Chapter Fifteen
Patrick O’Brien was excited. He’d never before seen Leptotes Cassius, the very rare Tropical Striped Blue, in this part of the territory. He didn’t have one in his collection and he badly coveted the magnificent specimen.
His net poised, Patrick had followed the elusive butterfly from Dromore house to the thick brush at the base of Glorieta Mesa. As though it was aware of being hunted, the Blue would allow him to get tantalizingly close, then flutter away again, leading him deeper and deeper into rough country.
Samuel had warned him to stay close to the house and arm himself, but Patrick had ignored both orders. A vaquero had told him he’d seen a striped blue butterfly near the mesa and it was too golden an opportunity to pass up. He needed that Tropical Blue.
Just before sunup, he’d slipped out of the house with his net and a paper sack containing a roast beef sandwich and a bottle of Bass ale, planning to be gone the whole morning. With his quarry within reach, his entire concentration was fixed on the fluttering Blue, a stray from the south, maybe as far away as Old Mexico.
The butterfly led Patrick a merry chase. It allowed him to get tantalizingly close before flitting away again, outside the range of his net.
He was tired, thirsty, hot, and torn up by cactus, but the Blue was too much a prize to let out of his sight. He’d badly twisted his ankle on a rock and shortly afterword almost walked into a coiled rattler, noisily informing him that it resented his presence so close to the mesa.
The butterfly alighted on a yucca bloom and folded its wings. and Patrick took the opportunity to wipe off his steamed-up glasses.
He settled the round spectacles on his nose again, going from blur to focus—and looked into the cold, black eye of a leveled Colt.
“Buenos días, mi amigo,” Álvaro Castillo said, grinning. “It is a fine morning, is it not?”
Patrick dropped his hand to where his holstered revolver should’ve been and remembered it still hung on the gun rack in his room. It wouldn’t have done him much good anyway. Castillo had three men with him, scar-faced rascals who looked none too friendly.
“So, why do you have a net, amigo?” the Mexican said. “Are you catching little pigs, maybe?”
“Butterflies,” Patrick said.
Castillo’s eyes widened in amazement, then he flung words over his shoulder to his riders. “Aggara mariposas!”
This drew bellows of derisive laughter from the bandit’s men and Castillo himself laughed so hard he shed tears. “Aye, aye, aye, the men of Dromore are much to be feared,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “They spend their time catching butterflies.”
“Why don’t you ask Eustacio about that?” Patrick said.
Castillo’s face changed from a grin to a scowl. “Now you are not my friend. I was going to make you my friend again because you catch many butterflies, but now I will not.” He motioned with his gun. “What do you have in the pack on your back?”
“Just a paper sack with a sandwich and a bottle of beer.”
“And a gun, I think.”
“I don’t need a gun for butterflies.”
“Ah, let me see anyway,” Castillo said. “I’m a ver’ curious hombre.”
Patrick removed his pack and threw it on the ground.
Castillo swung off his horse and examined the pack. He found the paper sack and opened it. “Just as you say, beer and bread.” He bit into the sandwich and nodded. “Good for a hungry man.” Then he opened the beer and swallowed some, his throat working.
He wiped off his mouth, burped noisily, and said, “Ver’ good. I think I will make you my friend again because you carry such good beer.”
“I don’t want to be your friend,” Patrick said. “You’re a piece of trash, Castillo.”
“Ah, then you will be my enemy, I think.” He waved a hand to his men. “Take him!”
Patrick fought hard and even managed to land a crunching blow on one of the Mexicans’ noses, but he was thrown to the ground and kicked almost senseless. His arms were bound to his sides with ropes and a noose was looped around his neck.
Moments later, he was dragged behind a horse through the brush and timber country at the southern end of the mesa. The heat was intense. Torn by cactus and brush, his head was reeling from the beating he’d taken.
He felt a pang of regret that the Tropical Striped Blue was probably long gone. As the rope yanked cruelly at his neck, he was reminded that he faced a much bigger woe.
Two miles north of Barbero Canyon, Castillo swung east through a narrow arroyo that led into an open meadow where the rest of his men were camped.
Exhausted by an hour of dragging through some of the roughest country in the territory, Patrick collapsed onto the grass.
Castillo ignored him. He was suddenly faced with a mutiny and began yelling at his men. “I ordered a watch on the arroyo, yet we rode through unchallenged. Why were my orders not obeyed?”
Patrick lifted his buzzing head. He had been taught Spanish by the Dromore vaqueros and knew enough of the language to catch the drift of what was happening.
“Because you are not the boss anymore, Álvaro.” The tall, slim man wore his sombrero tipped back on his head, its leather string dangling under his chin. A black cheroot glowed between his white teeth and his hand was close to his holstered Colt.
“And why is this so, Juan?” Castillo said. “I made you my friend. You and me, we are the very best of amigos.”
As Patrick watched from his lowly viewpoint, men moved away from behind Juan and any possible line of fire.
“You were the death of Eustacio Vasquez, yet you let the gringos drive you away,” Juan said. “You are not fit to lead this band.”
“Is this what you all think?” Castillo said, spreading his arms wide. “All of you who have been my very good friends for years.”
His question was met with a sullen silence and one man spat in Castillo’s direction.
The bandit chief nodded. “I see, compadres. It is easy to tell that you don’t want me anymore. I am no longer your friend. I can see it in your eyes. After all I’ve done for you, after all the gold and silver I’ve given you, I see only hatred for poor Álvaro.”
He removed his sombrero and after running a trembling hand across his sweaty brow held it in front of him. “And who will be your new leader? Who will lead you and put money in your pockets and beautiful señoritas in your beds?”
“That would be me, Álvaro,” Juan said.
“You, Juan Santiago? A filthy pile of dog doo like you?”
Even through his cracked, dirty glasses, Patrick saw that Castillo had already drawn his gun, using his sombrero as a shield. He fired once through the top of the crown.
Stunned, Santiago staggered back a step and his hand dropped to his Colt, his handsome face suddenly haggard.
Still firing through his hat, Castillo shot three more times. Santiago stood up well to the first couple of rounds, even managing to clear leather, but he rode the third bullet into hell.
Taking his time, his hands remarkably steady again, Castillo punched out the spent rounds from his Colt and reloaded from his gun belt. He let the revolver hang at his side as he said, “Is there anyone else who will be the leader of this band? Who says Álvaro is no longer his friend.”
There were no takers.
“Good. Then you are all my friends again.” Castillo stared at his shot-up sombrero, shook his head, then stepped to Santiago’s body. “Pig!” Slamming kicks into the dead man’s ribs, then ripping the sombrero from Santiago’s body, the bandit leader examined it closely, then settled it on his own head.
He glanced at the dead man. “Take that carrion away from here and leave it for the coyotes.”
Several men rushed to do Castillo’s bidding.
Álvaro was the patrón again.
Lashed to the trunk of a cottonwood near a sluggish stream buzzing with mosquitoes, Patrick O’Brien watched Castillo’s men seek shade to doze through the hottest hours of the day. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his lips were cracked, thirst raging at him. To his northeast, El Barro Peaks were purple under a cloudless sky and he fancied that if he could reach out and touch them they’d be cool under his fingertips.
To his surprise there were several women in the camp. Two of them were old and slack-breasted, but the third was young and shapely. Her black hair tumbled down on her back in glossy waves and she moved like a panther.
Castillo talked to the young woman, then nodded in Patrick’s direction. The girl smiled and stepped to a smoking black cooking pot that hung over the fire.
Patrick wanted to keep looking at the girl, but to his surprise Santiago’s body was dragged back into the camp. Castillo kicked the corpse again and then he too found a spot under a piñon, lay on his back, and tipped his hat over his eyes.
Patrick was puzzled. Why did they retrieve Santiago’s body? Was it because Castillo wanted to kick it whenever he wanted? He’d no time to ponder the question because the girl, her hips swaying so her bright scarlet skirt swirled around her ankles, walked toward him, bearing a filled plate.
Patrick croaked, “Agua.”
“I can speak good English,” she said. “I was taught by the holy sisters at the mission of Santa Maria de Cervellione in the city of Cabo San Lucas.” She laid the plate beside Patrick and said, “I will bring you water.”
When the girl returned she poured water from a jug into a clay cup and held the cup to Patrick’s lips. The water was brackish, but it was cool and he drank deep.
“That is all for now,” the girl said, taking the cup from Patrick’s lips. “I will give you some more later. Now you must eat.”
“Can you untie my hands?” Patrick asked.
“No. I will feed you. It is tortillas and antelope stew. It is very good.”
“Did you cook it?”
“One of the older women did. The old ones know how to do such things.”
“What’s your name?”
“Modesta.”
“Pretty name.”
“The holy sisters gave it to me when I was brought to the mission. Santa Maria de Cervellione protects sailors from shipwreck. Did you know that?”
“I can’t say I did,”
“She’s a very powerful saint and sits very close to God. Now eat.”
Patrick wasn’t hungry but he managed to eat a spoonful of stew and few bites of tortilla.
Modesta pouted. “You did not eat much. You didn’t like it?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite.”
The girl settled Patrick’s eyeglasses more firmly on the bridge of his nose. “You are not Álvaro’s friend, and that is bad for you. It is a very bad thing to be his enemy.”
“What does he plan to do with me?”
Modesta shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Hold me for ransom, I guess,” Patrick said.
“Maybe so.”
“Dromore doesn’t pay ransoms.”
The girl’s beautiful black eyes saddened. “Then that is another bad thing for you, I think.”
“Modesta, everybody’s asleep. Cut these ropes.”
“That I cannot do,” the girl said, rising to her feet. “Álvaro would kill me. And you.”