The Cost of Dying

The don knew next to nothing about where Prophet and Colter Farrow would find Ciaran Yeats and the hacendado’s kidnapped daughter, Alejandra de la Paz. According to the don, the way Yeats had avoided capture for the nearly twenty years he’d been on the run was to keep moving through Baja’s deserts and mountains, from the Sea of Cortez in the east to the Pacific Ocean in the west, a wild lobo by day, a ghost in the night.

All that he knew of Yeats’s current whereabouts had come by rumors from passing strangers—that he was holed up somewhere in east-central Baja, near a fishing village overlooking the sea. It was said that as Yeats had grown older, he’d grown weary of moving around so much and preferred now to remain in one place longer than he’d been known to do in the past.

“Drift south, amigos. South and east toward the salty sea breezes. Follow the rumors. Eventually, those rumors and whispers on the night wind whistling through the ghostly pueblitos of this ancient land will either lead you to Yeats, or . . .” The old don gave a baleful half smile and a shrug, opening his hands over the remains of his eggs, frijoles, and roasted goat loin drowned in hot cactus syrup spiced with chilis.

“To a lonely death in a deep barranca,” Prophet finished for him, wistfully, having come to know the sentiment of Old Mexico well enough not to deceive himself of his chances here.

“You two are right cheerful this morning,” Colter grunted over the rim of his steaming stone coffee mug.

Again, the don shrugged. “It is Méjico. Go with Madre María, my friend. Travel with the blessings of the ancient ones. I will light a candle for you . . . one for every day that you are gone, beating the rocks and arroyos for my beloved Alejandra. If anyone can bring her back to me and kill the devil who took her . . it is you.”

Prophet had glanced across the table to see Alejandra’s older sister burning holes through him with her eyes, silently reminding him of her admonition of the night before: “Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with her!”

* * *

So, drifting south and east, sniffing the air for the velvety, salty smell of the Sea of Cortez, Prophet and Colter rode, following one trail and then another, forsaking that trail for yet another for little more reason than the two partners’ instincts instructed them to.

After three days’ hard ride across mostly open desert rippling with small, isolated jogs of buttes and low mesas, they came to a pueblito spread out on a high, rocky plateau. It was late in the day, and the setting sun was a red blush in the western sky, between two towering mountain ridges. As they rode into the little village they passed a small wooden sign announcing the name of the place: LA BACHATA.

A dry wind blew, lifting dust and bits of moldy hay and goat dung and sweeping it up and over Prophet and Colter from behind and throwing it on down the broad main street of the adobe village laid out before them. The wind moaned and whistled softly between the small adobe structures standing back behind splintering boardwalks and brush ramadas from which the occasional clay water olla hung from a frayed rope.

A dog ran out from nowhere to bark and nip at Mean’s and Northwest’s hocks though Mean quickly discouraged the hound with a swift kick, which sent the mongrel squealing off through a break between a stock pen and a pepper shop.

At the far end of the darkling town, which smelled of goats and the spicy ristras hanging from viga poles, the two riders came to a large adobe brick structure, which a sign called LA PRINCESA. Out front a dozen or so horses were tied to three hitchracks.

Prophet drew rein. From inside the cantina came the low roar of conversation and the strumming of a mandolin. Weak lamplight shone beyond the sashed windows and the rotten chinking between the large adobe blocks comprising the stout, obviously ancient building. “We might hear a rumor or two here. What do you think, Red?”

“We might get a cuchillo in our backs in this place, too.” Colter swung down from his saddle, drew his Remington, and checked the loads. “On the other hand—no risk, no reward.” He spun the cylinder and returned the piece to the holster on his right hip but did not snap the keeper thong over the hammer.

“You’re wise for your years.” With a weary sigh, Prophet stepped down from Mean’s back. He walked the mount up to one of the three hitchracks, giving the colicky gelding some room from the others tied there, and looped the reins over the worn cottonwood rail. He grinned ironically at Colter tying his coyote dun beside Mean. “Just please never lose that angelic innocence of yours, will you, Red?”

Colter grinned back at him. “Never.”

Prophet looked at the big shotgun hanging by its lanyard from his saddle horn. He fingered his left earlobe, considering whether it would be a good idea to hang the gut-shedder from his shoulder. He might need it in such a place. This was Mexico, after all. On the other hand, the twelve-gauge could be as prone to attracting trouble as solving problems. It marked its owner as a bounty hunter, and more than one or two fellas in a place like this might have good cause to feel peevish around bounty hunters.

Lou gave a grunt, deciding to leave the Richards with his horse. Mean wouldn’t let anyone steal it or the Winchester ’73 jutting up from the scabbard on the saddle’s right side.

He and Colter mounted the wooden-floored ramada and stopped just outside the front door—a rickety-looking panel with a rudimentary handle—that was propped open to the fresh night air with a rock. The partners paused, glanced at each other. It was a narrow opening, offering room for only one to pass at a time.

“Go ahead,” Colter said, waving a gloved hand at the arched opening through which tobacco smoke wafted. “Age before beauty.”

“Ain’t you respectful of your elders, though?”

Prophet walked inside and paused to get the lay of the land. Colter walked in behind him and did likewise. Lou was surprised. He’d been expecting to find a smoky little hole with a crude plank bar upon which a couple of clay ollas sat and out of which some little Mexican not unlike One-Eye Acuna ladled sour-smelling tarantula juice spiced with strychnine and gunpowder.

This place was several rungs above old One-Eye’s bullet-pocked pulque stand. There was whitewash on the walls, an actual wood floor, and a most impressive bar running along the rear wall—a sturdy one of varnished mahogany sporting a leaded back bar mirror. There was even a brass footrail running along the bottom. Brass spittoons were placed here and there about the broad room. The tables were draped with heavy white cloths.

The clientele—a dozen men or more—were drinking out of heavy glass mugs or cut glass goblets. Some even drank out of long-stemmed wineglasses. A man dressed sort of like a Mexican bullfighter—in a puffy silk shirt, red silk necktie, and tight black pantalones elaborately embroidered in gold—stood on the second-floor balcony overlooking the main drinking hall. He was the one playing the mandolin. He was also singing softly—too softly for Prophet to make out what he was singing beyond gathering it was something typically sad and romantic most likely involving ill-fated love and bloody murder.

Typical Mexican fare.

The gent hustling drinks behind the bar was a well-attired middle-aged hombre sporting a very wide, green silk necktie, a green silk sash, and a broad curlicue mustache. His short, coal black hair was combed straight back from a severe widow’s peak, glistening with pomade. There were several serving girls clad in very little, and there were also putas working the tables, chatting and laughing with the clientele. They wore even less than the serving girls. In fact, a couple were wearing nothing above the waist except a few strings of pearls or colored beads.

Prophet smiled. Now, this was a watering hole!

He glanced at Colter. The redhead seemed to share Prophet’s assessment. He was smiling also.

Prophet clacked his boots together to rid them of any goat dung they might have picked up on the street and then strode into the room, weaving around occupied tables at which various hombres were drinking and palavering and/or playing cards or rolling dice. At one, two men dressed as campesinos in white cotton trousers and tunics, with rope-soled sandals on their dirty feet, were playing a traditional Mexican bone game, betting prerolled cigarettes.

The clientele was composed of men from several different societal rungs—from businessmen to campesinos, or peasant farmers—and it was only when Prophet was three quarters of the way toward the vacant table he was heading for, near a square-hewn ceiling support post from which several ristras hung, that he saw a table near the front crowded with men clad in the dove gray uniforms of the Mexican rural police force, or rurales, as they were known.

His gut tightened slightly and he looked away quickly. He’d had run-ins with the rurales before, most of whom were actually just banditos in uniform. In fact, some were shrewder and deadlier than your average bandito, using their governmental power for personal gain.

Besides, technically, Prophet and Colter were in the country illegally. You couldn’t just slip back and forth across the border at will; you were supposed to have written permission from the Mexican government. Hardly anyone ever sought out such permission, but the laws were on the books and the rurales would enforce them according to whatever state of grace they were in and how much money they thought you might be carrying.

As he reached the table he’d been heading for, Prophet glanced at his trail partner. Colter returned the look with a direct one of his own, telling Prophet he’d seen them, too.

Their table was near the wall on the room’s right side. Prophet would have preferred having his back right up against the wall, but the table beyond his was occupied, as were most of them against the wall. Oh well, after nearly fifteen years of bounty hunting, he’d grown eyes in the back of his head. They’d have to suffice.

He and Colter had no sooner kicked out chairs and slacked into them than two pretty young putas appeared out of nowhere to drop into their laps, laughing and kicking their feet, which were bare beneath the short, colorful Mexican dresses they wore.

“There you are,” said the little coquette who’d dropped, light as a feathery little angel, into Lou’s lap to wrap her arms around his neck and brush her pert brown nose against his. “We’ve been waiting all evening for you two! Americanos, no? We’re so glad to have you here. Now the party can really begin!”

Prophet laughed. “Darlin’, I’d swear you don’t know me from Adam’s off ox!”

He doubted she’d understood the reference, but she laughed just the same. So did her friend writhing around on Colter’s lap. She was a little plumper but even prettier than Lou’s new friend. Colter’s puta frowned at his cheek and placed her index finger on the S that so tragically marred it. “Oh no!” she cried, as though the assault had just occurred. “What a rotten thing to have happened to you, mi amor! Does it hurt terribly?”

Colter glanced at Lou, grinning. He laughed and turned back to the flirty little puta and said, “It did until just now.”

“See why these two right here are the second reason I come to Mexico, Red?” Prophet called across the table.

“These two right here are the first reason I come to Mexico, Proph!”

The girl on Prophet’s lap was wasting no time. She was well trained. “What do you say we get a bottle of the good stuff and go upstairs—eh, amigo?” She brushed her nose against his again, then pulled her head back, smiling, showing that one of her front teeth was chipped. “I can take all the soreness out of your tired bones, amigo. I can make you feel very, very good! Huh? What do you say?”

Colter’s puta appeared to be proposing a similar endeavor. Colter looked over at Prophet, one brow arched in question. They’d been on the trail a long time and, unlike Lou, the young redhead hadn’t had his ashes hauled.

Prophet turned his head to look behind him at the rurales. None was looking his and Colter’s way. They were playing poker. One appeared vaguely familiar to Prophet’s eyes, but it was hard to tell, as their table was partly in shadow and badly obscured by a thick cloud of tobacco smoke webbing over it, in the weak yellow light of a low-hanging lamp.

It might be just as well the two trail partners depart to the whores’ cribs. Besides, in the privacy of the girls’ rooms, they might learn something about the man they were hunting, who had no doubt passed through this oasis in the desert mountains from time to time.

Hell, who wouldn’t?

Of course, there were other reasons to vacate the premises with the pretty doxies, but for the time being, Lou preferred to keep his mind on business.

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Prophet said, laughing and climbing to his feet with the half-naked girl in his arms.