Chapter 15

“I’m from up north, don’t ya know,” the don said, mimicking Prophet in nearly perfect English, including the big bounty hunter’s pronounced Southern accent. It was as though he were repeating the phrase not only to absorb it for himself but also to brush up on his English. “Lou Prophet.”

“How-de-do, Don.” Prophet stepped forward and extended his big, gloved right paw. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, though, uh . . . I sure wish it was under different circumstances. Poor ole Doña Aurora.”

“Sí, sí . . . poor ole Doña Aurora.” The don frowned, cutting his curious gaze from Prophet to Colter Farrow sitting in the carriage and then to his daughter. “How did . . . how did . . . ?”

“We met at One-Eye’s place,” Marisol said, now speaking in English out of respect for their gringo guests. “I stepped in for a drink of water and became acquainted with Señor Prophet and his friend”—she glanced at the redhead—“Colter Farrow.”

Colter smiled and dipped his chin at the don.

“Colter Farrow, Colter Farrow,” the don said, again speaking in near-perfect English, with only a hint of a Spanish accent. “Where have I heard that name befo . . .” He let his voice trail off as he studied the tattoo on the redhead’s cheek.

Colter flushed and glanced away.

“Anyway,” the don said, shaking his head as though to clear it of unnecessary thoughts and looking at the body of Juan Carlos still being held before him by the grunting vaqueros. “I don’t understand . . . what happened here . . . with Juan Carlos?”

“He must have learned somehow that I would be returning from Mexico City today,” Marisol said. “He was quite passionate. Him and a half dozen of his cutthroats ran down the coach. He must have wanted to kidnap me, the fool. They killed all the men when a wheel got stuck in a sand trap. One of the bullets punched through the carriage and killed Tía Aurora. I tried to make a run for it during the shooting. I thought I would hide and wait for dark, then try to slip out of that crazy man’s clutches. But he ran me down. He threatened to kill me. He said if he couldn’t have me, no one would. That’s when Lou appeared and shot the pendejo loco.”

She gazed beseechingly up at her father. “Por favor—you must understand. Lou had no choice but to kill Juan Carlos. It was him or me. The poor fool has obviously gone even crazier than he was before. To think that I would marry such a fool against your own forbiddance!”

The don nodded, smiling at Marisol. “Sí, sí . . . I know you would never do such a thing, mi amada hija.” (“My beloved daughter.”)

Prophet had a feeling the old man didn’t know the full story of Marisol’s and Juan Carlos’s forbidden relationship, that she’d only turned on the young man because he’d cheated on her and not because her father had forbidden her to see him. Prophet choked back a chuckle. The woman was obviously quite adept at manipulating her father, as she was any man. As beautiful and captivating as she was, it couldn’t be too hard.

Don de la Paz returned his attention to Juan Carlos. He looked at Prophet and then at the dead man hanging slack in his vaqueros’ arms. Miguel, who Prophet assumed was the don’s segundo, or foreman, walked up to the old man and said in a tone hushed with foreboding, “Patrón, do you know what this means? This man has killed the son of your blood enemy. The only child of Don Amador. Up to now, the fighting has stopped . . . more or less. But when Don Amador gets wind that . . .”

Miguel stopped, frowning at the old don, who had turned his head to stare off across the yard as though collecting his thoughts. The don was turned away from Prophet, but the bounty hunter thought the old man’s eyes were squeezed shut. The don’s shoulders shook. He lowered his chin nearly to his chest and drew a ragged breath.

“Papa?” Marisol asked him, tentatively. She glanced with concern at Miguel, who returned her look. She looked at Lou, who gave a noncommittal shrug.

Don Amador appeared to be sobbing. Why? Surely not over the death of Juan Carlos. He must be enduring another wave of grief for his sister.

But, no. Wait.

The old man lifted his chin and turned toward Prophet. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Not tears of sorrow, however. They were tears of laughter. He drew another, even more ragged breath and pointed at Prophet and then to the dead man still being held, suspended above the ground by the four straining vaqueros.

“The gringo,” he said through his breathless laughter, leaning on one crutch while raising his other arm to point at the bounty hunter, “he . . . he killed Juan Carlos! The norteamericano . . . ha-hah!—he comes down here . . . and . . . hah-hah-hah!—he shoots that no-good walking louse—hahhh!—of a misbegotten Amador through his black heart—the very thing I have wanted to do for the past twenty years! Ohhhh-ha-ha-ha-hah-hah-hah!”

He laughed almost violently, sort of wheezing and making choking sounds, leaning forward to slap his thigh. His left crutch slipped out from under his arm and Miguel quickly grabbed it, staring in shock at the old don, who was laughing so hysterically that he appeared on the verge of a stroke.

The old don’s laughter was infectious. Miguel looked at him, a smile building slowly on his mustached mouth until suddenly he was leaning back and throwing loud guffaws at the heavens. He, too, pointed at Prophet and then at Juan Carlos and laughed even louder. Then his men started laughing until they were having even more trouble than before keeping the heavy, dead burden of Juan Carlos above the ground.

Prophet glanced a little uneasily, self-consciously, at Señorita Marisol and was somewhat surprised to see that even she had broken out in laughter. She covered her mouth with one hand and looked at him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

That made Prophet feel even more self-conscious and truly bewildered, not entirely sure what everyone was laughing about. He looked over his shoulder at Colter, who appeared as taken aback by the scene as he himself was. Then Colter spread a smile of his own. The redhead chuckled and then he was laughing, too, albeit not with quite as much unrestrained vigor as the Mexicans, but laughing just the same.

Suddenly, the four men holding Juan Carlos let the body slip out of their weakening hands. The cadaver dropped to the ground with a hard thud, dust puffing up around it.

That stopped the laughter cold. Everyone looked down in shock at Juan Carlos staring up at them through half-closed lids, tongue sort of lolling against one corner of his mouth. He looked like a man so drunk he’d passed out with his eyes open.

Several seconds of absolute silence passed. Even the birds seemed to stop piping in the fruit trees.

Staring down at the body, Don de la Paz gave a snort. Then another, louder snort.

He threw his head back on his shoulders, laughing wildly once more.

The others snorted, as well, and then they all were once more rocking with ribald guffaws. They were all laughing so hard, even Colter now, that Prophet himself couldn’t help becoming infected. He gave a snort and then threw his own head back, bellowing laughter at the sky. Even as he laughed, he had the strange, unsettling feeling he was laughing at the prospect of his own funeral, but he went on laughing, anyway.

When they were finally all laughed out, and chuckled out, and had wiped the tears from their eyes, Miguel said to the don, a tone of wariness returning to his voice: “Patrón, the shit is really going to fly when Don Amador gets wind of his son’s demise.” That wasn’t what he said exactly; it was Prophet’s rough translation in terms he himself could best understand.

The don stared down at the dead man. The old hacendado also appeared a little rocked back on his heels again by the dark turn of events. “Sí, sí. Juan Carlos wasn’t much, but he was the old puma’s only child. Hmmm.” He fingered his chin whiskers as he continued staring down at the deceased.

The don wrapped his free arm around Miguel’s neck. “I tell you what we’ll do. You’ll do, rather, Miguel.”

“¿Qué?”

“I want you to throw a blanket around Juan Carlos and lay him out in a wagon . . .”

“¡Sí, sí, patrón!”

“And then you and a half-dozen men of your choosing drive Juan Carlos over to Hacienda del Amador. Wrap white cloths of truce to your rifles. Politely inform Don Amador of what happened—that Juan Carlos was caught trying to ravage my older daughter and swallowed a pill he couldn’t digest”—he chuckled devilishly then swiped his fist across his nose—“only, possibly not in those exact words!”

He chuckled again as he cut a glance at Prophet, who felt a dark worm of dread turn in his belly.

The don leaned close to Miguel to whisper in his segundo’s ear. While he talked, Miguel frowned and nodded, both men cutting several quick, meaningful glances at Prophet, who again felt that black worm writhe around in his gut.

“Okay, Miguel?” said the don, pulling his head back from the segundo and patting his shoulder. “Do you have all that? Everything should be fine. For whatever differences we have, Don Amador and myself, we are men of honor and mutual respect. He will see how Juan Carlos’s killing has been the result of a sad misunderstanding, one that has resulted in a tragic loss for each of us, and that there is no reason for further conflict.”

Looking a little like he’d swallowed rat poison, Miguel handed the don’s crutch back to him. The don slipped it under his arm. Miguel glanced at his men, who regarded him dubiously, warily, then sprang into action when the segundo ordered them to stop standing there like they were men of leisure and to pick up Juan Carlos and haul him over to the wagon barn.

“¡Vamos!” intoned Miguel, taking out his sudden case of biliousness on his men. “¡Vamos! You heard the don! ¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!”

Just then, the vaqueros who’d carried Tía Aurora into the casa came out. The don ordered two to unload his daughter’s and sister’s belongings from the carriage and to take them inside. He ordered the other two to take the carriage back to the wagon barn and to unhitch the team. He told them that at first light of the next day they were to take a wagon out and pick up the dead men from Marisol’s traveling party.

Colter had climbed down out of the carriage by now, and, as the don’s men hurried about their business, soon leaving only himself, Marisol, Prophet, Colter, and the mayordomo standing just outside the wrought iron gate to the courtyard, the don turned to his guests.

“It has been a sad day,” said the don. “I think we could all do with a few drinks and a hearty meal. Por favor, amigos—¡mi casa, tu casa!”

“Ah, that’s all right, don,” Prophet said, feeling as though it might be a good idea to make himself scarce sooner rather than later. “We don’t want to put you out, Colter an’ me. We’ll just be foggin’ the sagebrush.”

“Nonsense!” said the don. “I insist! You saved mi hija’s life.” He leaned over and pressed his lips to Marisol’s forehead. “The least I can do is stuff you full of good wine and food before you resume your journey. Besides . . .” The don lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I have something to discuss with you both. A most important matter, in fact.”

“Oh?” Lou said, suddenly curious despite his compulsion to light a shuck.

“Sí, sí—¡por favor!” The don jerked his chin to indicate the casa.

Prophet hesitated. Staying on here seemed like an even less favorable idea when he saw Marisol regarding her father with brows furled warily, suspiciously.

“¡Por favor!” the don said again, insisting.

Prophet looked at Colter. The redhead shrugged.

“All right,” Prophet said.

He and Colter followed Marisol into the courtyard, the don trudging along behind them on his crutches, like the grim reaper with a hitch in his gait.