DUANE BRADDOCK LEANED FORWARD ON HIS saddle, as a Mexican village twinkled in desert wastes straight ahead. He wasn't sure of its name, but had been travelling more or less toward Monterrey. He wondered whether to detour around the village, or stop at the cantina, have a glass of mescal, and maybe see some dancing girls.
Duane hadn't spoken to anybody except his horse for two weeks. He wasn't an American tourist or scholar, and didn't need a warm climate for his health. Duane Braddock, alias the Pecos Kid, was wanted for multiple murders in Texas.
It had been self-defense all the way, but he didn't trust crooked judges and rigged juries; the only law he respected was manufactured in Colonel Colt's factory in Hartford, Connecticut. He brought his hand to rest on the comfortable grip of his .44 revolver. It made him feel safer in a land filled with banditos, warring revolutionaries, Comancheros, bears, and rattlesnakes.
The Pecos Kid wore black jeans, a green shirt, and a red paisley bandanna. On his head sat his black wide-brimmed cowboy hat held in place by a leather thong neckband. He was tall, slim, eighteen years old, hadn't shaved for several days, and looked like a strange, fearsome desert creature, which in a sense he was.
I should pass this place by, he reasoned, but it'd be nice to take a bath without worrying about an Apache shooting an arrow through my back. I'd have a plate of enchiladas, take a sip of mescal, and cool my heels.
He could speak Spanish fluently, because he'd been raised in a monastery populated by Spanish-speaking priests and brothers. But he tended to get into trouble at drinking establishments, because certain men couldn't hold their liquor, and the first thing they wanted was to punch somebody though a window. Unfortunately, Duane had fallen into the line of fire more than once.
But a man can't hide from the world forever, he told himself. He was approximately two hundred miles south of the Rio Grande, and doubted that the Fourth Cavalry would follow that far. I'm sure that the Army has more important things to worry about than one alleged killer, he deliberated.
The Pecos Kid liked bright lights and good times, like any red-blooded Texan. Youthful curiosity exceeded self-preservation yet again, and he really wanted to see some dancing girls.
His horse plodded toward adobe huts nestled in the valley, as Duane made a solemn oath to himself. If anybody provokes me, I'll turn the other cheek, just as Christ said in the Bible. If somebody pushes me, I won't push back. And if I have to apologize for something I didn't do, so what?
The town was Zumarraga, named after the first Bishop of Mexico, Juan de Zumarraga. Hub of a vast ranching area, it boasted a stable, a general store, several cantinas, and numerous impoverished hovels.
A steepled Catholic church was the spiritual center of Zumarraga, and in a back pew knelt twenty-one-year-old Doña Consuelo de Rebozo. She was the daughter of one wealthy landowner, and married to another, but that didn't provide immunity from sorrow. Her mother, Doña Migdalia de Vásquez, was dying from cancer, and Doña Consuelo had been in prayer nearly constantly for the past several months.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” she whispered, fingering rosary beads, while at the main altar the choir rehearsed for Sunday Mass.
Doña Consuelo felt afraid, vulnerable, and bewildered. The inevitability of her mother's impending doom demoralized her profoundly, and sometimes she felt like dropping down and crying her eyes out.
But she was descended from the Spanish nobility, and understood her duties well. She arrived at the end of her rosary, crossed herself, and uttered the final prayer. Then she arose, and turned toward her vaquero bodyguards, who sat in the first pews of the church, waiting for her to finish devotions. Her husband, Don Carlos de Rebozo, would never permit her to leave the hacienda without protection.
The bodyguards treated her like valuable treasure, because one word could get them dismissed. But Doña Consuelo would never dismiss anybody, and looked the other way when one vaquero took a sip from his pocket flask, or another flirted with a female in the vicinity. The bodyguards never dared flirt with her, of course, because they respected her position, piety and goodness, and feared the wrath of Don Carlos. She was their princesa, and they followed her like a pack of poodles as she made her way toward the door.
The church was low-ceilinged, constructed of adobe and wood, with tiny altars along the sides, where candles burned in front of gaudily painted plaster saints. The choir sang a Gregorian chant, and a shudder of religious passion passed through Doña Consuelo. She'd led a relatively blameless life, had studied the Bible assiduously, and had obeyed her parents even when they told her who to marry. All she wanted was her own little baby to raise and love, but unfortunately she was barren after three years of marriage.
Pedro, leader of her bodyguards, rushed to the door and opened it. Doña Consuelo stepped into the moonlight, and the first thing she saw was a tall, slim Americano riding down the middle of the street, his face covered by his hat brim. Doña Consuelo paid no special attention as another of her bodyguards, Francisco, opened the door to her coach. She climbed inside, the carriage rolled out of Zumarraga, and Doña Consuelo gazed at businesses closed for the night, as pedestrians peered at the wealthiest woman in the territory. But she didn't take herself seriously, for priests had taught her the sin of false pride. All my maids have children, but not me, she reflected. Perhaps this will be the night I conceive.
The carriage came alongside the bearded, dusty, ragged Americano, who turned toward her suspiciously. Their eyes met. She saw a hunted animal, and shrank back into the carriage, wondering what terrible crime he had committed, because why else would he be so deep into Mexico Lindo? She felt grateful for her bodyguards, and wondered how ordinary women dared walk the streets of Zumarraga.
Doña Consuelo de Rebozo didn't see the fault line in her character, caused by over-ripe innocence, cramped opportunities, and narrow education. She hugged herself and smiled in the darkness, anticipating the strong arms of her husband, as the carriage rolled over the winding moonlit trail.
Duane Braddock rode down the center of the town, struck by the beauty of the woman he'd just seen. She'd had big brown eyes, a straight, perfectly chiseled nose, and petulant, pouting lips that begged to be kissed. Must be some rich man's wife, he decided, as he searched both sides of the street.
He passed the church, a variety of stores closed for the night, and lamps shining in the windows of jacales. Gregorian chants echoed down the street, but Duane tried not to hum the melodies. An old cowpoke had told him to study a town before he climbed off his horse, because nobody wants to blunder into danger. It looked like a sizable settlement, in the real Mexico where Americans seldom came.
Duane maintained his hand close to Colonel Colt's invention as he came to a two-story hotel with a wide veranda, where gentlemen and ladies sat with food and drink. Duane was tempted to join them, but knew he wouldn't feel comfortable without a wall to his back.
He glanced at rooftops, to make sure nobody was taking a bead on him, and hoped no American bounty hunters were in town, because they'd shoot him on sight like a rabid dog. I should keep riding onward, but I have to stop sooner or later, he persuaded himself. What the hell—a man can't live on the desert forever.
The road narrowed into a neighborhood of shacks, huts, and vaqueros strolling the sidewalks, wearing long, flowing mustaches, gaudy bandannas, and immense sombreros. I must appear outlandish to them, speculated Duane, stroking his beard. I should shave but leave the mustache, and buy a sombrero and a pair of pants with stitching down the sides, with wide bottoms. When he'd lived in Texas, Mexicans had been the foreigners, but now the shoe was on the other hoof.
He rode through the town, then turned around and headed back, his eyes probing shadows, rooftops, and darkened alleyways. He noted the location of the calaboose, the bank, and the gun shop. Following his natural instincts, he found himself headed once more toward the cantina district. Hungry, thirsty, and lonely, he inclined his big black horse toward a complex of adobe huts that had no sign above the door. He climbed down from the saddle, threw the reins over the hitching rail, and gazed into the animal's luminous eyes.
Duane had “borrowed” him from an outlaw band farther north, and named him Midnight. He didn't know much about Midnight's history, but figured he'd been stolen somewhere along the way, which gave Duane something else to worry about.
“I'm going to have a drink,” Duane explained, “but I shouldn't be long. If anybody tries to steal you, kick him in the ass. We'll probably spend the night on the desert, so enjoy yourself while you can.”
Midnight plunged his snout into the water trough, as Duane loosened the two cinches beneath the saddle. Duane tried to treat Midnight as a friend, rather than mere transportation, but Midnight didn't seem to like him much. The Pecos Kid tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder, headed for the front door of the cantina, never letting his right hand stray from his Colt. He opened the door, and saw three drunkards sitting at a table in front of him. “Look at the gringo,” said one of them.
Their glassy eyes probed as he retreated into the shadows. Ahead were tables and chairs all the way to the end of the large enclosed space. The bar was to the left, three deep with vaqueros, and every table was taken. Duane realized it must be Saturday night, of all times to come to town, but he wasn't about to ride away after just arriving.
He couldn't get close to the bar, but he noticed an empty length of wall between two vaqueros and backed into it. Waitresses and prostitutes in low-cut gowns moved among the crowd, sitting on men's laps or accompanying them to and from back rooms, while candles burned merrily on tables, casting dancing shadows on adobe walls. Above the bar hung a poster showing a naked blond lady reclining on a sofa covered with leopard skin.
A waitress passed, and Duane called out: “Señorita—would you bring a glass of mescal?”
She stared at him for a few moments, as if seeing him for the first time. “You are a long way from home, eh Americano?”
“I am very thirsty, if you do not mind.”
She raised her right eyebrow skeptically, then headed for the bar. Meanwhile, on a small stage at the rear of the establishment, a vaquero strummed his flamenco guitar. Duane was struck by how similar the cantina was to the average Texas saloon; only the tune was different.
The waitress returned with the mescal, and he tossed her a few coins, tipping her extravagantly. “What's the name of this town?” he asked.
“Zumarraga.”
“Gracias,” he said, bowing slightly, anxious to be polite, so as not to offend anybody.
She continued to look askance at him, as if he wasn't deceiving her. “What are you doing here, Americano?”
“I needed a drink.” He tossed down the remainder of the mescal, placed his empty glass on her tray, and wanted to say hit me again, but a terrible conflagration had broken out in his chest. He swallowed hard, and his face turned red. The waitress walked away laughing.
Duane raised his hand to his mouth and broke into paroxysms of coughing. The mescal had gone down the wrong tube, and nearby Mexicans chuckled at his distress. I'm making a fool of myself, and holding Texas up to ridicule, he thought. Why do I constantly feel the need to show off in front of women, even ones I don't even give a damn about?
The musician wailed a sad song, and Duane could hear the pure romance of his wild vaquero life. Duane had been a cowboy once, and dreamed that he'd have his own ranch someday, raising his own family, after the law left him alone.
He began to feel a happy glow, as mescal filtered through his bloodstream. He loved the beverage because it produced interesting hallucinations, and the former acolyte enjoyed reflecting upon theology, morality, lost worlds, and the wisdom of the ages. What does it all mean, and why should I care? he asked himself, as the waitress returned with his next glass of mescal. Duane again tipped her abundantly, then raised his glass in a toast. “To Mexico,” he said.
“What crimes are you wanted for?” she replied.
“What makes you think I'm wanted for crimes?”
“Why else would you be in Mexico?”
“My doctor said the climate is good for my heart.”
“You do not seem sick to me, and you are not bad looking either ... for an Americano.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Want to go upstairs?”
“Not today.”
“What is wrong with today?”
He felt himself becoming nervous, because he didn't want to offend her. “I'm in love with somebody else.”
“Where is she?”
“Far away.”
“I'm right here, and I will love you with all my heart.”
“I don't have much money.”
“Too bad.” She gave her shoulder a toss. “Perhaps some other time.”
She walked away saucily, as Duane noticed vaqueros at the bar looking at him and talking earnestly, as if planning a necktie party. The troubadour continued to warble about romance till the end of time, as additional mescal poured into Duane's bloodstream. The cantina took on an orange haze. He saw the flush of men's faces as they played cards, while waitresses and prostitutes sashayed past, casting sultry glances, and lamplight pulsated everywhere.
Fermented maguey juice flowed through Duane's brain, as he felt the strange rhythms of Mexico pounding within him. Mayan priests, Spanish conquistadors, and armies of Catholic missionaries shimmered before him in the huge, unlikely cantina.
Duane had studied Mexican history at the monastery, and remembered a few facts. During the late 1850s, Mexico had defaulted on European loans, and soon endured invasion by France, England, and Spain. France had become dominant in the coalition, defeated the Mexican Army, and Napoleon III had installed an Austrian duke named Maximilian of Hapsburg as emperor of Mexico, with Maximilian's wife, Carlota, as his empress. They had ruled until 1867, when Mexican patriots under Benito Juárez had placed Maximilian before a firing squad. Empress Carlota had then booked passage on the next boat to Europe, where she subsequently went mad. Juárez was still president in early 1872, but large regions were dominated by banditos, Apaches, and wealthy caudillos who held the power of life and death over hundreds and sometimes thousands of peasants.
As Duane drained the glass and looked for the waitress, the door opened, and another gringo entered the cantina. He was approximately six-foot-two, his wide-brimmed silverbelly cowboy hat on the back of his head, and curly blond hair spilled down his forehead. He took one look at the crowd around the bar, hesitated, and backed out of the cantina.
Now there's a cautious man, figured Duane. Whoever he is, he's not looking for trouble, while I blithely walked in here, drank two glasses of mescal, and now my head is spinning. I've got to eat something, otherwise I'll pass out.
All the tables were taken. A different waitress walked by, and he placed his empty glass on her tray. He wanted to ask for a restaurant recommendation, but was afraid to open his mouth.
A vaquero and a woman entered the cantina as Duane headed for the door. The woman had wavy black hair, wide hips, and the vaquero's hand protecting the small of her back. As Duane drew closer, he became increasingly astonished by the sheer size of the woman's bosom. They must be awful heavy for her to carry around, he mused.
“What are you looking at!” demanded an angry voice.
The vaquero stared at Duane with undisguised rancor, and Duane realized too late that he'd been staring at the Mexican woman's breasts like a lecherous fool. The Americano smiled weakly. “I am sorry, señor, but I have drunk too much mescal, and I was on my way out of here.”
“I saw you flirting with her,” the vaquero said angrily. “You do not fool me.”
All eyes in the vicinity turned toward the confrontation near the door. “I meant no insult to you or your woman,” replied Duane. “It was a mistake.”
The vaquero was four inches shorter than Duane, but with larger shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick arms. “It was no mistake, because I saw your shameless eyes.”
He's drunk, Duane realized, as he wondered how to extricate himself from the situation into which he was sinking. “I was looking at her, but you should take it as a compliment. She is, after all, a beautiful woman.”
The woman smiled broadly, while the vaquero noticed her response with dismay. Duane realized that he'd said the wrong thing again, as the vaquero raised both fists to the fighting stance. He's not going to punch me, is he? wondered Duane. The vaquero cocked his left fist and threw it toward Duane's head, but Duane timed it coming in, and easily ducked beneath it. Then he took a few steps backward, as the crowd coalesced around them. It appeared that the entertainment had arrived.
The big-bosomed woman turned toward her vaquero and said reproachfully: “Leave him alone, Pablo. He is just a boy, and he meant no harm.”
“He does not look like a boy to me,” Pablo replied, his eyes bloodshot from excessive mescal. “Do you like him?”
“I do not know him—how could I like him?”
“I saw the way you were looking at him, and he was looking at you!”
The woman became pale. “But Pablo, it does not mean anything. You are always so suspicious.”
A fiendish gleam came to Pablo's eyes. “I asked you—do you like him?”
“But you know that I love you!”
“I do not know any such thing, the way you flirt with men all the time. I'll show you what I do to men who look at you, and then maybe you will never flirt again.” Pablo turned toward Duane, raised his fists, and advanced with mayhem in his eyes.
Duane backstepped, holding his hands down to his sides, not wanting to provoke anybody. “Now just a minute—let's not—”
Duane was unable to finish the sentence, because a big, hairy fist was zooming toward his very nose. He dodged to the side, the fist whizzed harmlessly by, and Duane was on his way toward the door. But vaqueros and prostitutes were crowded around, there was no clear path, and Pablo darted nimbly to cut him off.
Duane was the only gringo in the cantina, and he wanted to avoid showdowns. He steadied himself, turned toward Pablo, and said: “If I've offended you in any way, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I promise never, under any circumstances, to do it again.”
Pablo responded with a right toward Duane's mouth, but Duane danced away lightly, still holding his hands down his sides. I've apologized from the bottom of my heart, I promised never to do it again, and if that's not good enough for this son-of-a-bitch, I guess I'll have to fight him.
But Duane realized he was in no condition to fight, as Pablo squared off again. The lone gringo was half drunk on an empty stomach, but adrenaline kicked in like a horse, causing his right leg to tremble, always the signal that he was getting into his fighting mode.
“Señor Pablo,” Duane intoned carefully, “I'm going to tell you one last time. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to start punching back. I don't know what the outcome will be, and maybe you'll kill me, but I promise you one thing, if you continue to press me, you will regret it.”
The swarthy Mexican launched a long, looping overhand right at Duane's skull. Duane snatched his opponent's wrist out of the air, spun sharply, and threw him over his shoulder. The Mexican went flying over the bar, and crashed against the row of bottles beneath the mirror. Meanwhile, Duane headed for the door, and vaqueros in wide-brimmed sombreros made way. He reached the hitching rail, where Midnight dozed among other horses. “Wake up,” Duane said. “We're in trouble again.”
Duane tossed the saddlebags over Midnight's ebony haunches, then kneeled and tightened the two cinches beneath Midnight's massive belly. He untied the reins from the hitching rail, and was placing his foot into the stirrup, when the door of the cantina opened and Pablo appeared on the dirt sidewalk. “Not so fast, gringo!”
Vaqueros and their women crowded out the door to see the next installment of the fight. Duane wanted to jump onto Midnight and ride the hell out of there, but feared getting shot out of the saddle.
“Were you trying to sneak away?” asked Pablo, gazing malevolently at Duane. Pablo had cut the side of his head on a broken bottle, and blood oozed into his thickly matted hair, as his sombrero hung on leather thongs down his back.
“You shouldn't have followed me,” replied Duane, “but you won't listen to reason.”
The Mexican lunged toward Duane, who was standing between Midnight and a strange horse, leaving little room to maneuver. Duane tossed a short right jab to Pablo's nose and it connected on target, but the Mexican kept coming. He grabbed at Duane's throat, but Duane took a handful of Pablo's hair, pushed his head into the muck, leapt over him, and landed in the middle of the street.
Pablo growled as he arose, covered with mud and manure, stinking to high heaven. Meanwhile, a larger crowd was forming, and Duane spotted the blond American outlaw hanging in the shadows, watching the show. Pablo lowered his head, then charged Duane, flinging a wild hook at Duane's head, but Duane caught Pablo's wrist, pivoted, and let Pablo's forward movement carry him over Duane's shoulder.
The Mexican dropped onto the ground, rolled over, and came up with a knife in his hand. “I am going to kill you, gringo!” he screamed.
Moonbeams rolled along the seven-inch blade, and Duane took a step backward, for a knife raised the ante drastically. “Whoa,” he said to the Mexican. “Are you sure you want to die over something that I've already apologized for?”
“You are the one who is going to die!”
Pablo charged, slashing the blade toward Duane's face, but Duane darted to the side and stuck out his foot. The Mexican tripped over Duane's ankle, and landed on his face. This time he didn't get up so quickly.
Duane decided that the time had come to appeal to the common sense of the crowd. “Señores and señoritas,” he declaimed, “if this man doesn't stop attacking me, I will kill him, or he will kill me. Doesn't he have a friend who can talk him out of it?”
Nobody stepped forward, especially not the woman with large breasts at the edge of the crowd. It appeared that everybody was afraid of Pablo, who was raising himself off the ground, the knife in his fist. “What is wrong, gringo?” he asked. “Are you afraid to stand still and fight?”
“Because I looked at your woman?” asked Duane. “You're acting like a fool.”
Duane regretted the words the moment they'd left his mouth, but his nerves were jangled after three weeks in the saddle. Meanwhile, Pablo set his lips in a grim line, as his eyes narrowed for his next attack.
“Señor,” said Duane. “If you come at me once more, I'm going to cut you, so help me God.”
The Mexican got low and waved his blade from side to side menacingly. “Say your prayers, gringo.”
Duane pulled his Apache knife out of his boot. It had a ten-inch blade crowned with a bear bone handle. He'd lived among Apaches for a spell, and they'd taught him the niceties of close combat with knives, rocks, fists, and anything else that might come to hand. He poised on the balls of his feet, when the Mexican suddenly stopped, feinted to the left, sidestepped to the right, and thrust his knife up suddenly, its point streaking toward Duane's belly.
Duane caught the Mexican's wrist in his left hand, stopping it cold, while stepping forward and touching the point of his knife to his adversary's throat. The iron point poked through Pablo's skin, and a dot of ruby red blood appeared.
“Drop the knife,” said Duane.
The blade stung Pablo, and it wouldn't take much to puncture his jugular. His fingers loosened, as his weapon fell at Duane's feet.
“Señor Pablo,” Duane told him, “if you ever come near me again—you're dead meat. Do you understand?”
Pablo sweated profusely, as blood trickled down his throat and made a blotch on his white shirt.
“And don't think,” Duane continued, “that you'll sneak behind me someday, because I've got sharp ears, I shoot first, and ask questions later.”
Pablo couldn't understand what had happened to him. He usually defeated other people easily, although he never picked fights with bigger men, of course.
“I asked you a question,” Duane said, sticking his knife in another sixteenth of an inch.
“I understand,” croaked Pablo reluctantly.
Duane heard footsteps behind him, and thought he was under attack. He withdrew his knife, spun around, and saw an astonishing figure at the edge of the crowd. The newcomer was taller than Duane, and wore a black leather jacket, ruffled white shirt, and silver conchos stitched down the seams of his black wide-bottomed trousers. He had silver hair and a silver mustache, and Duane pegged his age at the mid-fifties. “What is going on here!” he demanded.
A vaquero approached the personage and bowed. “Don Carlos, there was a fight. Pablo pulled a knife on that Americano, and the Americano nearly killed him.”
Don Carlos's eyes flashed wry amusement, as he turned toward Pablo, who held his fingers to the puncture wound at his throat. “So you have been fighting again, eh?”
“The gringo has insulted my woman,” Pablo replied. “He was trying to steal her from me.” The vaquero looked like a hurt little boy who'd just lost his mommy.
Don Carlos turned toward Duane. “What is your side of the story?”
“I was on my way to a restaurant, and happened to look at his woman. It was not an incident worth fighting over.”
Pablo's eyes bounced about excitedly. “My woman is not worth fighting over?”
Don Carlos chuckled. “Come now, Pablo. You are always angry about something, and maybe you are more trouble than you are worth. Go back to the hacienda, and I will speak with you later.” Don Carlos placed one hand on his hip and glanced among the assembled vaqueros. “Has anyone seen my wife?”.
A vaquero bowed. “She left the church a half-hour ago, sir.”
He must be the richest caudillo in the province, Duane thought. The Mexican nobleman had the physique of a young man, with a narrow waist and flat stomach. Just goes to show you that a cowboy doesn't have to get old when he's old, thought Duane.
Don Carlos ambled away, surrounded by his vaquero bodyguard. The woman with large breasts pulled a handkerchief from within her bosom, and wiped blood from Pablo's throat. “Querido mío,” she said tenderly, “you must be loco, and perhaps that is why I love you so.”
Duane scratched his head in confusion as they walked off arm in arm. He became aware of a short, pudgy Mexican standing beside him. “I am Fernando, and you are one fast son-of-a-bitch with a knife. Are you part Apache?”
“That's right,” replied Duane. “What about you?”
“I work for Don Carlos, and when I look at a woman, nobody gives a damn.”
“I wonder what women see in men like Pablo?”
Fernando showed the palms of his hands. “Nobody has ever explained love, señor.”
“I'm hungry—do you know of a good restaurant? I'd be happy to buy you supper.”
Fernando led Duane into an alley, as vaqueros in the street mumbled amongst themselves. Duane touched his fingers to the grip of his Colt as he searched the shadows for a bushwhacker. He knew he should get out of Zumarraga immediately, but was tempted by the notion of a good hot meal.
“What can you tell me about Don Carlos?” asked Duane, as they crossed the backyard.
“He owns this town and all the land around here for miles and miles.” Fernando winked as he waddled on his stubby legs. “And he has a pretty young wife.”
“Where did he come from?”
“His family has always been here, señor. He is descended from an officer in the army of Hernán Cortés.”
Cortés was the conqueror of Mexico, a hero to his Spanish descendants, but not loved by the Indians. Duane and Fernando approached a rectangular adobe hut with bright lights in the windows. Fernando opened the door. Men and women were seated at tables in a crowded space redolent with the fragrances of tobacco, mescal, and chili peppers.
Duane selected an empty table against the far wall, sat facing the door, and rolled a cigarette. Fernando motioned to the waitress. “I want a bowl of chili and a steak.”
Duane noticed a face in the window, and it belonged to the blond American whom he'd seen earlier in the cantina. Now there's a man who knows what he's about, deduced Duane. I wonder who he is? The waitress was looking at Duane expectantly. “Bring me a plate of enchiladas,” Duane told her, “and do you have mescal?”
The waitress headed for the kitchen as Duane lit his cigarette. He noticed everyone glancing at him cautiously, or staring in undisguised curiosity. “It's no fun,” he said to Fernando, “living in a country where people don't like Americanos.”
“Well, your country has stolen a substantial portion of this one.”
“But I wasn't even alive then!”
“Do you think America should give Texas back?”
Duane decided to change the subject. “What do you think of President Juárez?”
“He is a great man,” declared Fernando, “and he will make Mexico a great nation.”
Duane puffed his cigarette as he examined the other denizens of the restaurant, many of whom were casting glances in his direction. I'll eat my meal, then hit the trail, he determined. One of these Mexicans is liable to kill me if I stay in this village much longer.