CHAPTER THREE
Matamoros had seen more battles than Brownsville, yet for a town with that lively a history, “sleepy” was still the only way to describe it as Big Jake rode in. Of course, that could simply have been because he arrived at siesta time. Mexican towns had a habit of suddenly coming awake, only to settle down once again at siesta time.
While Jake had the sheriff and the doctor to question in Brownsville about Chance McCandless’s location, he had no such contacts across the border. For a man who lived on the Rio Grande, he could count the times he had crossed it on the fingers of one hand. Jake was a Texan through and through, and didn’t leave home unless he had to.
As he rode down Matamoros’s main street he drew none of the attention he had drawn across the border. It was not unusual for gringos to ride into town, looking for cheap tequila or even cheaper señoritas.
Jake had no choice. His best chance of locating Chance was to talk to bartenders. While the storekeepers and business owners loved it when gringos came to town, the same could not be said for the local alguacile—the sheriffs in sleepy towns liked their towns to stay that way. Liquored-up gringos only meant trouble. And while Chance McCandless might very well be in a local cárcel, Jake would save looking in the jail for after he talked to all the bartenders.
There was no law governing the business hours of the cantinas in Mexico, so they were pretty much all open. At the first cantina he took two sips of a warm beer and asked the bartender if he had seen a big gringo lately.
“Many gringos come in here, señor,” the man said.
“You’d remember this one,” Jake said. “He’s a tall man, with big hands and ears.”
“Ah, sí, the big ear gringo,” the bartender said. “I have seen him.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“I am sorry, señor, no,” the bartender said. “Perhaps one of the other cantinas?”
“Yeah,” Jake said, “I’ll check. Gracias.”
“De nada, señor.”
Jake left, walked his horse to the next cantina, just doors away. He got much the same result; yes, they had seen the gringo with the big ears; no, they did not know where he was now.
The third cantina he entered was larger, and had a poker game going on at one table. It also had a pretty Mexican girl working the floor, at the moment watching the game. Her peasant blouse was well off her smooth shoulders, which were partially covered by her long, black hair.
Jake went to the bar and ordered another cerveza, his third of the morning. Luckily, they were all warm and he wasn’t drinking much of them.
When the bartender delivered his beer he asked the same question—gringo with the big ears.
“Sí, he has been in here, señor, but not for some time,” the man said. “Perhaps—”
“I know,” Jake said, “one of the other cantinas. Gracias.”
Jake turned to head for the door, but at that moment a Mexican in a faded red shirt stood up from the poker table.
“Señor,” he called. He waved Jake over, saying, “Por favor.”
Jake walked over and asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“Señor, you are looking for the gringo with the big ears?” the man asked, with a big smile.
“I am,” Jake said. “Have you seen him?”
“Sí, señor,” the man said, sitting back down, “but not since he lost the last of his money with aces and eights. A very bad hand.” The man shook his head sadly as another Mexican sitting across from him dealt out the next hand. The pretty girl stood with her hand on the man’s shoulder. She seemed more interested in him than the game.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he is now, would you?” Jake asked.
“I do, sí, señor. And I will tell you because perhaps you will give him some money so he can get back into our game, eh?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Ah, muy bien. There is a cantina at the very edge of town, señor; just keep going until you reach the end—presto, there it is!”
“He’s there?” Jake asked.
“The bartender will know where he is, sí. But a word of advice, señor. Do not drink the cerveza there.” He made a face. “Muy malo! Very bad!”
“Thanks for the warnin’,” Jake said, “and the tip.”
“De nada, señor,” the man said. “Tell your amigo a chair is always open for him.”
Jake couldn’t imagine that Chance’s poker playing had gotten any better over the years, so he knew why the Mexicans wanted him to come back.
The last thing he would ever do was give Chance McCandless money to play poker.
Jake followed the bartender’s directions and walked directly to the far end of town. The very last building there, which looked as if a stiff breeze would blow it away, was a cantina.
He secured his horse out front and entered. As he walked to the small bar the wooden floor sounded hollow beneath his bootheels.
There was only one other patron in the place, a man with his head down on a table, a sombrero covering it. But he could tell that it wasn’t Chance McCandless.
“Ah, señor,” the rotund bartender said, “you are perhaps thirsty?”
“I was warned about your beer,” Jake admitted.
The man smiled, revealing one gold tooth among the yellow.
“That is because they are jealous, señor. Do you know why?”
“No, tell me why.”
“Because my cerveza is the only cold cerveza in town.”
“Well,” Jake said, “in that case, I’ll have one.”
“Muy bien, señor.” The bartender drew the beer and set it in front of Jake, beads of cold plain on the side.
Jake lifted it, sipped, and nodded approvingly.
“I can see why they’re jealous,” he said.
“Sí, señor,” the man said. “Please, spread the word.”
Jake knew he wasn’t going to be in Matamoros long enough to do the man any good, but he said, “I’ll do that. Now maybe you can help me.”
“Sí, señor. I will try.”
“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Jake said, “a gringo with big ears. I heard that he might be here.”
“Oh, sí, señor,” the bartender said, happily, “your amigo, he is here.”
Jake looked around.
“Where?”
“He is in the back, señor,” the man said, “Asleep. I let him sleep there and he swamps out the cantina for me at night.”
Jake cringed at the thought of Chance swamping out a saloon just for a place to sleep. He had no idea his friend had fallen this far.
“Can I go back there?”
“Oh, sí, señor,” the bartender said. “He must wake so he will be ready for the next siesta.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Jake drank half his cold beer, then left it on the bar and walked to the back. There was a curtained doorway to the back area, which he assumed was for storage. As he entered he saw that he was right. There were sacks and boxes and crates all around. For a moment he couldn’t locate Chance, but then he saw him, lying on some sacks he had used to make a mattress.
He walked over and looked down at his old friend. The ears were the same, but everything else seemed different. He was lying there slack-jawed, his shirt hanging out of his pants, more belly beneath it than there used to be, and the smell of liquor in the air came from more than just all the bottles on the shelves around them.
“Chance.”
He didn’t move.
“Come on, Chance.”
He nudged the man, who still didn’t move. He leaned in close to make sure his old friend was breathing.
A quick look around the room didn’t reveal anything he could use to wake him. Dousing him with whiskey wasn’t going to help. But then he found himself looking out the back window, and saw something useful. He opened the back door, then went to Chance, grabbed him by one leg, and dragged him off the sacks. He then pulled the unconscious man across the floor—with difficulty, since he was so heavy—and out the door. Even dragging him over the hardscrabble dirt, raising dust clouds the entire way, didn’t wake him up.
But when he reached his goal, Jake—with great difficulty—managed to get Chance up and over the side, into the horse trough full of water.
If Chance McCandless had not awakened he surely would have drowned. But he did come awake, and began struggling and sputtering, trying to figure out what was happening while also fighting to get out of the trough.
Finally, he simply sat up and looked around, saw and recognized Motley. He stared at him with what seemed like great effort, scowling.
“Jake?”
“Hello, Chance.”
“What the hell—”
“Are you awake?”
“Goddammit, Jake, I’m awake and wet. What the hell did you do?”
“I had to do somethin’,” Jake said. “You were dead to the world.”
“I was asleep!”
“You were unconscious,” Jake said, “in an alcoholic stupor.”
“I was asleep.” He used his big hands to wipe his face. “This water is filthy.”
“Then let’s get you out of there, Chance,” Jake offered.
He extended his hand to the bigger man, and helped him step out. From there Chance lowered his big keister to the edge of the trough. He took some deep breaths, rubbed his face again with his hands, and then stared at Jake without scowling.
“It’s good to see you, Big Jake.”