“And so can I,” Soapy said. He pulled on his suspenders. “We took care of Salazar and Garza and their men, and, if we have to, we’ll take care of you and yours.”
Again, Ortega scanned the rooftops and the wooden faces of the men brandishing Spencer repeating rifles. “These people are peasants,” he said. “My guess is that most of them don’t know how to shoot those guns.”
“Enough of them do,” Soapy assured him. He looked up at a red-headed man standing on top of the blacksmith’s shop. “How do you like our chances, Zack?”
“Like shooting catfish in a birdbath,” the man replied. “And the boss man in the fancy uniform will be the first to go.”
In a slow, deliberate motion, Soapy took his fingers off the suspenders and let them drop to his side. “Captain, the choice is yours. Death, if you push forward, or life, if you go back the way you came. Life for your soldiers. Life for your rich friends sitting in those carriages. Life for you—and your political future. In fact, I think you would be rewarded with a lot of votes in Santa Sabino if you make the correct decision today, as well as a sizable contribution from me. Helping rid this town of the cousins has made me a richer man.”
Ortega wrinkled his face. “You’re telling me to surrender?”
“I never said surrender, and I’m not telling you what to do. These people have been under the heels of the cousins for too long. They want their freedom, and they almost have it. Only you and your men stand in their way. We’re asking you to grant them their freedom by simply going home.”
As Ortega mulled the situation, Soapy added, “I’ve got a gift for you as a sign of good faith. I know your passion for military hardware—for heaven’s sake, you and me have done enough business together.” He raised his hand and waggled his fingers. Outside the barricade, a man drove up in the limber with the cannon behind it.
Ortega’s eyes widened. “A light twelve-pound Napoleon.”
Soapy beamed. “It’s a pleasure to be in the company of a man who knows his weaponry. It’s been fired a lot today, so it needs a good cleaning, but it’s my gift to you. So what’s it going to be?”
Seconds passed, and then Ortega glanced back at the gentleman standing on the carriage step, who shook his head and then tipped it back in the direction they had come. Ortega turned back to Soapy. “That cannon explains how you bested Salazar.”
“Partly explains,” Soapy said. “I’d have given you the Gatling gun, too, but it ended up in the river. Do we have a deal?”
Ortega gave a half smile. “I accept your offer, Señor Waters.”
“Then tell your men to lower their weapons.”
“You tell your men to do the same.”
Soapy pushed his arms down several times, signaling the men on the roof to put down. They did so.
Ortega barked the order, and his soldiers did the same.
“Now we’ll remove the barricade behind you,” Soapy said. He signaled to Pepe on the roof by spinning his right hand in the air like he was twirling a lasso. Pepe faced the rear of the caravan and made the same sign. The back barricade slid across the road, the metal wire screeching against the cobbles.
“Have your men lead the way home,” Soapy said, “and your rich friends can follow.”
On Ortega’s command, the soldiers single-filed along each side of the carriages and retreated down the street. As the vehicles turned around, Soapy gave the signal to remove the other barricade. When the man in the limber wheeled in the cannon, Soapy told Ortega, “You’ll need a driver.”
“Gonzalez,” Ortega yelled. “Take the cannon.” A soldier dismounted, passed his reins to the soldier next to him, and climbed into the limber.
Ortega turned back. “Tell me, Señor Waters. How did you come to be in Santa Sabino with your weapons?”
“Long story. I’ll tell it to you when we next meet. Maybe next month? I’ve got another Napoleon at my shop. I could bring it out to you—but you’ll have to pay for that one.”
Ortega nodded, turned the horse around, and trotted down the street behind the carriages. He heard Soapy shout, “A cheer for Captain Javier Ortega.”
Ortega heard the men roar and welcomed their expressions of gratitude. He turned back and doffed his shako only to see they weren’t cheering for him—they were cheering for themselves. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he quickly donned his hat and moved more rapidly along the street, listening to the hooting and hollering growing fainter as the caravan rumbled down the hill, around the corner, and back towards the Santa Sabino bridge.
CHAPTER 38 THUNDERSTORM
Emmet discovered a good location to conceal Ruby Red—a trough that was out of sight and stippled with blackberry bushes, one of the horse’s favorites. He didn’t tether the reins in case he needed a quick escape. As Ruby Red nibbled on the berry bush, Emmet scuttled along the open landscape keeping low. He could see the cut Garza had taken led to the bottom of an arroyo, the lowest land feature for a quarter of a mile.
He slipped through a cleft in the rocks and slid down the rain-slickened embankment until his boots hit the sandy bed. He crept along the canyon wall, his hand moving across the smooth sandstone for balance. Every ten feet, he poked his head out to see what was ahead. With each step, he neared the spot where he had seen the wagon disappear.
It was barely audible, but Emmet picked up the sound of a woman’s voice. Was it Mariana? He stopped, listened, and eased his head around the arc of the wall. It was Mariana, but she was staked out in the middle of the creek bed. Who was she talking to? There was nobody else in sight. He leaned back against the wall. Even though she was bound, the sight of her alive gladdened him. That feeling didn’t last, because the next sound was the voice of Yago Garza from behind, ordering him to drop the gun and put up his hands. Emmet dropped the rifle.
“Turn around.”
Emmet obeyed. He watched Garza slowly pick up the rifle, never taking his eyes off his enemy.
“A new Spencer, Mr. Honeycut,” Garza observed. “Aren’t we lucky?” He checked to make sure the rifle was loaded before holstering the Peacemaker. “Walk towards Mariana.”
Emmet advanced to the center of the creek bed where Mariana could now see him. Her initial look of joy turned to one of crushing resignation when she saw his hands up and Garza following behind.
“Look who’s here,” Garza said with exaggerated excitement. Mariana blinked back tears of despair. After Emmet had walked five paces beyond her, Garza ordered him to sit down and slip the ropes over his wrists. He tossed two stakes into Emmet’s lap and told him to lie back in the sand, facing Mariana. “One wrong move,” he said, “and I’ll shoot her.”
Emmet lay on his back, looking up. The pelting rain made him squint his eyes. With one hand, Garza stabbed a stake into the ground and then hammered it deeper with the rock. When he had set the last stake, he stood. “Isn’t this romantic? Now you can watch each other die.”
The rain intensified, and larger drops cratered the sand. Emmet heard the runoff first, a gentle seethe from upstream. Then he saw it: long fat fingers of flowing foam slithering along the creek bed.
“This canyon is about to flood just like that,” Garza said, snapping his fingers. “The water rushes fast through this narrow reach.”
The bubbling rills raced each other downhill, seeking out the lowest points in the bed and filling them, swirling in circles in a relentless search for a faster route to the river below.
Emmet watched a thin sheet of water wrap itself around Mariana’s head, envelop her ears, and move towards him. The sky-fresh runoff felt cold as it lapped against his skin. He and Mariana lifted their heads to keep water off their faces.
Garza stepped through the shallow stream to the wagon and unhitched the two horses. He slapped one horse on the croup, and it clambered up the slope. Holding the reins of the second horse, he peered down at the captives. “What a beautiful place to die,” he said.
A bigger surge of water bore down the slope, this one six in
ches deep. It smacked stones and clumps of debris against Emmet’s head and poured up and over his face, forcing him to hold his breath for several seconds, until the swell passed.
“Time for me to go,” Garza announced. “I’ll be waiting for you two to join me down by the river.”
He led the horse up the slope, to the top of the bank, and then he disappeared over the rise.
“Faith, are you okay?” Mariana called out.
“Get me out,” the girl screamed. “I hear the water, and I can’t swim.”
Emmet was stunned by the revelation that Faith was inside the wagon, but his shock disappeared when he saw another wall of water surging at them.
“Brace yourself!” he shouted. He closed his eyes and mouth just before the wave of brown soup engulfed him.
Submerged and holding his breath, Emmet centered his energy on his right side and yanked on the rope in an attempt to rip the stake out. The surge passed, the stake held, and the rope fibers sliced his wrist open, mixing blood into the water.
After Emmet caught his breath, he heard a fresh threat above him: water tumbling from an overhanging slab of caprock ten feet up, the flow sizzling like raw meat tossed on a hot grill. The sizzle was soon drowned out by another upstream roar as a two-foot wall of cocoa-colored slurry spiraled down the riverbed in uneven waves.
Mariana screamed, but the water—more violent now, and pushing larger pieces of wood—swamped and silenced her. The surge shunted the wagon several yards down the creek, frightening Faith. “Save me!” she screeched. “I don’t want to die.”
The wave passed, and Emmet looked at Mariana, who was choking for breath, her hair plastered with mud, her face flushed. He kicked his right leg to dislodge the stake, but the deluge had done nothing to loosen the tether. Rain continued to pour in thick sheets and gargle down the walls. Emmet knew time was running out.
The next wall of water was even higher. It sloshed back and forth against the sides of the canyon and slammed into the wagon, crushing it against the hard wall, breaking off one of the wheels, and shattering the compartment that trapped Faith.
Emmet’s last sight before the water overwhelmed him was Faith kicking out broken boards, scrambling out of the wrecked wagon, and clinging to it from the outside. After the water swamped him, the furious roar of raging water changed to the muted sound of bubbles fizzing in his ears. He held his breath for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. When he felt his lungs were about to explode, he thrust his head up for air, but the water was too deep, and he couldn’t break the surface. Foam and water shot into his mouth and throat, making him gag. The contents of his stomach pushed up his windpipe, and he vomited into the water column.
Again, the water subsided. Emmet, dizzy and losing consciousness, channeled all his remaining strength into his right arm and gave a mighty tug. The stake lifted and popped out of the wet earth.
Emmet flipped on his side and slammed his bloody fist back and forth against the other stake until it dislodged. With both hands freed, he jumped up and kicked the leg stakes out just as the next surge of water came sweeping down the canyon.
He saw Faith in her sodden smock, kneeling next to Mariana, straining to pull out one of the stakes with a piece of deadwood.
“You can’t swim,” Emmet shouted. “Get to high ground.” As she ran to the embankment and began climbing, he hurried over to the unconscious Mariana.
Emmet tensed himself for the impact. He shielded her from the brunt of the wave with his body but couldn’t stop the water, now spiraling in flumes around his legs, from submerging her. As he thrashed and clawed at the stakes, her body floated with the rising water, pulling the ropes taut. The stake that pinned her left arm popped out, and Emmet tried to lift her head higher up so she could breathe, but the water was too deep. He watched as air bubbles floated up from her mouth. When he saw her body sink, he knew her lungs had filled with water, and his desperate thoughts turned to despair.
The swell subsided, and Emmet pried out the three remaining stakes. He swept Mariana up in his arms, carried her to the bank, and, with Faith’s help, shoved her up on a higher ledge. Another powerful surge exploded down the canyon as Emmet climbed up, and a six-foot-long section of embankment crumbled and collapsed into the churning waters, almost taking Emmet with it.
As he pulled himself onto the ledge, Faith placed her ear next to Mariana’s mouth. “She’s not breathing.” She swished two fingers around Mariana’s mouth to unblock any obstructions and to scrape the thin clay layer coating her tongue. Emmet flipped Mariana sideways and slammed her back with his open palm. “Live!” he thundered. “Live.”
For five minutes he shook her wildly and slapped her back to no avail. Again, Faith put her ear to Mariana’s mouth, looked up at Emmet, and shook her head. Emmet flopped back on his rear, pulled Mariana’s body against his, and rested his head on top of hers. Grief wracked his brain, and he sat there, stunned and broken-hearted. Minutes passed before he spoke.
Without looking up, he said, “I only knew her for six days, but she changed my life.”
“I only met her this morning,” Faith replied, “and she saved my life.”
“I was gonna ask her to marry me.” The fact that Fate had thwarted Emmet once again marbled his sadness with rage. “I lost the first woman I loved to fire, and the second one to water,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I lost both my parents to gunpowder,” Faith said softly.
Her words snapped Emmet’s mourning in half; he lifted his head and looked directly at the girl. “Faith, I’m Emmet. I am so sorry you lost your parents. Forgive me for not considering what you’ve been through.”
“I’m sorry about Mariana,” Faith said. “So very sorry. You must be one of my uncle’s friends, too.”
Emmet nodded.
“Is my uncle okay?”
“I’m sorry to tell you that your uncle’s dead, darling.”
Faith lowered her head but did not cry. “Are the girls safe?”
“Every last one of them.”
The force of the water had ripped the bandages from her face. Emmet stared at the cross carved into her cheek, which was oozing a mixture of blood and pus. His eyes turned into slits, and he pointed two trembling fingers at her face. “Who cut you?”
She shied from his hand, looked away. “I did.”
“Why?”
“My own reasons.”
Emmet nodded, studied her face. “Your uncle told me about you. Know what he said?”
Faith shook her head.
“That you have a smile that can melt butter.”
It was as slow as a slack tide turning, but the corners of Faith’s mouth curled towards heaven. Emmet was pleased when he saw the gentle arc of her smile counter the sharp, straight lines of the knife cuts and said, “I can see your uncle was right.”
Then he reached out and wrapped his arm around the girl. When she rested her head on his chest, he kissed her on the temple and said, “You knew your uncle would come for you, didn’t you? And because he did, you’re safe now.”
“And because of Mariana and you.”
They held their soggy embrace for several silent minutes. Then Emmet released the girl, rested his head against Mariana’s blue cheek, and rocked her like a sleeping child, ignoring the chittering of two long-billed thrashers in the tree above him, and the roiling water below.
CHAPTER 39 BY THE RIVER
Garza sat on the bank of the San Rafael smoking his fourth cigarette. Water plunged from the arroyo into the river, creating coffee-colored swirls in the deeper, slower-moving water. The torrent would sometimes include pieces of deadwood or chunks of drabbled underbrush scoured from the creek bottom. He thought about his next move. Should he return to the hacienda? Wait for Tito? Intercept Ortega? Flee to Rio Rojano?
The rain had stopped, and a small break in the clouds had appeared. Garza flicked at some midges that had swarmed around him. “Damned bugs,” he said. He turned back to the arroyo in time to notice Emmet
’s slouch hat skimming along the surface of the water like a brown otter. He knew the powerful rush of the current would eventually dislodge the stakes. He took one final pull on the smoke, flicked the butt into the river, rolled another, and waited for Emmet’s and Mariana’s bloated bodies to wash down next.
Five minutes passed before Emmet released his grip on Mariana. He stood, lifted her body, and carried her further up the embankment before setting her down behind a patch of palo verde.
“Wrap her tight in this blanket to keep the flies off and stay with her. I have one final piece of business to take care of.”
“Garza?”
Emmet’s sorrowful eyes turned cold and unblinking. “Yep.”
“But what about the commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
“My grandma used to read the Good Book to me when I was little. I remember the story that God sent avenging angels to kill the evil people in Sodom and Gomorrah.”
“That’s true,” Faith confirmed.
“Today, I am the avenging angel sent to kill Garza. Do you understand?”
Faith nodded.
Emmet whistled twice, and Ruby Red emerged from the bushes, her coat shiny from the rain. As he slid his boot into the stirrup and swung up, Faith yelled, “Wait.”
Emmet looked at her.
“Maybe you should leave me one of your guns to protect myself. You know, in case . . .”
“You mean in case I don’t come back?” Emmet asked.
“Garza’s a dangerous man.”
“Have you ever fired a gun, darling?”
“No.”
“Now’s not the time to be teaching you.”
“What should I do?”
“Three things.” Emmet unrolled his wet-weather poncho and handed it to her. “First, put this on.” He watched her find the neck hole and slip the poncho over her head.
“Second, stay well hidden.” He pointed to the palo verde.
The girl scooted behind the bushes next to Mariana’s body.
“And the third?” she yelled back.
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