I’m glad your machine is still working. The electricity doesn’t go out around here very often, but with the wind as bad as it is, I wouldn’t be surprised at it happening again.
I don’t recall where I was when the lights went out, but I know where I want to start now. The next day, there in Moralos.
Buchman had again refused to remove my cuffs that morning, so I was forced to labor alongside Spence, Luis, and Carlos with my wrists still fettered. Looking back on it, I suspect Del’s bullheadedness over my manacles had more to do with his animosity toward Davenport than it did with anything I’d done—that little incident with Selma Metzler’s derringer notwithstanding. Still, it was a growing vexation and a hell of an inconvenience, and it was starting to make me mad. Not to mention those bracelets were beginning to chafe.
The first thing we did was sort through all the gear Ed Davenport had brought with him from Tucson. Besides the three machine guns and a dozen cases of .30-40 Krag ammunition, he had a pretty extensive collection of camping gear, including a small tent, a half case of wine, good crystal, and a folding canvas chair like those Hollywood directors like to use.
The more crap we unpacked, the more worried I became. I could tell Spence and Luis were feeling the same way. I couldn’t say what Carlos Perez was thinking; in all the time we spent together, I never was able to read that little half-breed bastard.
Pausing at one point to wipe the sweat from my brows, I pointed out that it would take a dozen mules to haul all the stuff Davenport wanted to take along.
“At least,” Spence agreed solemnly. “But we couldn’t do it, even if we had the animals. Not with the kind of ridin’ we’ll be doin’.” He glanced at me. “One of us is goin’ to have to tell the old man he’ll have to do without some of his fineries.”
“You mean me?”
Spence shrugged. “He’d never admit it, but he knows he can’t make it without ye, lad. Me? He could cut my pin and not be hampered in the least.”
I scratched thoughtfully at my stubbled jaw. “If Felix Perez doesn’t get back soon with some extra stock, it won’t matter what Davenport wants. It’s going to take at least three mules just to carry those potato diggers and all that ammunition.”
In the end we separated the gear into piles based on order of necessity, and how many mules Felix came back with. One small stack contained just enough blankets and foodstuff to get us to Sabana if he didn’t return at all, which Spence was beginning to believe was a possibility. We added a little more to each succeeding pile, but tossed the tent, chair, and crystal out of sight behind the Berkshire. I don’t know what became of the wine.
We finished around midafternoon, and, leaving Pedro to watch over the gear with a fresh promise of another bullet in his foot if he failed to keep pilfering fingers away from Davenport’s gear—I imagine Pedro was real happy to see us ride out when we finally got under way—we trooped over to Archuleta’s for some shade and mescal. We were still there, lounging tiredly around a single table and not saying much, when a youngster’s cry from outside announced the arrival of a horseman.
“Felix,” Carlos declared with unmistakable relief, nearly tipping over his chair in his haste to reach the door.
After downing our drinks, Spence, Luis, and I followed him outside. Carlos was heading for the livery, his short, thick legs really eating up the ground.
“No mules,” Luis observed quietly.
“Aye, and just as well,” Spence replied. “Now the old man’ll have to cut his supplies to the bone.”
Inside the livery we found Felix unsaddling a short-coupled pinto, jabbering happily with his cousin in a language I didn’t recognize. One of the smaller tribes to the south, was my guess. It sure wasn’t Yaqui, which I spoke moderately well, or Mojave or one of the Western Apache dialects I was familiar with.
Felix Perez shared the same dark, stocky build as his cousin, although he was quite a bit younger than Carlos. They were dressed similarly, too, the major difference being that Felix was wearing a sombrero made of straw, instead of felt, one of those wide-brimmed monstrosities they coated with cactus juice or goat piss or whatever it was that made them just about indestructible.
Hearing me talk, you might be asking, Why all this animosity toward the Perezes? Well, I’m going to tell you. The reason I noticed Felix’s sombrero was because of the goggles he had fastened around the crown like a hatband. There was a long leather coat tied behind his saddle, and extra rifle in a scabbard hanging off the horn. The scabbard was elaborately carved and dyed in shades of red and green and golden browns, and my vision narrowed when I saw it, and there was a roaring in my ears like a distant freight train barreling through the night.
“Easy, lad,” Spence cautioned out of the side of his mouth. “We don’t know how he came about obtainin’ ’em.”
“Let’s go find out.”
The two Indios must have sensed my mood, for they both backed away from the pinto when I drew near. Carlos’ hand dropped to his revolver, while Felix gently fingered the mesquite grips of a belduque, carried in a sheath on his cartridge belt. Carlos spoke first.
“You have a problem, señor?”
“Where’d your cousin get those goggles?”
“Goggles?”
I motioned toward the pair clinging to Felix’s sombrero. “The glasses, and the coat and rifle, too.”
Carlos smiled expansively. “I think he bought them.” He glanced at his cousin, speaking rapidly in Indian. Felix replied, and Carlos nodded solemnly. “Sí, he bought them in Nogales. One hundred pesos for the … what you call them … goggles? And the rifle and coat.”
At my side, Spence sighed heavily. I was staring hard at Felix, my pulse thundering. “Do you speak Spanish, chico?”
Felix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Sí, I speak the language of the invaders.”
“Then you know what I mean when I call you a liar?”
The Indian’s fingers crept around the scales of his knife. “I think you would be wise to take back those words, gringo.”
“Did you kill him?”
He hesitated for only a moment, but it was long enough for me to read the truth in his eyes. Of course he’d killed him. Probably today, coming across the tall rider on the Wagner motorcycle, alone in the desert and likely unaware that anyone was around. But Felix denied it. I figured he would.
“I bought these items you accuse me of stealing. To say differently is to risk your life.” His gaze dropped to my manacled wrists, and a smile slid across his face.
“Give me your knife, Luis,” I said.
“I don’t know, my friend. I think maybe the odds are too much against you with those cuffs on your wrists.”
“Vega’s right, lad,” Spencer hissed. “’Tis no the time to fight, not hobbled like ye be.”
“I think perhaps your friends are right,” Carlos added. “My cousin, he is ver’ good with the blade. Ver’ good.”
Felix slid the belduque from its sheath. It was a simple fighting knife of an old Mexican style, long and slim and wickedly sharp. He turned it razor’s edge up and leaned forward in a slight crouch. Grinning, I went to meet him.
“Damn it, Latham, ye bloody, pig-headed fool!” Spence roared at my back.
I circled slowly to the left in the wide aisle of the livery. Felix countered likewise, and the others moved out of our way. The Indio’s knife weaved hypnotically between us. “If you wish to die, gringo, I can easily assist you.”
I held my manacled wrists chest high in front of me, spread as wide as the twelve inches of chain would allow. Although aware of the knife, I was focusing on Felix’s dark, brooding eyes, counting on reading his decision perhaps a tenth of a second before he could act upon it. That’s not much time, but, in a situation like that, it could well mean the difference between a fatal cut and a near miss.
Right about now you’re probably thinking that I’m either a damned fool or an outright liar, and I can’t say that I blame you. But you’ve got to understand that things were different back then, and a man didn’t just turn away from what he believed in, or what he thought was right. Not out there on the woolly frontier, where indecisiveness and timidity could get you killed quicker than an Apache’s bullet. The world is full of top dogs and toadies, but the space in between is pretty sparsely populated.
Felix feinted and I drew up defensively, skipping back a couple of paces. Chuckling, the Indio said, “If you wish to leave now, gringo, I will allow it. As long as you do so on your hands and knees, and after you beg a little. Not even ver’ much, the begging. Just enough to let Felix know you’ve learned your lesson.”
He was feeling mighty pleased with himself, so his eyes really bugged out in alarm when I charged, bringing my arms up and screaming a Yaqui oath. Instinct drove him backward, slamming him into a stable wall and rapping the back of his head against the top plank. His straw sombrero flipped over the top of the partition and landed in the manure on the other side.
I stopped at the last second, easily avoiding the clumsy swipe of his belduque. I laughed and backed away, feeling pretty good myself. “Put the knife down, chico,” I mocked, “and I’ll let you crawl out of here on your belly.”
Felix’s black eyes sparked like flint on steel. I eased to the side, waiting for him to make his move, never doubting that he would. Anger had taken over the stocky Indian’s mind, clouding out all other thoughts save for revenge, a need to erase his shame.
We began moving faster, although still in our familiar, crude circle, kicking up clouds of stable dust as we darted back and forth. Felix’s attack, when it finally came, didn’t surprise me. He brought the slim belduque forward in a quick, waist-high swipe that I readily parried. There was a clank of metal on metal as the blade tangled briefly with the steel links of chain connecting my cuffs, but he jerked the knife away before I could tighten the snarl. Dodging quickly, he lashed out with a rattler’s speed, and I sucked in my gut and batted his hand away.
His lips peeling back in a silent snarl, Felix darted to his right, then immediately came back to his left; he feigned twice, then lunged. I snapped my arms up to block the knife’s deadly arc, but was only partially successful. I felt the blade’s chill kiss just under the ribs on my left side, followed by a wet, creeping warmth. The younger man smiled and glanced at his cousin as if for approval. When he did, I hurtled toward him. A startled squawk erupted from the Indian’s throat as he gracelessly thrust the belduque at my midsection. I slapped it aside, then grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up and back, throwing my weight into him, tripping us both into the wooden planks of an empty stall.
Felix grunted loudly as my shoulder rammed his chest. His face went momentarily slack. I hooked a leg behind his knee and fell, coiling to the side as I pulled him down with me. His knife wobbled in his hand and his eyes bulged as he sucked desperately for air. I leaned hard on his wrist, bending it back a lot farther than I thought it could go before he finally dropped the blade.
With my own wrists shackled, I was unable to prevent Felix from snaking his free hand around my neck and grasping my jaw, trying to unscrew my head from my shoulders. I uttered a strangled curse as he attempted to flip me off of him. Although able to resist his efforts, I was also stuck myself. I couldn’t let go of Felix’s right hand for fear he’d grab the belduque again; at the same time I couldn’t reach his other hand with mine in cuffs.
Finally, with the joints in my neck crackling like autumn leaves, I rolled in the direction Felix had been trying to toss me. The move caught him off guard, and he yelped in surprise as I threw myself astride him, my knees planted solidly in the dirt on either side of his torso. I still had both of my hands grappling with his right one, but at least his knife was now several feet away, out of easy reach.
I maintained my dominance for about ten seconds. Then a fist plunged into my side as if trying to burrow up under my ribs. I gasped in agony, my fingers involuntarily loosening. Heaving upward with his legs, Felix chucked me almost effortlessly over his head. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I scrabbled for the belduque and almost had it when I felt the Indian’s arms wrap around both my legs. Jerking one leg free, I stomped my heel into his cheek like I was packing dirt around a freshly set fence post. He howled and let go, and we both staggered to our feet, bleeding and gulping air.
Sweat was pouring off my face and my ankle throbbed where, at some point in our brawl, I’d driven the muzzle of Selma’s semi-auto toward the bone. Blood soaked both my side and my sleeve, where I discovered another deep cut, although the pain had yet to become debilitating.
Expecting to be rushed, I was a second behind when Felix whirled toward the pinto. I swore and raced after him. I knew what he had in mind, just as I knew Spence and Luis would be too far away and on the wrong side of the shaggy mustang to stop him.
Felix was trying to yank the motorcycle rider’s rifle free when I threw myself into his back. We both went down hard, practically under the pinto’s hoofs, but this time I’d gotten a solid hold, and was able to wrap my manacles around his neck. I was hauling back with everything I had to cut off his wind, but he was bucking and twisting like a catamount, while overhead the pinto was hopping and kicking and trying its best not to step on us. Not out of any consideration for human life, mind you, but because it didn’t want to plant a hoof into something mushy, like a human belly, and lose its footing.
With those flashing hoofs coming way too close for comfort, I began trying to wiggle clear of the panicking horse without giving up my hold on the Indian’s neck. As tight as I was hanging on, Felix was slowly squirming free. I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to stay on top when a bellow from the front of the livery blasted down the central aisle. Through the sweat and blood stinging my eyes, I saw Del Buchman storming toward us like an enraged bull.
Del grabbed my collar and dragged me backward, but I still had my chain around Felix’s neck, and brought him along.
“Let go, Latham!” Buchman hollered.
I grunted a reply, the top button of my shirt digging into my Adam’s apple. Had I more wind and the opportunity to use it, I would have explained to Del that I didn’t want to let go of Felix until I was sure the wiry little Indian wouldn’t make a dive for either his knife or the rifle. Then something hard and heavy slammed into my head, and my knees buckled.
“Goddamn it, let ’im go or I’ll bash your skull in, you bulheaded son of a bitch.”
Hot white sparks danced before my eyes, and my legs turned to soft rubber. Sensing his chance, Felix twisted free of my manacles and scrambled down the aisle toward the rifle, half canted precariously from its fancily carved scabbard. Before he could yank it free, Del spun me out of the way and palmed his own gun. He had the big Remington revolver leveled on the Indian’s head, the hammer rocked all the way back to full cock, and Felix froze with the rifle still hung up in its scabbard.
“You let go of that gun, or I’ll blow a hole through you big enough to push an anvil through,” Del growled.
Felix hesitated only a moment, then pushed the rifle back into its boot.
Me, I just stood there on the end of Buchman’s arm like the catch of the day, knees wobbling and my head feeling like it might explode if I blinked too hard. Del’s knuckles were digging into the back of my neck where he still gripped my collar, and in my skittery vision I spotted a wad of hair caught in the Remington’s ejector housing that I recognized as my own. That asshole had whacked me a good one.
Then Del shoved me against one of the stalls, and I quickly flopped both arms over the top as he backed away. Moving to the center of the aisle where he could keep an eye on both of us, he said, “What the hell’s going on in here?”
Del asked his question in English, and Felix and Carlos exchanged worried glances. I knew from my own experience that it was never a good sign when someone starts speaking angrily in a foreign language, as if they don’t give a hoot what your position is in the matter.
Luis explained to Del about the motorcycle rider who had pulled out late the day before, and about how Felix had shown up with the rider’s goggles, rifle, and coat. Luis was about halfway through his narrative when Del cut him off.
“What the hell’s that got to do with you, Latham?” he demanded.
I’d let go of the stall by then, but was still leaning against it. “There’s no way he could’ve bought those things in Nogales, like he claims,” I rasped. “That’s over a hundred miles from here.”
My reasoning didn’t cut a very wide swath with Del. “You dumb ox, you were hired as a guide, not a lawman. I don’t give a damn what happens anywhere except along the trail we’re following to Sabana, and you’d better not, either. And you!” He jabbed a finger at Felix like it was the muzzle of a gun. “You keep that knife of yours sheathed, or I’ll ram it …”
Well, I guess you’ve got a fair idea where Del threatened to shove Felix’s belduque. He included a similar threat to me, although more in relation to what he was going to do to my head, rather than my hind end. Returning the Remington to its holster, he squared his shoulders and glanced around at the others.
“You boys had better turn in early. Davenport saw this muchacho ride in without the mules, and has already assumed the worst. We’re pulling out at sunup.” Motioning to Felix, he added, “You come with me, champ. Mister Davenport wants to know why you couldn’t find one damned pack animal to bring back. You’d better have a good reason, too, or that ol’ boy is liable to pin your ears to the wall and leave you hanging there when we ride outta here in the morning.”