Ready? Well, before we stopped for you to change disks on your recorder, I was telling you about Del Buchman finding Selma’s little Philadelphia derringer tucked inside the waistband of my trousers, and the sulky mood that put him in. He dragged me downstairs, making sure to slam me into the wall a few times along the way to express his displeasure.
Goldie showed up with a swarthy, broad-shouldered gent I took to be Tony, probably to investigate the ruckus we’d made in Selma’s room, but I reckon Goldie could tell from Del’s expression that whatever was going on wasn’t anything she wanted to involve herself in. Goldie Werner had been running successful whore houses along the Arizona border for nearly two decades, and knew when to keep her lips zipped. She didn’t say anything as Del propelled me through the door and all but pitched me, headfirst, off the front porch. Although I tumbled ass over tea kettle across the bare yard, sweet Selma’s nickel-plated Colt didn’t budge an inch inside its lacy holster—bless that little gal’s true-blue heart.
“On your feet, Latham,” Del barked.
I stood, picking up my hat. My left cheek stung from its contact with the gravelly soil and my shoulder ached from its numerous collisions with the stairway wall, but I was more concerned with what Del was going to do next. I won’t deny I was just about quaking in my boots for fear he’d haul me back to Rynning, but I guess he needed my knowledge of that country south of Moralos more than he needed to fulfill his promise of returning me to the Hill if I tried to double-cross him. I decided that was a good thing to know, but nothing I wanted to test the limits on, as we hiked to the Southern Pacific depot a couple of blocks away.
The 11:40 p.m. to Gila Bend rolled in about twenty minutes early, then spent thirty minutes taking on water and coal while the passengers from San Diego disembarked and those heading on east from Yuma mounted the iron steps to the twin passenger coaches hooked behind the mail car. Del led me to the second coach and pushed me onto a rear bench. His lips were squeezed tight as a poorly healed scar. He hadn’t said a word since leaving Goldie’s, and neither had I.
The rear car was nearly empty, probably fewer than a dozen passengers, all told. A drummer in a gaudy plaid suit and dusty derby asked to sit with us, but Del jabbed a thumb toward the front of the coach like a choleric hitchhiker, and the salesman took the hint.
Despite the tension between Del and myself, I was feeling good as the lights of Yuma fell to the rear. As the rails swung north, I could see the massive bulk of the penitentiary, squatting like a fat gargoyle above the town. There was a light glowing at the sally port and another in the warden’s private residence outside the walls, but the rest of the giant structure seemed as dark as the souls of the men trapped inside its eight-foot-thick walls.
The tracks took us north for a while, then northeast along the south bank of the Gila. I was sitting next to the window on the river side of the car, facing forward with my cheek pressed against the frame, breathing in the cool desert air that flowed through the half-opened portal—intermittently interrupted by vagrant clouds of acidic coal smoke, laced with tiny, wind-borne cinders. But I didn’t care. I was leaving Yuma behind at something like forty miles per hour, and would have ate mud if that’s what it took.
We were about an hour out of the station when I told Del I needed to use the facilities. After giving me an annoyed glance, he pushed stiffly to his feet and accompanied me to the small chamber at the rear of the coach.
“I’m going to need these off,” I said, holding up my cuffed wrists.
He peered inside the rocking privy, grunted at the size of the window, then loosened one of the manacles, only to close it a moment later around a brass rail bolted to the side wall. I had to bite my lip to keep from saying anything, although I’ll admit it was nice to have at least one of the damned things off.
“You got two minutes,” Del growled.
“I’m going to need five,” I said, then shut the door in his face.
The first thing I did after throwing the dead bolt was to lower my trousers far enough to retrieve the Colt from its black lace holster. Although the gun had remained snuggly in place all night, its sharper edges, and especially the hammer spur, had been gouging into the soft flesh above my knee ever since leaving Goldie’s. Figuring it would be too risky to carry it in my pocket, I scooted everything—pistol and garter both—down until it was cradled inside my right boot top with the butt sloping forward for an easy grab. Well, as easy as it was ever going to get, buried inside my boot and under my pant leg.
Del was glowering suspiciously as he led me to my seat—I’d lost a lot of ground with him over that derringer—but, instead of reattaching the shackle to my other wrist, he fastened it to the decorative, wrought-iron scroll of the seat’s arm.
I studied him curiously as he locked the cuff. “You ain’t getting soft in your old age, are you, Del?”
“Shut up, Latham. I’m going outside for a smoke, but I’ll be poking my head back inside from time to time, in case you get any more fancy notions like that one you got at Goldie’s.”
“I reckon I’m fresh out of fancy,” I replied, grinning.
“You’d better get fresh out of that smartassed attitude of yours, before I go looking for a crowbar to pry it out.”
He pocketed the key, then exited the coach, pulling the door closed, none too gently, behind him.
I was tired, and after a few minutes I pulled my coat over my shoulders and curled up on the hard bench as best I could. It wasn’t comfortable, but I’ve slept in worse locations, and it wasn’t long before I dozed off.
It was still dark when a change in the train’s cadence eased me from my slumber. I opened my eyes. Del was seated across from me, arms folded, his head bobbing loosely, although he came instantly awake when I sat up, his hand sliding instinctively inside his coat for the revolver. I smelled whiskey on him, and knew it hadn’t been a cigar he’d gone outside for.
Sensing the train’s slackening speed, Del twisted around to peer out the window. There was a light up ahead, a red-shaded lantern swinging steadily back and forth in a stationmaster’s hand, signaling a stop.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Sentinel, more than likely.”
“What time is it?”
He hauled out his pocket watch. “Three o’clock.”
I leaned close to the window to see what I could in the moonlight. We’d come through Sentinel on our way to Yuma in 1903, but hadn’t stopped. It was, to my knowledge, a refueling station for coal and water, and of little use otherwise. There were a few buildings scattered around the station house, some scrubby trees, a water tank, and not much else. Then the engine began to brake firmly enough for the cars to roll forward with their customary crash of steel couplings that shook everyone from their slumber.
The conductor came down the aisle, swaying with a natural rhythm to the coach. “Just a quick stop, folks. Need to let a couple of passengers off.”
I leaned back in my seat and chuckled. “Who in their right mind would get off out here?” I wondered aloud. Then my smile faded at the taut grin on Buchman’s face.
“On your feet,” he ordered, loosening my cuff just long enough to return it to my free wrist.
I stood reluctantly. I could tell from the way the bushes were whipping back and forth in the light from the station house that it was windy. It was probably going to be cold, too, the way nights in the desert often are at that time of year.
The train stopped and we got off, and then it pulled forward again, couplings clashing as it slowly picked up speed. I stood on the station platform and watched it grow smaller, the single lantern hanging from the rear of the caboose pulling in on itself like a rapidly healing wound. The elderly stationmaster blew out his lantern and set it inside the shack that passed for the depot, then hobbled down the steps and made his way to a small frame house, its wood siding scoured by blowing sand to the same dull gray as the rest of the town.
“Ain’t very talkative, is he?” I observed as the lamp inside the stationmaster’s house was extinguished, reducing the structure to a dark blob against the lighter desert behind it.
“I doubt he’s got much to talk about out here,” Del replied.
“You’d think he’d be curious about us.”
“I expect his curiosity’s already been satisfied on that subject.”
There was an ungodly roar from behind the depot, then a pop like a gunshot. Looking relieved, Del said, “Grab your stuff. We’re pulling out.”
My stomach was already knotting up as I followed Del down off the platform. The racket grew louder, a mechanical barrage of valves and pistons, seemingly at war with each other. After a moment the gnashing smoothed out, settling into a low, steady rumble like that of an asthmatic cougar. Seconds later a hulking steel giant lumbered around the side of the station and rolled to a stop a few feet away. Huge brass headlights mounted in front of the fenders reminded me of the bulging eyes of a child’s nightmare, the exposed front chassis its sinister snarl. The roar of the engine quieted to an idle, and the door swung open.
Del quickly stepped forward to shake the driver’s hand. “Damn it, Spence, when I didn’t see you, I was afraid you hadn’t made it,” he said loudly, above the digestive-like sounds of the machine.
“Sure, I made ’er. I was just catchin’ me some shut-eye out back, where the old man who runs this shit hole couldn’t give me the evil eye.” He was of average height but thickly built, with a head like a rock fixed to the top of a three-foot section of crosstie instead of shoulders, his face a battered map of past brawls. He wore a linen duster over heavy wool trousers and a red-and-green striped sweater. A pair of goggles hung from around the stump that was his neck. Eyeing me with the scrutiny of a horse trader judging a possible purchase, he said, “I see ye got ’im.”
“Yeah, I got him. Rynning didn’t want to give him up, but there wasn’t much he could say when I showed him the governor’s letter and the pardon.”
“Still cuffed, though.”
Del chuckled. “He got a little too ambitious back in Yuma and tried to steal a gun.”
“That wasn’t stealing,” I protested. “It was a gift from an old friend.”
“It was one of those old, single-shot muzzleloading popguns a whore gave him,” Del corrected. “The dumbass forgot to cap it.”
The driver laughed good-naturedly. “Ye’ve gotta cap ’em, lad,” he told me. “They won’t fire if ye don’t.”
“It was a gift,” I repeated stubbornly. “I didn’t cap it because I didn’t want it going off and shooting ol’ cupid there in the butt.”
Del swung around. “You put a cork in that trap of yours, Latham, or I’ll by God cork it with my fist.”
I looked at the other guy and winked. I knew I was risking a punch in the nose for my trouble, but something was telling me to push back a little, keep the old lawman off balance.
Buchman threw his gear—a leather valise and a pair of saddlebags, plus my stuff—into a wooden trunk bolted to the automobile’s rear fender, then shrugged into a heavy corduroy coat with a fur collar and toggle buttons.
While he was doing that, the burly driver came over. “Spencer McKenzie,” he said, thrusting a mechanic’s greasy paw toward me. “I reckon ye’re Latham?”
“J. T. Latham.”
“Well, best we be gettin’ mounted, J. T. Latham, for ’tis a long trip to Moralos, and a poor road, to boot. Assumin’ we can find it.”
I hesitated. “We’re going to Moralos from here? Ain’t that taking the long way in?”
“Aye, but ’twas Mister Davenport’s orders, and I won’t question a man who’s payin’ me seventy-five dollars a month. Come on now, time’s a-wastin’.”
“What is this thing?” I asked as we approached the automobile.
“She’s a 1906 Berkshire!” he exclaimed proudly. “Belongs to Lord Davenport, she does, though he’s hired me to wrangle the thing for him.” He patted the hood as affectionately as a cowpuncher might the shoulder of a favorite horse. “She’s got a thirty-five horsepower engine and a transmission guaranteed never to strip a gear, which makes me love her all the more out in these lonely parts.”
What he was said makes perfect sense now, but it might as well have been ancient Greek at the time. The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I’d never ridden in an automobile in my life, and I sure as Hades didn’t want to start then.
Laughing good-naturedly, Spence said, “Don’t act so glum, lad. ’Tis the future ye’re lookin’ at here.”
Well, it was the future, all right, and we all know it now, but, that night in Sentinel, the thought of crawling inside that huffing contraption had my stomach tied in knots that just kept drawing tighter and tighter.
Del was already in the back seat. He motioned me into the front. “Where I can keep an eye on you,” he said, then tapped the revolver under his arm. “I’ll be keeping my hand close to this, too, in case you start thinking unhealthy thoughts, like trying to jump and run.”
“Why don’t you take these cuffs off so I can put my coat on?” I said. “It’s going to get cold when we start moving.”
“You’re gonna freeze your ass off,” he agreed cheerfully, and I knew he was getting back at me for that cupid remark.
Climbing into the huge front seat, I pulled my coat over me like a blanket. Spencer got in behind the big wooden steering wheel and began fiddling with levers and pedals and knobs and who knew what all, and the next thing I knew we were moving. I remember pressing back into the deep leather of the Berkshire’s seat, bracing my heels against the floorboard as the vehicle lurched over the iron rails of the Southern Pacific tracks and gradually picked up speed. Although the car was equipped with headlamps, Spence hadn’t bothered to light them. With the moon nearly full and the lights of the tiny station quickly fading behind us, we didn’t need them.
For the first hour or so it seemed like we were just weaving aimlessly through the desert, circling sprawling patches of prickly pear or creeping through shallow arroyos, but after a while Spence found a trail that appeared to follow the natural contours of the land, taking us southeast toward the Sonita Mountains. I knew those Sonitas pretty well, having traveled through that country numerous times before my arrest, and figured Spence intended to skirt the mountain range’s barren western slopes until we could turn south to Moralos. From the southern tip of the Sonitas, the town would be no more than eighty miles away. If we didn’t end up driving into a cañon and breaking our necks, we’d probably be there sometime that afternoon.
We were making good time in spite of the ruggedness of the terrain—a whole lot better than we could have done on horseback, that’s for sure—and as much as I hated to admit it, I was growing impressed with the automobile’s capabilities. We were probably doing twenty miles an hour over the flatter stretches, dodging jack rabbits and cactus beds with a dexterity I would have thought impossible for something so big. And the odd thing is, I was enjoying it. I was having fun. Coney Island roller coaster kind of fun, and if you’ve ever been to Coney Island or ridden the Loop-the-Loop, you know what I’m talking about.
The moon dropped toward the horizon and the light grew dimmer. Spence finally had to stop and light the massive headlamps. While he was doing that, Del leaned over the back of the seat and loosened one of my cuffs.
“Put your coat on,” he said gruffly. “You keep trembling like that, you’re liable to force us off the road.”
“What road?” I demanded between chattering teeth.
Del guffawed as I shivered into my coat and quickly buttoned it to my throat. I was already wearing the deer-hide gloves I’d picked up at Hunsaker’s, and had tugged my hat down almost to my eyes. I could have used a blanket, or, better yet, a heavy buffalo robe, but I doubted if Spence had one in the Berkshire’s wooden trunk.
We continued on through the night and into the next day, the Berkshire’s engine humming smoothly. We almost made the border before one of the tires went flat. Spence told us not to worry and hopped out of the car. Five minutes later he had a wagon jack under the frame and was cranking the vehicle into the air. He removed the tire with tools dug from the bottom of the trunk, patched the inner tube with a piece of rubber and some glue—not the first time it had been repaired that way, I noticed—then had me refill it with a tire pump while he checked the oil and the water in the radiator. He added gas from a five gallon can strapped to a rear fender, then hauled out some sandwiches and beer for breakfast. Thirty minutes later, we were on our way.
The trail veered sharply east below the Sonitas, but our destination lay more to the southeast, across a rumpled land of cactus and rocks and a stifling heat that had us shedding our coats before midmorning. Spence had the Berkshire to a crawl as he wove through a jungle of cholla and ocotilla, the spiny plants gouging unrelentingly at the automobile’s paint, peeling it back in thin curling whiskers. Spence was cursing steadily as he battled the huge wheel, while Del and I clung to whatever handhold we could find as the pitching vehicle bulled through the desert flora. When we came to a low-banked, sandy wash late in the morning, Spence wrestled the Berkshire into its middle and cut the engine.
“What are you doing?” Del demanded. “We can’t stop here.”
“I can,” Spence wheezed, pulling a wool cap from his head and tossing it on the floor. He slumped back in his seat with his arms limp at his sides, muscles twitching.
“What if it won’t start again?” Del asked worriedly.
“Then ye can shoot the damned thing and put it out of its misery.” He lolled his head toward me. “That trail from Tucson to Sentinel was open all the way, but this bugger has nearly wrung me dry, lad.”
“Got any water?”
“Aye, five gallons in the trunk for the radiator and a canteen for me own use, but there’s a beer or two back there yet, and I’d prefer that, if ye’re doin’ the fetchin’.”
“I’m fetching,” I said, and jumped out.
“You stay where I can see you!” Del shouted after me.
I’d already lifted the lid on the trunk by then, shutting off his view to the rear, and I won’t deny that, brief as it might have been, the idea of slipping Selma’s pistol from my boot, then stepping around the side of the car and pulling the trigger, flashed through my mind. They wouldn’t have been the first men I killed, either, but the fact is, although I’d already shot a number of men at that point in my life, I wasn’t a killer. Or rather, I wasn’t a murderer, and there’s a difference. You may think me brash to admit that on a machine that’s recording my every word, but I’ll be confessing to a lot worse before we’re through. Of my many adventures, that final trip into Mexico to rescue Abby Davenport and her children was the bloodiest.
Rummaging through the trunk, I located a couple of bottles of Dos Equis, wrapped inside a dripping wad of burlap. Seeing the familiar double Xs brought a smile to my face. Dos Equis was illegal in the United States and its territories, and wouldn’t have been available if not for the smuggling that went on along the border. Taking the bottles around front, I opened one for Spence and the second for myself, and laughed at Del’s scowl.
“Get your ass back there and fetch me a bottle, Latham.”
“This is all there was,” I replied, tipping my head and taking a healthy swallow.
Spence backed me up. “Just the two left, Delmar. Sorry.”
“Besides, you being an acting sheriff for Pima County, you wouldn’t want to drink anything brought into the country illegally,” I told him.
Del grumbled but didn’t push it. Spence was drinking leisurely, savoring his beer, although I noticed his hand still trembled every time he raised the bottle to his lips. After several minutes, he belched contentedly and said, “Boys, I be fair bushed. I’ll get ye to Moralos, don’t fret yeself on that, but I’m going to have to sit here a spell to catch me wind.”
“It doesn’t look like it’s your wind that’s bothering you,” Del observed.
“Aye, ’tis the truth, and then some.” He set his bottle aside and raised both hands to tentatively flex his fingers. They moved slowly, quivering from the strain, and I could see the pain in his eyes as he forced them closed.
Del was less sympathetic. “We ain’t got that kind of time, McKenzie.” He glanced at the sun, nearly straight overhead. “It’s still twenty miles or more to Moralos, and I told Davenport we’d be there by noon today at the latest.”
“What ye told the old bugger isn’t me concern, Delmar. It’ll be a couple of hours, at least, before I can drive again. Unless ye want to wrestle this beastie yeself.”
Del glared but didn’t say anything. Then, out of the blue and surprising all three of us, I said, “I’ll drive.”
“Shut up, Latham,” Del growled.
“Hold on, now, Delmar,” Spence said, squirming around for a better look, as if sizing me up. “Do ye think ye can, lad?”
“Sure.”
“My ass,” was Del’s opinion, but Spence chuckled.
“Ye may be right, Delmar, but better to give the lad a chance than while away the day waitin’ for the trembles to drain from me arms.”
“He’ll wreck it.”
“I can handle it.”
Turning to Del, Spence said, “I say we give the lad a try.”
Del was eyeing me suspiciously. I knew he was remembering the derringer I’d tried to smuggle out of Selma’s room. He didn’t trust me, and I guess I couldn’t really blame him. But he also wanted to get to Moralos as soon as possible, and sitting around in the middle of a dry wash twenty miles short of his goal wasn’t going to get him there.
“If you wreck this thing, Latham, I’ll rip that pardon of yours to shreds and toss it to the winds.”
“You just hang onto that pardon if you want to reach Sabana without losing your hide to bandits or Indians,” I replied, my temper finally beginning to stir.
Starting an automobile in 1907 was a lot more complicated than it is today, but thankfully Spence was there to walk me through it, adjusting the choke and spark and fuel mixture, then having me crank the engine like I was whipping up a batch of homemade ice cream while he coaxed the slumbering creature to life. It didn’t hurt, Spence told me later, that the engine was still warm. The Berkshire sputtered to life on the third spin, and Spence quickly adjusted the controls until the motor was once again purring smoothly. I’ve got to admit I found myself liking the sound.
I tossed the crank under the seat and told Spence to shove over, then held my wrists up where Del could see them. “I can’t drive with these on.”
Del started sputtering in a fair imitation of the Berkshire engine on the crank’s second spin, but Spence cut him off.
“The lad’s right, Delmar. Either remove his cuffs or wait until I’m fit enough to drive again.”
Del partially conceded by freeing my right wrist. I could drive, but I’d have a heck of a time explaining myself if I escaped, then showed up in a town with manacles dangling from my left arm.
Spence turned out to be a pretty decent instructor, and it wasn’t long before we were hopping down the middle of that wash like a cottontail. Del was cussing up a blue streak at my neck-snapping jerks, but Spence only laughed and increased the throttle. After a bit he closed the choke, then retarded the spark, and we were soon chugging along at a good clip, although still in first gear. After about a hundred yards in low, with me primarily getting the hang of steering, Spence explained the art of shifting gears, and it wasn’t long before we were fairly flying along.
We reached the main road between Moralos and Nogales around midafternoon, and Spence reluctantly reclaimed the driver’s seat. I don’t think he wanted to show up in Moralos sprawled across the passenger side of the car like a hitchhiker, not with Ed Davenport paying his wages. Del, the bastard, snapped that left cuff back on my wrist as soon as I slid out from behind the wheel. Thirty minutes later, the little village rose into view as if sprouted amidst a forest of cholla.
For its size, I think Moralos had changed even more than Yuma in the years since I’d been away. Jorge Archuleta had enlarged his cantina, there was an adobe wall surrounding the well in the center of the plaza to keep the goats and hogs and such out of the drinking water, and the livery on the north side of the plaza had added more corrals behind its stables. But what really caught my eye was a new, two-story structure with the word hotel painted in bright red letters above the entrance.
Moralos had grown up with its new hotel and developing businesses, but as we entered the town in a cloud of dust, rapidly scattering chickens, barking dogs, and yelling, laughing children out of our way, I noticed that it hadn’t grown out. There were still only thirty or forty small adobe homes surrounding the central plaza, making me wonder where all the extra commerce was coming from to justify the village’s expansion.
At the hitch rails in front of Archuleta’s cantina was a burro loaded with dried cholla for firewood, a couple of nondescript horses swatting lazily at the few flies out and about in that kind of heat, and a two-wheeled contraption the likes of which I’d never seen before. As soon as Spence brought the Berkshire to a halt in front of the hotel, I walked over for a closer look. Del yelled for me to get my hind end back where he could keep an eye on me muy pronto, but I was growing weary of Del’s barking, and ignored him.
The machine looked like one of those safety bicycles I’d seen in Yuma, right down to the pedals. But it also had an engine mounted inside its V-shaped frame, and a blue, flat-paneled gas tank under the top rail between the seat and handlebars. The word Wagner was scripted across the tank. (Editor’s note: A safety bicycle is an obsolete term for a bicycle with equal-sized wheels, versus the earlier penny-farthing models with their overly large front wheel and tiny rear wheel; the Wagner Motorcycle Company (1901–1914) was founded by George Wagner, in Saint Paul, Minnesota.)
What had caught me off guard wasn’t so much that I was looking at what was essentially a motorized bicycle, or motorcycle, but that I’d come across it way out there. Two five-gallon gas cans were strapped like saddlebags on either side of the rear wheel, with a bedroll and flat-bottomed portmanteau fastened crosswise behind the seat. A dented coffee pot was tied to the bedroll, and an empty rifle scabbard with elaborate floral carvings, dyed in shades of red, green, and gold, was slanted to the rear on the bike’s right side. A dripping two-gallon water bag was hung off the left to counterbalance the weight of the rifle.
I stood there for several minutes just staring at the thing, and it was about then, even more than seeing all those automobiles in Yuma, that I began to comprehend the changes that were about to overwhelm the world. Staring at the motorcycle, I recalled Spence’s comment from the night before: ’Tis the future ye’re lookin’ at here.
It was indeed.
When I finally returned to the Berkshire, Del and Spencer had already disappeared into the hotel, and I wandered in after them. The place was still fairly new and in good repair, the lobby pleasantly cool after the blazing desert sun. A middle-aged Mexican in a white linen suit manned the register. Spotting my cuffs, he motioned toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Señor Buchman says you are to go upstairs immediately.”
“Which room?”
Solemnly the clerk informed me that Davenport had rented the entire north side of the upper floor for his private quarters.
I whistled. “Hombre rico, eh?” I queried, grinning.
“Sí, very much.” And still not a trace of a smile.
We were speaking Spanish, and I ought to explain that a lot of the conversations that took place after we reached Moralos were in Spanish. Having spent a good many years trading south of the border, I was fairly fluent in the language, although lacking the formality of a scholar. Mine was more a polyglot of the border Spanish that dominated that region, a mongrel collection of Mexican, American, and Indian dialects. Del and Spence could get along in Spanish, but Davenport didn’t speak it at all, despite numerous business dealings in Mexico and, I’d find out later, an office in Hermosillo. It was Spence who confided in me that Davenport considered the language beneath him, and that he considered it a strength when dealing with Mexican officials to have them bring along their own interpreter.
But I’m not going to try to keep all that straight—what was spoken in Spanish and what wasn’t. It would bog down the story, and probably confuse me as much as it would you. Just know that after we left Moralos, most of what was spoken to anyone other than Davenport, Del, or Spence was probably in the language of the land.
There were eight rooms on the hotel’s second floor, four on the north side of a long hallway, and four on the south. Hearing the low rumble of masculine voices from one of the middle rooms, I went there first. Halting in the doorway, I found Del and Spence standing stiffly before a middle-aged man perched on the edge of a cushioned chair, pulling on a pair of expensive, lace-up riding boots. He was of average height and thick through the middle, the way some men get at that age—although he didn’t look soft, at all. His hair, what was left of it, was gray and curly, with a few strays on top that caught the light from the open window. His face was square and craggy, like a sculpture inlaid with a pair of cold blue stones for eyes. Other than sideburns extending just below his lobes on either side, he was clean-shaven.
Davenport saw me as soon as I walked into the room, and his first words were, “So this is the infamous J. T. Latham, whose skills we couldn’t survive without?”
I didn’t like the guy from that moment on.
“That’s him,” Del confirmed, minus the bluster I’d endured ever since he’d sprung me from Yuma. “Although you recall I never said we couldn’t do it without him. Just that our odds of getting there undetected were gonna be better if we had him to guide us.”
Davenport glanced at my wrists. “Why is he still handcuffed? Don’t you trust him?”
“I’d trust him as far as I would any con, and more than most, but that doesn’t mean I’d turn my back on him. He tried to slip a whore’s pistol past me in Yuma, so I figured another day or two in cuffs might convince him that …”
“A whore’s pistol?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From a whorehouse?”
Del shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, Buchman,” Davenport said softly, “what were you doing in a whorehouse?”
Clearing his throat, Del said, “We was waiting for the train and had a few hours to kill before …”
“Are you also responsible for those bruises on his face?”
“No, sir, that was done before I got him released.”
Davenport stood. “Is what this man says about your skills true, Latham? Do you know that country south of here like the back of your hand?”
“Pretty much.”
“He was raised by the Yaquis,” Del interjected.
“Were you?” Davenport asked, never taking his eyes away from mine.
“Not exactly raised by them. I spent a few years among them as a captive. Most of the land south and west of here was their home until the Federales chased them deeper into the paramos.”
The old man—and I call him that only because of his position in the group—scowled at my reply. “Paramos?”
“The badlands.”
“Speak English, Latham. We’re not savages.”
See what I mean?
“Are there still Yaquis between us and Sabana?” Davenport went on.
“Probably.”
“And bandits?”
“Possibly, although I’d worry more about the Yaquis.”
“Can you get us around them?”
“Maybe. The Yaquis are the ones who know that country like the backs of their hands. They’re the ones who showed it to me. It’ll be a hit or miss thing, but if they’re nearby, they’ll probably find us.”
I could tell my reply bothered the old man. He wanted assurances, not conjecture. “If we are found, can you deal with them?” he asked.
I thought about that for a moment, remembering Old Toad, who was the war leader of the Dead Horse clan, and the man who had tried to teach me the ways of the People, as the Yaquis referred to themselves, for the three years that I’d lived with them. Deciding there was no point in lying, I said, “If we’re caught, they’ll kill us.” I was looking Davenport straight in the eye when I said it, wanting him to understand the risks we’d all be taking venturing into that country. “Those they don’t kill outright, they’ll torture, and it’ll take us a long time to die.”
“Us?” He cocked a brow curiously. “All of us … even you?”
“Especially me,” I replied flatly.
Davenport was silent as he mulled over my response. After a moment he turned to Spence. “Take the Berkshire to the livery and cover it with a tarp to keep the chickens from crapping all over the seats. Tell Pedro that he’s to watch it like it’s his sister’s virginity, and that, if I find any evidence that it’s been tampered with, I’ll shoot him in the foot. Check the gas and oil, too, and let him know that if I come back and discover even a pint of either is missing, I’ll shoot him in both feet.”
“Aye, sir,” Spence said, heading for the door.
“And McKenzie …”
Spence stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Sir?”
“Be sure Pedro understands that I mean exactly what I say, all right?”
Spence hesitated, then nodded rigidly and ducked into the hall as if eager to escape.
When he was gone, Davenport returned his full attention to me. “Has Buchman filled you in on what we’re attempting to do?”
“Not much. He said your wife and kids were taken off a train by a bandit named Chito Soto, and that we’re going to slip into Sabana the back way to deliver the ransom.”
Davenport graced Del with a questioning glance.
“I figured it best if he didn’t know too much till I got him down here,” Del explained.
“For once, I agree with you.” Davenport motioned me to a table set against the wall under the room’s single window. A large map of the Mexican state of Sonora was spread out across it, weighed down by a German Mauser pistol on one side and a bottle of Old Overholt whiskey on the other. A brass compass sat in the middle, directly atop the town of Sabana.
“Since you know this region so well, tell me how we’re to reach our destination without becoming fodder for bandits or Indians,” Davenport said.
I studied the map’s crude contours, its squiggly lines that represented the steep-walled barrancas that could take days to find your way through, and the inverted Vs that were supposed to be its mountain ranges. Then I laughed. “You’d need a better map than this for me to trace you a path.”
The old man’s face reddened. “Nevertheless, this is the only map available to us at the moment. If you’d like to fill in the blanks, feel free to do so.”
I ran a finger down the map in a serpentine path. “Right through here, more or less. It’s five days in the saddle if we push it, which we’d damned well better if what Buchman said about them threatening to carve up your wife and kids is true.” I glanced at the older man, wondering if he knew how serious his wife’s position was, how much danger his children were in. “Knowing that part of the country, I’d say the odds are good that it is. Do you have a contact yet?”
“I sent a man to Tres Pinos by rail last week to see what he could learn of the situation. I was hoping to bring the negotiations closer to Arizona. Three days later I received a wooden box in the mail containing the man’s head. It was packed in sand, and had a bullet hole behind his right ear.”
I swore softly. “Then, yeah, they mean what they say.” After a pause, I asked, “You’ve got connections down here, why haven’t you gone through them?”
Davenport considered my question for a moment, then nodded toward the next room. I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet that all of those rooms along the north wall were joined by interconnecting doorways. Davenport was renting the whole side, and had the interior doors thrown open to create a cross breeze.
We went into the room next door, where a dark-skinned man sitting in a rocking chair was covering both doors with a sawed-off, pump-action shotgun. Although dressed in the traditional garb of a vaquero—dark trousers split up the side to show off his calzoncillos, or ankle-length cotton drawers, a gray linen shirt I suspect had once been white, and a dark, short-waisted jacket—he looked more Indian than Spanish to me. A sweat-stained sombrero rested on the floor beside him, and he was armed, in addition to the shotgun, with a large-frame revolver holstered at his waist. He studied me closely as I entered the room, his eyes lingering for a moment on the manacles, then shifting back to Davenport as if awaiting instructions. I’ll say this for him, at least he didn’t jump to his feet to kowtow before the big man like Del seemed to be doing.
Davenport, for his part, ignored the stocky Indio as he led me to a stack of unpainted wooden crates. My eyes widened when I read the lettering stenciled across the three largest boxes: M1895 Colt-Browning machine gun. Stacked beside them were another twelve crates, smaller but heavier, reading: .30 Government. Suddenly the old man’s desire to take the back way into Sabana made perfect sense.
“This,” Davenport said heavily, “is the ransom Chito Soto has demanded of me, and which was in my power to deliver. I believe you can understand now why using the railroad is out of the question. I’m told that news of these guns is already spreading across Sonora, and that is another reason haste is so imperative. We have to get these guns to Sabana before Porfirio Díaz’s Federales learn of our whereabouts, and ride to intercept us.” He swung around to face me, pegging me solidly with those hard, blue eyes. “So I’ll ask you once more, Latham. Can you get us there … in time?”