Chapter Eighteen
“Strip him, compadres. I want his shirt, pants, and hat.” Álvaro Castillo smiled at Patrick O’Brien. “I hope this will not be an inconvenience. You can get your clothes back later if you don’t mind taking them from a dead man who’s already beginning to stink.”
The Mexican rounded on his men, scowling. “Hey, I made a good joke.”
He was rewarded by laughter and if it sounded forced he seemed not to notice.
Patrick’s arms and feet were untied and rough hands removed his shirt and pants. “Damn you, Castillo,” he said, his eyeglasses askew on his face, “what the hell are you doing with my duds?”
“I will make another good joke,” the bandit said. “But since you are no longer my friend, I will not tell you what it is.” He turned to his expectant men. “Dress the pig Santiago in the gringo’s clothes. Hurry now. And then make me a cross of wood”—Castillo’s fingers moved hurriedly over his chest—“the kind they have in church.”
“What are you going to do with me?” Patrick asked.
The Mexican pretended to ponder that question, then said, “Are you Álvaro’s friend again? You will tell me true.”
Patrick realized the man was steeping along the ragged edge of outright insanity. He smiled. “Yes, you are my friend.”
“Then we are amigos again?”
“Yes, we’re amigos.”
“Then I will tell you this. I am not going to kill you, at least not yet.” Castillo jabbed a forefinger at Patrick. “You are what the gamblers call my ace in the hole. If what I plan fails, then I will use you as barter. Maybe, if you’re still alive by then.”
He leaned back and slapped his ample belly with both hands. “See, friend helps friend. That is the way of the bandit.” His face became solemn. “Now I must tie you up again, and that makes Álvaro ver’ sad.” He spread his arms. “But what else can I do, amigo? You might try to run away.”
“I give you my word I won’t try to escape,” Patrick said.
The Mexican looked pained. “Unfortunately, mi amigo, the word of a gringo is as worthless as a needle without an eye. I’m sorry, but you must be bound and you must stay that way.”
As Castillo’s men retied Patrick to the tree, the bandit walked away and said over his shoulder, “Perhaps you will be free soon, amigo, and Álvaro will be a rich man. That night we will all celebrate with mescal.”
Samuel O’Brien found his brother Jacob shoeing a horse at the blacksmith’s forge. He looked around and said, “He’s not here either.”
“Who’s not here?” Jacob asked.
“Patrick. He didn’t come down for breakfast and he’s not in his room.”
“Is his butterfly net gone?”
“I don’t know. I’ll go take a look and then come back. Where is Shawn?”
“He’s out on the range. We won’t see him until tomorrow. Go check on the butterfly net, Sam, while I finish this last shoe.”
Samuel left and returned quickly. “It’s gone and so is the pack he wears.”
Jacob let down the horse’s leg and straightened. “We told him to stay close, damn it.”
“His gun is still in the rack.”
Jacob sighed. “Then we’d better go look for him. Saddle a horse, Sam. I’ll ride this paint.”
They hadn’t reached the forge door when Lorena pushed inside, her face ashen. “Samuel, Jacob, you’d better come quick.”
“Lorena, what’s happened? Is it Patrick?”
“Come outside. Look at the mesa. Oh, dear lord, look at the mesa.”
Jacob brushed past Samuel and sprinted outside. He looked toward the mesa and whispered, “Oh, my God.”
Beside him Lorena sobbed and Samuel’s face was stricken.
The dead body of Juan Santiago, wearing Patrick’s clothes, hung on a rough cross made from pine trunks lashed together. Another rope was looped around the corpse’s forehead, hidden by Patrick’s hat. Every so often a man hidden in the brush near the edge of the mesa pulled on the end of the rope as though the body was raising its head in spasms of pain.
Before Castillo left the man he grinned and said, “Not too often, Pablo, and only when you see the gringos at the big house look up. Then just once or twice. We don’t want them to see that the crucified man is not the butterfly gringo. Understand?”
“Si, patron.”
“Manuel Vargas will ride out with a pack horse to greet the Americanos at the house,” Castillo said. “And when he returns he will be loaded down with much gold and silver.”
“Then we ride away from here, Álvaro,” Pablo said. “Is that not so?”
“Pah, what nonsense you speak, Pablo. The gold and silver is only the beginning. Soon I will sit in the big house and look out on my fat cattle and green land. Álvaro Castillo, the spawn of peasants, will live like a king. What do you think of that?”
“It is good for you, Álvaro, but I sense danger here.” Pablo shook his head. “Much danger.”
The bandit leader was silent for a moment as black flies droned around Santiago’s bloody head and insects made their small music in the brush. “Tell me of this danger, Pablo.” Castillo had the peon’s superstitious respect for those gifted with the second sight. Pablo’s mother was a famous witch. She had white, blind eyes but she saw much in dreams and Pablo dreamed, too.
“I can tell you little, Álvaro. But in a dream I saw a man who walks in darkness and he prayed in a church of holy St. Peter. I was much afraid and when I drew closer I asked him his name and he said, ‘Death.’ Aye, it was a terrible dream.”
“Where is this man?”
Pablo pointed. “Down there in the great house. The one who killed Eustacio.”
For a moment, Castillo was troubled. Then he smiled and said, “Pah. He can die like any other man.”
Pablo nodded. “Perhaps he can. I do not know.”
“You are an old woman, Pablo.”
“I see what I see.”
“Then keep watch and when you see the gringos come out of the house, do what I told you.”
“Sí, patrón.”
Castillo was silent for a few more moments, then said, “I dream of gold, not death.”
“It is good to dream of gold.”
“And silver. I dream of silver.”
“That too is good.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.” Castillo turned and walked away
Behind him, Pablo took a small cross from around his neck, kissed it, and put it away again.
“I can’t tell you to wait until Shawn and the vaqueros get here,” Lorena said. “So I don’t know what to tell you.”
“We can handle it,” Samuel O’Brien said.
“No, you can’t. You’re just two men against twenty.”
“We can’t let Patrick die.”
“I know that. I don’t know what to do or say.”
“There’s nothing you can say, Lorena,” Jacob said. “We’ve got it to do, Sam and me. There’s nobody else.”
“The servants . . .”
“They’re not fighters, Lorena,” Samuel said.
The woman bowed her head, tears falling to the ground at her feet.
“All right. Let’s get it done, Jake.” Samuel gathered up his horse’s reins.
Jacob said nothing, his eyes fixed on the rider who had just emerged from the shimmering heat haze. The man was astride a mustang and he led another, pannier baskets hanging at its sides.
Sam followed Jacob’s eyes and said, “A parley, do you think?”
“A demand more like,” Jacob said.
Lorena shielded her eyes from the sun. “There’s only one.”
“Do we listen to what he has to say?” Samuel asked.
“We listen,” Jacob said. “For a while at least.”
The rider was a plump, jolly looking man with quick, intelligent black eyes. The brass cartridges in the belts that crossed his chest gleamed in the sun. “Greeting, mis amigos.” He removed his sombrero and fanned his face. “It is real hot today, is it not?” He smiled, showing the gold in his teeth. “Too hot for the man on top of the mesa. He may die soon, I think.”
“What do you want?” Samuel said. “State your case, then beat it.”
“Ah, my patrón Álvaro Castillo, has a . . . how do you say . . . proposition for you.”
“What’s he offering?”
“That’s easy, señor. You will fill the baskets on my packhorse with gold and silver. Coins would be excellent, but gold and silver vessels and plate from your fine home will also be welcome, for we are very poor men.”
“And if we do, what then?”
“Then? Why, we will cut down your . . . brother, is he not? . . . and restore him to you in good health and fine spirits.” The Mexican glanced at the washed-out blue sky and replaced his hat. “It is too hot to talk anymore. Let us get our business done and I will be gone from here.”
Jacob’s gaze moved to the crest of the mesa where Patrick hung on the cross. His brother’s head moved now and again, so he was still alive.
Samuel crossed his arms. “We don’t pay extortion money or ransoms. So be on your way.”
The Mexican looked less jolly. “You will let your brother die?”
“We’ll do what we have to do,” Samuel said. “Now you git while you can still breathe.”
“Álvaro won’t like this, señores. He won’t like this at all. It could be very bad for the man on the cross.”
“I told you to git. I won’t tell you again.”
The Mexican leaned from his horse and spat into the dirt. “Filthy pig gringos. You have refused Álvaro’s generous offer and now your brother is a dead man.”
“And so are you,” Jacob said.
The man’s black eyes swung on Jacob. “I came under a flag of truce. You cannot shoot me.”
“I don’t see a flag.” Jacob drew and fired three times, the shots sounding like one. The bullets punched an ace of clubs dead center in the Mexican’s chest and the man was dead when he hit the ground.
“Well,” Samuel said, “that pretty much rips it.”
Jacob nodded. “I know. But Dromore will not be held hostage and threatened by brigands. Now let’s go save Patrick.”