GASTON BACHELARD AND his companions splashed across the foot-deep Rio Rincon and climbed the brushy grade that rose beyond it.
Bachelard halted his horse and surveyed the flat, brushy desert ahead. It rose gradually to the gray-and-blue peaks jutting beyond like enormous thunderheads.
The Sierra Madre, mother of mountain ranges—a hard, rugged-looking range, with deep-blue shadows around its base. But once you got within its foothills and smelled the grass and wildflowers and pines, saw the herds of elk and deer, the briskly flowing rivers, you felt as though you’d died and been generously rewarded for your travails.
“My lovely Juanita,” Bachelard said to the girl riding behind his saddle, “I give you the mountains.” He gestured broadly with his hand and grinned back at her.
The girl said nothing. She did not lift her eyes. She was exhausted, sunburned, sore, and so dirty that her features were barely distinguishable. So fearful was she of the nightmare her life had become, that she had withdrawn, making her mind as blank as the sky on a cloudy night.
“When we have our power and money, we will have a stone castle in the mountains,” Bachelard said, returning his gaze to the majestic peaks rising above the desert. “We’ll fish and swim in the rivers and take long rides through the canyons. You will love it, Juanita. I promise you that.”
“I think the cat’s got her tongue,” Jim Bob McGuffy quipped dryly, and spit a stream of tobacco juice on a flat rock.
“Shut up, Corporal!” Bachelard cowed him. He looked at the two Mexican riders. “You and Rubio ride ahead. We’re close to Sonoita, so we’ll be seeing Montana’s outriders soon. Make sure the fools don’t shoot us.”
“Sí, jefe,” Jesus said. The Mexicans spurred their mounts off across the plain, kicking up dust as they rode.
An hour later Bachelard, the girl, and McGuffy had ridden another five miles toward the mountains, tracing the curving course of a dry creekbed. The two Mexicans Bachelard had sent ahead appeared on their left, galloping back toward them.
In the distance several other riders could be seen looking in Bachelard’s direction. Bachelard could barely make out the round brims and pointed peaks of their sombreros and the barrels of their rifles jutting above their heads.
“All is well,” Jesus said as he and Rubio approached, then fell in behind McGuffy, riding single file.
Following the dry riverbed, the party soon raised the little village of Sonoita out of the rocky buttes and rimrocks. The squeals of pigs and clucks of chickens could be heard, and the angry Spanish of a farmer complaining to a woman who apparently thought he was asking too much for the watermelon he was trying to sell out of the back of a two-wheeled cart.
When the man saw Bachelard, he immediately ceased arguing and stiffened like a soldier coming to attention. The woman followed the man’s gaze and, seeing Bachelard, fell silent as well. A fearful look entered her brown eyes.
Bachelard tipped his gray Confederate hat at the two and smiled mockingly.
He and the others followed the dusty road littered with hay carts, pigs, burros, and children, past adobe-and-thatch huts and up a hill. The hill was wooded with olive trees, dusty tamaracks, and oaks, and lit by hazy sunlight. Men in Mexican peasant garb and armed with rifles, pistols, and machetes strolled along the road, talking and smoking.
The road looped around a dry fountain on which a copper-colored rooster sat preening. Flanking the fountain was a sprawling adobe house with a red-tile roof. An elaborate wrought-iron gate led into the house’s patio, where potted orange trees blossomed and filled the air with the smell of citrus.
To the right of the house, beyond whitewashed sheds and barns, was a sprawling hay meadow where small brush huts and tents had been erected, and where milled the men—Mexicans and Texans—Bachelard and Miguel Montana had drafted into their armies.
This was the vast, elaborate rancho Bachelard and Montana had seized from a prominent Mexican rancher. From here they made forays throughout northern Sonora, wreaking havoc on wealthy landowners and their sympathizers.
Their goal was to wrest power from the conservative government and establish their own dictatorship, dividing up the land as they did and “returning” it to the peasants who worked it. They would charge the peasants a nominal fee in the form of a yearly tax for their hard work and the danger they’d endured during the revolution—a reasonable requirement, they were certain. Of course, they’d also expect the peons’ utmost loyalty and support. The landless hordes would certainly owe Bachelard and Montana that much!
Once Sonora was secure and their army was legions large, they’d retake Texas from the United States. Then they would declare northern Sonora and Texas a new and independent republic. Which of the two founding fathers would rule this new country—Bachelard or Montana—hadn’t yet been discussed. Neither had wanted to broach the subject, knowing it was a touchy one, one that could ignite a small civil war among themselves as well as their troops.
No, it was best to wait and see how things panned out …
“Buenos días, Señor Bachelard,” said one of the Mexican men guarding the house. He held Bachelard’s horse while the former Confederate dismounted and reached up to lift Juanita down.
“Buenos días, Sebastian. Is your fearless leader in?” When speaking of his compañero, Miguel Montana, Bachelard could not restrain from injecting a little sarcasm in his tone. He knew it was not good to parade his and Montana’s subtle rivalry before their men, but he couldn’t help himself. Bachelard was a self-educated man who read Shakespeare and the Greeks, whereas Miguel Montana was nothing but a bandito, a simple-minded bean-eater with a penchant for killing. But the peasants loved him. Bachelard knew he could not attain what he wanted to without him.
“Sí, el capitán. He is eating,” Sebastian said as he led Bachelard’s horse away. The other men had already ridden away to the stables.
As Bachelard crossed the flagstone patio—where the late hacendado who owned the place had no doubt taken his morning coffee with his family, and from where they could watch the peasants begin their morning labors in the fields—Bachelard noted a pig hanging from a viga pole jutting from the adobe wall of the house. Blood from the beast’s slit throat formed a large, waxy red puddle that had crept past the potted trees and under the wrought-iron fence.
Gently nudging Juanita ahead of him, Bachelard shook his head and grimaced with bemused disgust. Miguel Montana was not a civilized man. Sometimes living here with that slob made Bachelard’s blood boil with contempt.
Bachelard went through the heavy, carved door and found his compañero in the dining room, sitting at the end of the sprawling oak table that boasted more than a dozen highbacked chairs. Arched windows let in shafts of golden light, sharply contrasting with the shadows cast by the room’s heavy timbers and solid wooden furniture, ornately carved, that appeared several generations old.
“Ah, Gaston!” Montana bellowed when he looked up and saw his American partner enter through the arched doorway, nudging the girl ahead. “Buenos días, mi compañero!”
Montana tossed off the napkin he’d stuck inside his shirt, shoved his chair back, and got up, walking around the table to Bachelard, smiling grandly. His shiny black high-topped boots shone brightly, and his whipcord trousers with their fancy stitching swayed about his ankles. His silk blouse was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a mat of curly black hair.
“Yes, buenos días, Miguel, buenos días,” Bachelard said, always finding it difficult to muster up much enthusiasm for his partner.
The little man—Montana was only about five feet five inches tall, and slender as a rail—pumped the taller Bachelard’s hand with gusto and smiled up into Bachelard’s gray eyes.
“How have you been, amigo? Did you find it? Did you find the plat?”
“I certainly did,” Bachelard said.
“Have a seat—show me!” Montana intoned, stretching an arm to indicate the table. “I’ll have the señoritas bring you a plate of stew.
“Who’s this?” he asked Bachelard, gesturing at Juanita.
“Doña Juanita Martínez,” Bachelard said grandly, as if introducing the child at her coming-out party.
The girl stared ahead through the arched windows, at the green bushes moving faintly in the faded sunlight. Her filthy black hair hung down both sides of her face. Montana regarded the girl curiously, seeing nothing special about a dirty little peasant girl. He looked at Bachelard befuddled.
Bachelard said, “Have you seen anything so pure and innocent and lovely?”
“Well, I…”
“I don’t believe I have ever seen a treasure like this one here. When she looks at me I feel like I am twenty years younger, before the war…” Bachelard’s voice trailed off, and his thoughts drifted back to the bayous of his childhood and the skinny, dark-haired girl who had been the first love of his life. He looked at Montana. “She’s a little worse for wear, I admit, but once she’s cleaned up, you’ll see my future queen shine!”
“Yes…” Montana hedged, returning to his place at the table. “Come on, Gaston, have a seat.” He half turned to yell through another arched doorway, in Spanish. “Girls—come! Bring another plate. El Capitán Bachelard is back and he is very hungry from his long journey. Isobel, Habra!”
Bachelard helped Juanita into a chair so large she appeared lost in it. Then he took a seat between her and Miguel Montana.
Two girls appeared from the kitchen doorway. One carried a big stew pot; the other carried a basket of tortillas, a glass, and two plates. Bachelard glanced at them, turned to Montana, then quickly back to the girls, shocked to see they were both naked from the waist up.
Bachelard turned back to see Montana staring at him with a wistful smirk. “You like the uniforms I ordered for the girls, compañero?”
Bachelard looked again at the girls setting down the pots, dishing up the food, and pouring the wine. Judging from their faces and the firmness of their breasts, they were about sixteen or seventeen years old.
They did not look at Bachelard. They seemed in a trance, concentrating solely on what they were doing at the moment. Bachelard gave an exclamatory grunt. Then he laughed.
“What have you got going here, Miguel?” he asked, genuinely amused.
Chewing a mouthful of stew, Montana covered his mouth and snickered. “They were acting so damn uppity, these superior rich girls, that I decided to humble them a little, eh? Now, you would think that just being made to serve, when you have been served all your life by the poor peasants from the village, would be enough to cow them. But no! Still I caught them looking at me as though I were a lowly little peon bandit who had invaded their home and killed their parents and brothers just for fun. They do not realize that I—we, of course—are the next kings of Sonora.”
He shrugged his shoulders and brought his wineglass to his lips. “So I ordered them to disrobe. They’ve orders not to wear blouses again until I, their king, give them permission to do so.”
He took a large drink of wine, swirled it around in his mouth, and swallowed with a loud sucking noise. He smacked his lips and grinned at Bachelard, who had started laughing again as one of the girls refilled Montana’s wineglass.
Montana lurched forward and kissed one of her breasts. Ignoring him, she and the other girl drifted silently back to the kitchen.
Bachelard sat back in his chair, facing Montana and shaking his head with admiration. No, he did not care for this little greaser, but apparently he had not given Montana credit for a rather colorful imagination. Bachelard liked men with imagination. Montana had come up a notch or two in his estimation.
He laughed again, picked up his fork, and dug into his stew. After a moment he realized that Juanita was sitting before an empty plate.
Dropping his fork and picking up her plate, he exclaimed, “Ah, Juanita, you must eat! We have another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”
He scooped stew onto the girl’s plate, set a tortilla on it as well, and set the plate down before her vacant gaze. She gave no indication that she even saw the food before her.
Scowling, Bachelard picked up her right hand, shoved a fork in it, and waited until she slowly began eating, one small morsel at a time. He turned to Miguel, who had been watching the fiasco with cautious reserve, and shook his head as if to say, Kids.
“You were going to show me the plat,” Montana said, sliding his gaze from the nearly comatose girl to Bachelard.
Bachelard produced the rolled javelina-skin from the inside pocket of his gray coat and set it on the table, then picked up his fork and began shoveling stew into his mouth with hungry grunts. Montana untied the leather thong from the skin and, shoving his plate aside, unrolled it before him.
His brown eyes grew thoughtful as he studied the markings. He nodded, mumbling to himself.
“Does any of that mean anything to you?” Bachelard asked him after a while.
Montana nodded slowly. “Sí, I recognize some of these formations. And this here, this must be a village—San Cristóbal, it appears—and this must be the Rio Bavispe.”
He paused. His brows furrowed. He turned the plat toward Bachelard. “What is this?” he asked, pointing to several curlicues within curlicues, forming what looked like a crude turtle, on the bottom left corner of the plat.
“I thought you would know.”
Montana lifted his head. “Carlos!” he shouted.
When the guard who had taken Bachelard’s horse appeared a moment later, Montana said, “Bring Xavier Llamas to me at once!”
“At once—sí, el capitán!”
When at last a stoop-shouldered old man appeared, holding his hat and looking fearful, Montana beckoned him to his side and showed him the plat. “Tell me, Xavier, do you recognize any of the formations drawn on this map?” He pointed out the turtle. “Do you recognize this?”
The man set his straw hat on the table and shifted his head around to focus his aging eyes on the plat. Talking to himself, Adam’s apple working in his skinny, leathery neck, he ran a dirty, blunt index finger over the drawn lines forming caricatures of mountains, streams, canyons, and villages.
His finger halted at the large X drawn at the base of a butte with an arrow-shaped ridge, then continued on to the turtle.
He looked up at Montana with serious eyes. “Sí,” he said with a nod. “I have seen these things, los capitánes. I used to graze my goats not far away.”
“What is this?” Montana asked, pointing to the turtle.
The man shrugged as if it were not significant. “The turtle was carved into the rocks by the ancients. I know not what it means.”
“Have you seen the turtle anywhere else before?” Bachelard asked the man. “Anywhere but in the region where you grazed your goats?”
“No, el capitán.”
Bachelard shrugged at Montana. Montana shrugged back.
Bachelard asked the old man, “Xavier, can you take me to the X on the map?”
“It has been many years, and it is clear across the mountains, but I think I can find the way,” the old man said, nodding. He put his finger on the arrow-shaped peak. “I have seen this before. Below, there are ruins left by the ancients. The X is here by the old homes of the ancients.”
“How long will it take?”
Xavier shrugged noncommittally. “Two weeks. Maybe three. But…” The old man’s eyes acquired a haunted cast. “But this is where Apaches are, los capitánes.”
“We’ll need plenty of men,” Bachelard said to Montana.
Montana shrugged. “If you are sure the gold is there, my warrior companion, we will take all the men it takes to get it out. If it is as much gold as you say, we will soon have enough guns and ammunition to take all of Mexico, and all of your country as well!” Montana’s eyes were big and his chest heaved as his breaths became irregular.
Bachelard, too, was getting excited. Not only had the map been validated by the legends of the lost church he had heard in cantinas and brothels throughout Sonora, but now this old man concurred, with his recognition of the formations drawn on the map.
Bachelard threw down his napkin and stood slowly. To the old man he said, “Be ready to ride tomorrow at dawn, old one.”
“Sí, sí, el capitánes!” the old man intoned, nearly overcome with a newfound sense of his own importance. “Sí, sí. Tomorrow we ride at dawn!”