet climbed back on Ruby Red and galloped down the southeast trail for five more miles before reaching another fork. This time, he didn’t have to stop and dismount. A second firewheel shimmered like a tiny setting sun against the brown dirt on the westerly road. Emmet swung down and picked up and pocketed the blossom before switching off and continuing his descent. In the distance he could see the blue-green river flowing between banks of red rock. A mile later, the road crested, affording a wide view of the terrain. Emmet sat his horse, grabbed the spyglass from the saddlebag, and peered through the instrument. Panning from east to west with a slow, deliberate motion, he found what he was seeking. The wagon was so far away that it appeared no bigger than a matchbox, but Emmet could make out a man in a red sombrero driving, with a dark-haired woman sitting in the back. As he watched them drop down and disappear behind a treeless hillock, his spirits brightened, knowing that Mariana was alive and unharmed—at least for now.

  CHAPTER 35 FATHER RAMIREZ

  A cold rain poured from thick clouds as Pedro and Chiquito rumbled the wagon towards Santa Sabino. Pedro directed the girls to cover themselves with the tarp to stay dry and hidden as they neared the village. Chiquito pointed to a solitary rider approaching from the east and readied his rifle. When the horseman got closer, the Apache announced, “It’s Zack. He’s one of us.”

  Zack pulled up, and Chiquito told him to follow them into town.

  Now Soapy and Abe flashed into view, cutting down a wide draw that intersected the road from the west, the cannon jangling in tow behind them.

  “How’d we do?” Soapy asked.

  “There’s only half a dozen or so of Salazar’s men still breathing,” Zack said. “Between the cannon and the Gatling gun, you thinned the herd to a handful.”

  Soapy looked please with the results. “Where’s Major Kingston?” he asked.

  “Emmet said he’s dead,” Chiquito answered.

  Soapy shook his head at the sad news. “Long live the King.”

  “Where’s Emmet?” Abe asked.

  “Garza escaped with Mariana,” Chiquito replied. “Emmet’s gone after them.”

  “Frank and Billy?”

  “Making tracks back to Sweetwater,” Zack said, “and dreaming up ways to spend all that money.”

  “Well, thank God we got all those girls out of there in time,” Soapy said.

  “Almost all,” Chiquito said. “Faith escaped, but we don’t know where she is.”

  Soapy rubbed his chin. “Well if that don’t take the rag off the bush. So this thing ain’t over.”

  “One step at a time,” Pedro said. “Let’s deliver these children to Father Ramirez.”

  Soapy and Abe fell in behind the wagon. A mile up the road, they saw the shadow of another rider coming from the opposite direction. “He’s racing like the devil beating tan bark,” Zack said. “Something’s up.”

  The shadow grew large and distinct enough for Pedro to recognize him. “It’s Pepe.”

  “The army’s at the bridge!” Pepe shouted. “They’ll be in Santa Sabino in fifteen minutes.”

  “There’s just enough time to get these girls to Father Ramirez,” Pedro said. “You know what to do, Pepe. Ready the streets.”

  “The streets are ready,” the tailor assured him.

  “What’s going on?” Soapy asked. “You fixing to take on the army?”

  “Major Kingston was a smart and thorough man,” Pedro said. “Thanks to him, we have a few surprises of our own for Captain Ortega.”

  “Wait a minute,” Soapy bellowed. “Captain Ortega? Captain Javier Ortega?”

  “Know him?”

  Soapy let out a booming laugh. “Why, him and me have done wagonloads of business over the years. He loves munitions even more than me. He’s one of my best customers.”

  “Well, he’s not your customer now,” Pedro said. “He’s your enemy.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Soapy answered. He swung the limber and cannon around the wagon and raced down the muddy road, with Zack hurtling on horseback behind them.

  “Hang on, girls,” Pedro said as he whipped the reins, “we’re heading for the home stretch.”

  Ten minutes later, Pedro and Chiquito whirled the wagon to the side of the church where an anxious Father Ramirez was waiting in the pouring rain. He pulled the tarp off, and when he saw the girls, he clasped his hands together in delight and looked up at the black sky, water running down his chin. “God be praised,” he said. He looked at Chiquito and Pedro. “Bless you both for getting them here.”

  The girls looked around their new surroundings, bewildered. “Is it safe?” Toya asked the priest.

  “Yes,” Father Ramirez replied. As he helped each girl off, he pointed to three women waiting by a tiny grotto where a statue of the Virgin Mary gazed out.

  “Those women will hide you in their houses.”

  The girls raced to the welcoming arms of the smiling women, who hugged the children, stroked their faces, smoothed their hair with their hands, and uttered reassuring words.

  Valencia was the last to leave the wagon. She eyed Pedro. “Will you find Faith?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Pedro admitted. “I think there’s a better chance of Faith finding us.”

  Valencia gave a nervous nod and ran to the grotto. Pedro watched the older women split the girls into three groups and lead them away in different directions.

  “Who’s your friend?” Father Ramirez asked. Pedro turned to introduce Chiquito, but the Apache had vanished like vapor on a prairie wind.

  “That was Chiquito,” he said. “But somehow I don’t think you’ll ever get the chance to meet him. Keep the wagon here, Father, in case we need it later.”

  “Where are you going?” the priest asked.

  “To take on the army,” the baker replied, and then he leaped from the step board and dashed down the main street, his sandals splashing through the puddles and slapping against the wet cobblestones.

  CHAPTER 36 THE ARROYO

  Garza steered the wagon off the road and down a gentle slope until he reached the dry bed of an arroyo. The wheels made a slushing sound as they came to rest in the soft sand. He jumped down, looked up at Mariana, and swept his arm across his chest. “Beautiful spot, no?”

  Steep walls of sandstone rose from the bed of the arroyo. Even with the black sky, the landscape appeared illuminated. Flash floods had carved the walls into soft, undulating curves, marbled with multicolored layers of rock laid down over thousands of years. The arcs were gentle, giving no clue of the turbulent forces that had created them. Over time, rain water had deepened the passageway and smoothed the hard edges so it appeared the walls themselves were flowing.

  “This is sacred ground to me,” Garza said. “My father died here. It’s also where I killed my first man.” He studied the ground like he was reliving the memories. Then he barked, “Sit over there.”

  Mariana climbed down and sat on the ground where Garza was pointing, in the middle of the arroyo, about ten yards downslope from the wagon.

  “I was fourteen years old. Me and my father helped his best friend steal a strongbox from a pay wagon headed to the copper mine. They decided this was a safe and secluded spot to divvy up the money. When my father’s friend saw how much money there was, he changed his mind and tried to keep it all. They shot each other over it. My father died instantly, but his friend didn’t. I finished him off with a good-sized rock, and I kept all the money.”

  “I never knew that,” Mariana said. “It proves you’ve been a bad man for a long time.”

  Garza shrugged. “Here’s something else you don’t know. This is also the spot where Tito and I drowned Miguel.”

  She saw his flinty eyes waiting for her reaction, felt her face turn pale as tallow, and swallowed a tight knot in her throat. She remembered her Miguel—kind, patient, so eager to help, so easy to please, his warm smile and gentle touch.

  “We staked him right where you are,” Garza said, “
just before the rains came. The water runs off the slot canyons and picks up speed as it rushes into the narrow passages. You’d be amazed at how quickly this bed fills up.”

  “You bastard!” Mariana screamed, and then she unleashed a bone-wracking sob.

  Garza ignored her. “Once the rains came, it was too dangerous to stay here,” he said, “so Tito and I waited down by the banks where the arroyo empties into the San Rafael. We bet how many cigarettes we could smoke before Miguel’s body washed down. I bet four. Tito bet six. He won.”

  Garza retrieved a long thick branch of juniper that had been carried down the arroyo during a past storm and snagged on some sagebrush. A long rumble of thunder forced his gaze to the sky. “Heavy rain soon,” he said and smiled.

  “Why are you so filled with hate?” Mariana asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “You hate me.”

  “No,” Garza said. He snapped several branches off the main one and tossed them aside. “But you should have married me when you had the chance.”

  “I didn’t love you. I could never love you.”

  “What is love?” Garza gripped the main branch and kept breaking it over his knee until he had made eight sticks. “You could have been wealthy.”

  Mariana shook her head and sneered. “What is wealth without love?”

  “Wealth without love,” Garza replied, “is wealth.” He unsheathed his Bowie knife and, with long, powerful strokes, whittled sharp points on the ends of each stick. He then retrieved a length of rope from the wagon, cutting it into eight pieces. He knotted a rope around each stick and tossed two of them to Mariana. “Slip your wrists through the loops and pull the rope tight,” he said. “Then lie back on the ground.”

  Mariana was terrified, but she obeyed, easing her head back into the soft, pink sand. Garza walked to the edge of the arroyo, picked up a rock the size of a beer mug, and knelt next to Mariana. More thunder, and now the rain began to fall. He hammered the handmade stakes into the ground, pinning her arms.

  As he maneuvered to stake her legs, she asked, “Why didn’t you unhitch one of the horses and escape by yourself once we were free of the hacienda? Why did you let the wagon slow you down? Why are you keeping me with you?”

  Garza pointed to the remaining pile of four sticks. “Because I want to meet the man responsible for my cousin’s death.”

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  Garza looped the ropes around her ankles and pounded the stakes in.

  “You know who it is,” he said. “Emmet Honeycut.”

  “No!” she shrieked. “No.” Her neck muscles turned spongy, and her bones were no longer able to support her frame. She felt dizzy and laid her head down to stop the feeling.

  “I know he cares for you, Mariana.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your father told us.”

  With renewed energy, she pitched back and forth in a frenzied attempt to rip the stakes out, but they held.

  “Why did your father betray us?” he asked.

  She scowled. “He didn’t. He gave himself away, and now he’s dead.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “It would be a sweet justice if it was Honeycut.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Too bad. Anyway, if he’s as good a tracker as I think, he’ll find us,” Garza said. “If not, I’m sure he’ll be grateful for the flowers you left behind.”

  She lowered her head to the ground again, and a cold shudder went through her body as she sobbed hot tears through unblinking eyes.

  “You didn’t think I’d notice the missing flowers in your hair?” Garza said with faked surprise. He stood over her spread-eagled body. “You know, it would be easy to take advantage of you right now.” With the toe of his boot, he lifted the hem of her dress several inches off the ground. “But it seems these days I’ve acquired a hunger for virgins.”

  His laugh echoed off the sandstone walls as he let the hem drop. “Now I think you hate me just enough. Time for me to move into the rocks and wait for your hero to show.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s coming?”

  “Men of his stamp always do. It’s pathetic—letting a woman get the better of a man—but it happens all the time. Now, don’t you go anywhere.”

  Garza scrambled up the slope, the Peacemaker slapping against his right leg, and disappeared from Mariana’s view.

  Mariana waited five minutes, hoping that Garza was out of earshot. In a voice a bit louder than a whisper, she called out, “Faith, are you okay?”

  From inside the wagon came the girl’s frantic reply: “Get me out of here. Please.” Her voice was shrill, fretful.

  “Shhh,” Mariana warned. “Garza is still nearby.”

  “Please. I can’t move!” Faith cried out. “It feels like I’m inside a coffin.”

  “You must lower your voice. Help is coming,” Mariana assured her.

  “When?”

  “Any time now. Keep your eyes shut. It will make that closed-in feeling go away.”

  “My heart is racing, and I feel like I can’t breathe.” Mariana heard her clawing at the wooden boards.

  “Take slow, deep breaths,” Mariana said. “Tell me about your home. What was it like?”

  It took several minutes, but Faith finally answered.

  “Our cabin was tiny, but the canyon was beautiful,” the girl began, “especially the sunsets. The colors would blaze like fire if a strong wind kicked dust into the air, or if clouds showed up on the horizon at just the right time. Mariana, I need to get out.”

  “Did you like living out there?” Mariana picked her head up as she spoke, even though she knew Faith couldn’t see her.

  “I like people,” the girl answered, her voice only a little less panicked. “My father was a preacher, so folks would come to listen to him. And my mother was a nurse, so neighbors would bring sick members of their family out. But I wished we lived closer to a town. The big sky made me feel small.”

  They conversed in hushed tones for another few minutes, about how kind and gentle Faith’s parents were, how she wished she had a sister or brother, and the toy flute that was her favorite Christmas present. Mariana sensed that Faith had calmed a bit, until a deafening crack of thunder startled them, rekindling the girl’s distress.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Faith moaned.

  “Help is coming,” Mariana said as she closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and felt fat, cold raindrops splatter against her face.

  CHAPTER 37 THE ARMY ARRIVES

  The parade of men, horses, and carriages clomped up the main road into Santa Sabino, rain pouring off their hats and uniforms. Luis Muñoz’s warning had already dampened Captain Ortega’s mood, and the weather was making it worse. Time to cut ties with Salazar, he thought. Too many trips to the same well. If this is my last opportunity, I might as well take home as much money as I can.

  Ortega had traveled to Santa Sabino three times before. Normally, some of the villagers would come to watch the procession, but not this time. Nobody was expecting him today, and, even if they were, it was raining.

  Fifty yards ahead, two men emerged from a side yard, waved to Ortega as they crossed the street, and disappeared behind the wall of a cantina. The captain detected the aroma of fry bread in the air and saw smoke puffing from the chimneys of several houses. He sighted two more villagers walking across the plaza.

  Here the road changed from packed dirt to cobblestone, which amplified the creak of each wheel and the clop of each hoof. The group had drawn within fifty yards of the plaza when a peasant on horseback darted in front of them from a side street towing a barricade of log poles and sagebrush lashed together with barbed wire and straw line. Ortega’s horse bucked in fright, and the soldiers drew their weapons. The people in the plaza scattered.

  The barricade was as tall as a man and extended the width of the street. There was no way to advance. The horses in front lu
rched side to side, startled at being corralled without warning. Ortega raced to the back of the column just in time to see another rider tow a second barricade behind them. The metal wire flashed sparks as it scraped across the wet stones. Realizing they were trapped, the captain yelled, “Form a phalanx around the carriages and wait for my order.”

  A voice above him shouted, “Captain Ortega.” The officer glanced up and saw men walking to the edge of the roof with their guns trained on his soldiers.

  “Steady, men,” Ortega said. “Don’t fire until I give the order.”

  “Don’t fire at all,” one of the men on the roof yelled back.

  “Who are you?” Ortega asked.

  “Pedro.” He motioned Ortega back to the middle of the column in front of the building where he was standing. “Time to talk.”

  “So talk,” Ortega hollered. In a quieter voice, he warned his soldiers, “Be ready for anything, men.”

  “Somebody will be coming out of the front door below me,” Pedro said. “He has no weapon. Tell your men to hold their fire.”

  Just then, an unarmed Soapy Waters strutted out of the tailor’s shop with his hands clutching his suspenders.

  “Remember me?” Soapy asked.

  The wary expression on Ortega’s face turned to surprise. “Señor Waters,” he exclaimed. Don’t tell me you’re part of this ambush?”

  “Ambush?” Soapy said with mock surprise. “No. You mean new lease on life.”

  The door of the lead carriage opened, and a well-dressed man stepped out on the footboard in fancy leather boots. “What’s going on?” he asked, obviously irritated by the holdup. “What do these people want?”

  Ortega held his hand up to silence him. “What do you mean a new lease on life, Señor Waters?”

  “Salazar is dead,” Soapy replied. “Garza has run away. Just about all of the gunmen are dead, and—most important to your feisty friend over there with the expensive footwear—the girls are gone. There’s nothing left for you here.”

  “You dare to confront the army?” Ortega said. “I can order my men to open fire at any time.”