CHAPTER FIVE

Jake Motley’s funds were earmarked for all his trail drive expenses. That included three horses per man and the chuckwagon. He expected each man to supply his own bedroll, rifle, and rope. So buying Chance McCandless a horse in Matamoros just went on the list. But the bath and clothes for his friend came from his own pocket.

Once he had bought Chance a horse—a decent five-year-old bay mare who looked solid enough for a trail drive—they followed Desi to the place where he said they would find his cousin Taco.

Taco’s real name was much too long for Jake to ever pronounce, so years ago the Mexican just told Jake he could call him Taco, as many of his own family members did.

“Is that your favorite thing to eat?” Jake had asked him.

“No, señor,” Taco said, “but I did not want my family to start calling me Enchilada.”

Desi took them about twenty miles outside of Matamoros, deeper into Mexico, which made Jake a bit uncomfortable. If he was going to be this far from the Rio Grande, he preferred it be on a trail drive.

They reined in their horses in front of a large, two-story structure with boarded-up windows. There was a front porch, but nothing on it, no furniture, and certainly no people. The front door was weather-beaten and faded.

“Do you know what this place is?” Jake asked Chance.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s Lady Conchita’s Whorehouse.”

“I ain’t goin’ in there,” Jake said, appalled.

“We’ll send Desi in to get him to come out,” Chance said.

“Conchita’s,” Desi said, spreading his arms and smiling.

“Damn,” Jake said, “according to what Manny said, if we send Desi in there he’s gonna fall in love and be useless to us.”

“Okay, and you’re not goin’ in there because then you’ll go to hell.”

“If Abby knew I even stepped foot in a whorehouse—” Jake started.

“Relax, Jake,” Chance said. He’d forgotten what a prude his old friend was about some things, especially whores. Not that he had never been with one. In his youth, Jake Motley had probably patronized every whorehouse in South Texas. But marrying Abby Cummings, a devout churchgoing woman, had changed him drastically.

Chance dismounted and handed Jake the reins of his horse.

“I will come with you, señor,” Desi said enthusiastically.

“No!” Jake snapped. “Stay out here with me, Desi. Chance will get Taco and bring him out.”

“Does he have a favorite girl?” Chance asked.

“Oh, you do not understand, señor,” Desi said. “Taco is not a customer, he is employed here. He keeps the girls safe.”

“That sounds more like the Taco I remember,” Jake said. He had been harboring some disappointment that they had to go to a whorehouse to find his old friend. But hearing that the Mexican was there safeguarding the girls, and not sampling them, made him feel better.

“Well,” Chance said in a self-deprecating manner, “let’s hope when these whores get a gander at this old cowpoke, they let me leave.”

“Just go in and bring Taco out here,” Jake said. “He belongs on a horse on a drive with us, not in there.”

“Well, he better join us for the love of it,” Chance pointed out, “because he ain’t gonna do it for what you’ll be payin’ him.”

Chance went up onto the porch and knocked on the faded, peeling door. He expected it to be opened by a scantily clad girl, but it was Taco himself who opened it.

“Señor Chance!” the little Mexican said in surprise.

The two men had formed a bond of friendship long ago, one that could not be circumvented by the disparity in their size. Next to Chance, Taco looked like a twelve-year-old boy, but smiled broadly and the two old friends shared an awkward hug.

“What brings you here, mi amigo?” Taco asked. As usual, the silver buttons were gleaming on his vest, and the gold from his teeth shining. He did not look like he had aged a day, wearing his years much better than Chance and Jake were. He also had a pistol tucked into his belt, which was something Chance was not used to seeing. Usually the three of them carried only rifles. None of them had any illusions about being a pistolero.

“I’m here with our old friend Big Jake,” Chance said, pointing.

“Ah, I see . . . and is that my cousin Desi?”

“Yes, he’s joinin’ us,” Chance said.

“Joining you to do what, amigo?”

“Drive a herd to Dodge City, Taco,” Chance said. “It’s Big Jake’s last drive. He’s sold his ranch.”

“Ah, well,” Taco said, pounding his chest, “Desi is a very good vaquero, but he is not Taco. You will need me, señor.”

“That’s exactly what we were thinkin’,” Chance said. “Do you have a horse?”

“Sí, in the back.” Taco stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind him, thus also closing out his life in a whorehouse.

“Don’t you need to tell them you’re leavin’?” Chance asked.

“Oh, señor,” Taco said, waving a hand, “when they see I am gone they will know I have left.”

“And don’t you want to know what you’re to be paid?”

“Señor,” he said, taken aback by the question, “you and Señor Jake are my amigos. Whatever you pay me will be fair. It will take me but a moment to get my horse.”

While Taco hurried to the rear of the house, Chance joined Jake and Desi. He accepted his reins back and mounted up.

“Where’s he goin’?” Jake asked.

“To get his horse.”

Taco appeared moments later, riding a rangy paint, as usual. If Jake and Chance didn’t know better they would have thought it was the same horse the Mexican always rode.

“Desi, primo,” he cried out, “cómo estás?”

“Bien, Taco, muy bien.”

“Señor Jake,” Taco said, riding up to the man and shaking his hand, “el ultimo viaje, eh?”

“Taco,” Jake said, “you know I don’t talk Mex.”

“The last drive, señor,” Taco translated. “It is sad, no?”

“It could be sad, Taco,” Jake said, “or it could be a new beginning.”

“At our age, señor?” Taco said, smiling. “Surely you are joking.”

“Did Chance tell you what I’m payin’?” Jake asked. “And when?”

“Ah, señor, that does not matter,” Taco said. “How could I not go on my good friend’s last drive, eh?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever you pay me will be fine.”

“Well,” Jake said, “we need at least four more men, and they’re not gonna feel the same.”

“Do you wish me to suggest some vaqueros, señor?” Taco asked.

“No,” Jake said, “I want to go back to Texas and find them. I’m gonna be hearin’ enough Mex talk between you and your cousin.”

“Ah, but señor,” Desi said, “Spanish is the language of God.”

Chance watched Jake closely. His friend had come to a parting of ways with God when his wife died. At that point he stopped going to church, observing Catholic holidays, and even started eating meat on Fridays.

“You talk to God, Desi,” Jake said. “I’d rather talk to my cows.”

Big Jake turned his horse and started riding back to Matamoros, and the Rio Grande.

Desi looked at his cousin and asked, “Que dijo?”

“It is not what you said, mi primo,” Taco replied, “but who you said it to. Come,” he said as Chance followed Jake, “I will explain on the way.”