I surfaced to the patter of rain against the canvas, the dim grey light of the old tent and lay there for a while, staring up at the ridge pole, relaxed and comfortable until I tried to stretch my arms and found that I could not.
For a moment, it was as if I was still asleep and dreaming, but I was very much awake as I realized when I kicked out frantically and discovered that I was bound hand and foot. I tried shouting, but after a while, the tent flap was pulled aside and Nachita ducked in. He crouched over me, his face grave.
‘Where is she?’ I demanded.
‘Gathering wood by the stream, señor.’ I tried to sit up and he shook his head. ‘You will not go to Mojada this morning. She will not have it.’
I tried to stay calm. ‘What time is it?’
‘A little before nine, señor.’
‘For God’s sake, Nachita, you must release me.’
There was no sense in pleading for he simply got up and went out again. There wasn’t much left to do after that except pull the blankets away, which was easily enough done for my hands were tied at the front, presumably because she had wanted to hurt me as little as possible.
I barged through the tent flap head-down, falling on my face. They had rigged up an old tarpaulin from the tent to a couple of poles, the fire underneath and rain ran off the edge in a steady stream. Beyond, a heavy mist rolled down from the peaks reducing visibility considerably.
I tried to sit up and Nachita turned from the fire and gave me a hand under my elbow, putting my back against the saddle. At the same moment Victoria appeared from the trees, a bundle of branches in her arms. She wore an old blanket coat and a straw sombrero against the rain.
‘What in the hell are you trying to prove?’ I demanded.
She dropped the branches on the ground, knelt down and started to feed the fire without replying.
‘You found your tongue again last night, or had you forgotten?’ I leaned forward. ‘Answer me, you bitch.’
Nachita’s hand caught me across the mouth. She moved as quickly, getting between us and pushing him away. Her speech was slow and careful, the voice a little remote. ‘Your friend dies this morning, this is certain.’
‘But not me, is that it?’
Nachita was on his feet, rifle ready. He was too late. Horses splashed through the stream, riders pouring out of the trees to surround the camp, at least thirty of them. I recognized two or three faces although Jurado was conspicuous by his absence and then the line parted and Tomas de la Plata rode through.
He was dressed as usual with the addition of a cavalry officer’s caped greatcoat open down the front, presumably so that he could get out his gun if needs be.
He stared down at me for a moment, a frown on his face, and then dismounted and squatted on his heels before me. ‘So, a reluctant suitor, Señor Keogh? This is not what I was told.’
‘She thinks I’ll stand by the priest and get my head blown off if she doesn’t keep me here,’ I told him.
‘Indeed.’ He glanced at Victoria, then Nachita and returned to me. ‘She could have a point. Gringos stick together, an undeniable fact of life.’
‘All right, so I don’t want to see the man die. He’s an American citizen remember? Kill him and there could well be a lot of political pressure to have something done about it.’
‘His own choice, not mine.’
‘Then set me free and I’ll persuade him otherwise.’
‘But I do not want you to.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Why should I? If he wishes to martyr himself, I’ll be happy to accommodate him.’
I still had to play my part, to react as he might reasonably expect the person I was supposed to be to react. ‘But why? What can there possibly be in it for you?’
He waved a hand in a gesture that sent everyone back a few yards, then leaned towards me. ‘Have you ever considered that when Christ rode into Jerusalem, the authorities were compelled to act as they did? Had no choice? You see, it was impossible for them to exist side by side. A contradiction in terms.’
All this, he delivered in tones of the utmost seriousness and with a perfectly grave face. I had felt from the first there was a streak of madness in the man. Now I was certain of it.
‘An interesting parallel,’ I said.
‘Remarkably exact. How could a man like me exist in Father van Horne’s world or he in mine? I would have no reality and that would be impossible, for I truly do exist as all men know, which means this priest of yours should already be dead.’
I did not need that twisted logic to confirm me in the impression of a man who had definitely gone over the edge of things, for I saw nothing but madness in his eyes as he stood up.
He produced a gold hunter from inside his coat and flicked it open. ‘You will excuse me now, but in exactly twelve minutes I have an appointment and I like to be on time.’ He swung into the saddle and pulled in his horse which trampled through the fire, upsetting the coffee pot. ‘I am sorry to leave you like this, my friend. Someone should have warned you that you were playing with fire. Let us hope this little barbarian here keeps her knife in her belt.’
He cantered away into the mist, his men following him and I turned to Victoria and said desperately, ‘Release me now, I beg you, while there is still time.’
She started to turn away so I did the only thing left to me which was to drop forward on my knees and thrust my bound wrists into the scattered embers of the fire. The pain was unbelievable and I was unable to restrain a groan, but she was already on me, dragging me back against the saddle.
I said, ‘You have nothing to gain – everything to lose. Do you think that we could ever live together after a betrayal like this? That I could look at you and not remember?’
The great dark eyes widened and I knew that I had struck deep. She wavered, genuine pain in her eyes and I pushed my hands out towards her. ‘Anything later than now is no good.’
It worked. Her hand went inside the blanket coat and came out clutching a knife so sharp that she was through the rope in one easy slice. As she repeated the performance on my ankles, Nachita emerged from the tent and handed me the Enfield in its shoulder holster. I struggled into the straps and said, ‘I’ll be too late at the main gate. Is there another way?’
‘The wall crumbles at the top of the village near the church, señor. Easy to climb. I could show you.’
He glanced inquiringly at her as he said this and she nodded. I grabbed her hand as she turned away, pulled her round and smiled. ‘Believe it or not, but I intend to come back.’
But she didn’t believe me, not for a moment, I could tell as much from her eyes. To be honest, I wasn’t too confident myself considering the way things were going.
I took the nearest horse bare-back, with nothing but a rope halter to hang on to, putting my heels into him hard and galloped into the mist, urging him on with a clenched fist.
Nachita was beside me in an instant, drawing abreast to lead the way, riding magnificently, his old rifle in one hand. We went headlong through rough broken ground that had my heart in my mouth, turned into a deep arroyo with a few inches of rainwater in the bottom, scrambled up a steep bank at the other end and emerged into the open no more than twenty or thirty yards from the wall at the top end of the village.
I could see what he meant at once for in places the adobe brick had crumbled, reducing the height to about ten feet. I pushed my horse against the wall, stood on its back and Nachita crowded his horse in beside me to hold things steady for a moment. My height, as always, was the trouble. I was perhaps a foot short, but a quick jump took care of that and the gaps between the crumbling brick made excellent footholds.
I gave Nachita a quick wave and dropped straight over the other side into a small courtyard. There was a door in the far wall which proved to be unlocked. When I opened it I found myself in a narrow alley that emptied into the square no more than a couple of steps away.
When I peered round the corner I found myself perhaps forty yards from the church. The cart van Horne had mentioned was in position a couple of yards in front of the porch and had been covered by some kind of brightly covered blanket or tapestry. The image of St Martin de Porres stood on it in solitary splendour. There was no sign of van Horne and Janos, too, was keeping well out of sight for I could see nothing of him in the bell tower.
Somewhere I heard horses trampling over the cobbles on their way up to the village and it came to me then that this building here on the corner must be the stable van Horne had referred to.
A flight of stone stairs led up from the street through a wooden door. When I opened it, the loft door van Horne had mentioned stood wide giving a clear view of the church and a porch. I saw that he was standing inside, presumably sheltering from the rain.
I found the sacking in the corner as he had described, the Winchester and the Mills bombs, ready primed, I was pleased to see. I was barely in time for as I returned to the loft door, de la Plata’s men emerged from the left in a solid bunch, wheeled and turned to face the porch in a ragged line.
It couldn’t have been more perfect. I was aware of many things in that final moment. Tomas de la Plata himself in the cavalry greatcoat. Van Horne moving into the entrance of the porch in full regalia, including a superb gold cape, presumably in honour of the occasion.
I picked up a grenade, pulling the pin with my teeth and got ready to throw it and in the same moment, a rider thundered out of the street into the square, pulling in the horse so sharply between van Horne and Tomas that it slipped on the wet cobbles and slid back on to its haunches.
Chela de la Plata, arriving too late, for van Horne was already bringing the Thompson round from behind his back and firing and a grenade sailed down from the bell tower to explode in exactly the right spot to take care of half a dozen men and their mounts in one breath.
I lobbed mine in for good measure with a similar result for the woman was dead. Had to be. I caught a glimpse of her, the face drenched in blood, her brother beside her, trying to hold her in the saddle and then they went down together, horses and all, as Janos leaned out of the bell tower and started to work the other Thompson gun from side to side.
It was a bad mistake for they were firing back by now and suddenly, he stopped shooting and leaned across the window-sill, head down. Very slowly, pulled by his immense weight, he simply squeezed through and followed the Thompson to the cobbles twenty feet below.
During this time I had fired continuously, choosing each target carefully and had picked off four of them with complete certainty. In spite of all this, several riders had passed below me to make good their escape through the alley to my right.
The square was heavy with smoke, the cries of the dying, the animals, and for a while it was impossible to see clearly. There was a sudden rush, I got the Winchester to my shoulder and lowered it as a bunch of riderless horses thundered out of the murk, crowding towards the alley.
Too late, I saw the leg hooked over one in the centre, recognized the fluttering cape of the cavalry greatcoat. I caught one quick glimpse of Tomas de la Plata glaring up at me, blood on his face, and then he and the horses were into the alley and away.
A shot chipped the jamb of the door beside my head, fired by someone still active down there. I fired back at the flash and was rewarded by a scream. There was a momentary silence, the roll of the Thompson, then silence again.
After a while, van Horne called, ‘Are you there, Keogh? It’s all over.’
I reloaded the Winchester on the way down and went to meet him, pausing to put a bullet in the head of a horse that rolled on its side with the stomach showing.
Van Horne emerged from the smoke and mist, the Thompson ready, still wearing his robes and that magnificent gold cope. ‘Janos is dead,’ he said. ‘And I can’t see de la Plata.’
‘He got away,’ I told him. ‘Several of them made it past me into a rear alley which I can only presume would bring them out at the bottom of the village near the main gate. The other Thompson gun would have done better work here.’
‘No sense in crying over spilt milk,’ he said. ‘I thought we had him, but it was only his horse. His sister was something I didn’t foresee.’
His voice was quite hoarse and he seemed to find difficulty in speaking for he suddenly pushed the Thompson into my hands, turned and walked away. I followed in time to see him take off the gold cope and spread it over the woman’s body, then he went into the church.
I retrieved the other Thompson which Janos had dropped from the tower, checked that it still worked, then started down the main street, a Thompson in each hand. I found Moreno and a handful of others outside the hotel, as frightened a bunch of men as I have ever seen.
He hurried towards me. ‘Father van Horne, he is all right?’
I nodded. ‘How many rode out through the gate? Did you see?’
‘Six, señor, and Don Tomas was one of them, riding like a madman, blood on his face.’
‘His sister tried to stop it happening,’ I said. ‘And got killed instead.’
‘Mother of God.’ He crossed himself as did several of those with him. ‘You put Jesus in my mouth, señor. We will all die for this day’s work.’
‘Not if you have any guts left. Guns and ammunition a plenty on the ground outside the church if you rob the dead. In the meantime, I’d put a couple of men on the wall by the main gate if I were you. They can have the machine guns, not that I think they’ll be needed, but it pays to take care. There’s a Lieutenant Cordona with a cavalry detachment at the old rancheria at Huanca. He’ll come galloping to the rescue if you get a message off to him.’
He took a deep breath and nodded. ‘You are right, señor, panic is of no assistance in such a situation. At least two dozen people ran out into the open country in blind terror when the shooting started. You must understand we have seen some terrible things in these parts over the years. Whole villages slaughtered – women, children. One would think God had turned his back on Mexico.’
I managed to cut him off at that point, showed the two men he selected how to pull the trigger on the machine-guns and left them all to it.
I had the bar to myself, found a bottle of Scotch and poured a large one. God, what a mess. All that killing, the girl dead and Tomas de la Plata still ran free. I was suddenly sick of the whole business, sick and angry at the world, but most of all with van Horne.
I went back up the street to the square where Moreno and his men already moved among the dead and entered the church. Van Horne was sitting on a bench at the front near the altar still wearing his alb. He didn’t even turn his head as I went up the aisle.
I stopped beside him and he said, ‘Don’t say it, Keogh, I know.’
Standing there looking down at him, all the anger and frustration evaporated. The truth at last and facing up to it carried its own release.
‘No, you don’t,’ I said. ‘My fault as well as yours. Everything that’s happened and we can always include the good Colonel Bonilla and Tomas de la Plata.’
‘Collective responsibility?’ he said gravely. ‘Not really good enough. In the final analysis, a man must accept personal responsibility for his own actions.’
‘Which sounds as if it could have come straight out of the middle section of some theology lecture at that seminary of yours,’ I said.
‘Very possibly.’
He was unable to take the conversation any further for Moreno called from the doorway. ‘Come quickly, father.’
When we went out of the porch, I found Nachita on the ground against the wall. He looked half stunned, blood oozing from a contusion on the right of his forehead.
I dropped to one knee and he grabbed my coat. ‘He sent me, señor. The Evil One himself sent me.’
I knew instantly what had happened, saw it all in one terrible moment of truth, yet things had to have their logical sequence.
‘He has Victoria?’
He nodded. ‘And twenty-one other people, señor. Villagers from this place. Some only children.’
The ones who had run into the open country in panic.
‘What does he want?’ van Horne demanded harshly.
‘You, father,’ Nachita said. ‘He just wants you. No one else. He gives you two hours.’