The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Here I sold the mule, and considered crossing to the west bank. There were wagons and tents clustered all round the ford, and crowds of people making tremendous work of floating their vehicles and goods across on rafts and flatboats; the river hereabouts was quite swift, and about a quarter of a mile across through sandbars and quicksands. I watched one schooner being poled precariously across the currents, and then the whole thing pitched slowly into the river, while fellows roared and struggled in the water and hauled on lines and got in each other’s way, and all was confusion. The west bank seemed no better than the east, anyway, so I held on south along the wagon-road, where there was plenty of traffic in both directions.

  That was when I discovered a new pleasure in life – riding in the American west. I’d spent enough time in the saddle on the plains, you might think, but this was different; here I was alone, and could take my own time. In other parts of the world one always seems to be in a great hurry, tearing from one spot to the other at a gallop, but out yonder, perhaps because distances are so great, time don’t seem to matter; you can jog along, breathing fresh air and enjoying the scenery and your own thoughts about women and home and hunting and booze and money and what may lie over the next hill. It’s easy and pleasant and first-rate in every way, and at night you can build your own fire and roll up in a blanket, or join some other fellows who are sure to make you welcome, and share a meal with you and a yarn over coffee or something sensible from a flask. This is in settled country, you understand.

  The Del Norte seemed to be settled enough, for all Harrison’s alarming talk, and if it ain’t the finest scenery in the continent it was new to me. It’s not a valley as we in England know the word: the river runs through its cottonwood fringe past numerous Mexican villages full of stray dogs and loafers in sombreros, all of ’em either asleep or preparing to lie down. Someone must work the place, though, for there are plenty of cultivated fields beyond the cottonwoods, with here and there a rancheria or hacienda, some of them quite fine, and beyond them again the scrubby plain stretching away on either side, with a dark barrier of mountains to the east, and little else to take the eye except one great black wedge of rock to the left which I had in view all through one day’s ride. Not Buckinghamshire, but it’ll do; any landscape without Indians suited me just then.

  Six days down from Santa Fe I came to the ford at Socorro, where there was a fair concourse of emigrants. A few miles farther down, the Del Norte makes a great belly to the west, and it seemed to me from the map that time could be saved by making due south away from the river and behind the Cristobal mountains to rejoin it at Donna Ana. I mentioned this to a Dragoon despatch rider with whom I breakfasted at Socorro, and he shook hands solemnly and said should he write to my family?

  “You take that road if you’ve a mind to,” says he facetiously. “It’s got this to be said for it, it’s nice and flat. Other’n that, I’d think hard before I’d recommend it. Course, mebbe you like the notion of a hundred and twenty-five miles of rock and sand and dust and dead bones – plenty of them along the old wagon trail. No water, though, unless you happen to find a rain pool at the Laguna or Point of Rocks – which you won’t, this time of year. But you won’t mind, because the Apaches’ll have skinned you by then, anyway, or rather, they won’t, because before that you’ll have died of thirst. That,” says this wag, “is why it’s called the Jornada del Muerto – the Dead Man’s Journey. There’s only one way across it – and that’s to fill your mount with water till he leaks, take at least two canteens, start at three in the morning, and go like hell. Because if you don’t make it under twenty-four hours … you don’t make it. Staying with the river, are you? That’s your sort, old fellow – good day to you.”32

  So I crossed the river, like most of the emigrants, and kept to the trail along its west bank; some of them struck out due west, God knows where to. There was less traffic now, and by the time I came to Fra Cristobal I was riding more or less alone. I passed the occasional hamlet and small party of emigrants, but by afternoon of the second day after leaving Socorro it was becoming damned bleak; I pushed on with a great sinister black rock looming across the river to my left, scrubby bushes and hills to the right, and devil a sign of life ahead.

  For the first time since Santa Fe I began to feel a chill down my spine; the priest’s tales of savage bands who roamed this country filled my mind, with visions of ravaged villages and burned out wagons; I began to fancy hidden watchers among the rocks and bushes, and whenever a fragment of tumbleweed rolled across my path I had the vapours. Far off a prairie wolf yowled, and the wind made a ghostly rustle through the cottonwoods. Dusk came down, my spirits sank with it, and then it was dark, and the chill of the night air sank into my bones.

  There was nothing for it but to stop where I was, curl up under a brush, and wait for morning. Not for the life of me was I going to light a fire in that desolation – and on the heels of the thought I caught a glimpse, far off through the gloom, of what might have been a spark of light. I gulped, and slowly went on, leading my horse; the chances were that it was emigrants or hunters … then again, perhaps not. It was a light, sure enough; a camp-fire, and a big one. I stood irresolute, and then from the dark ahead a voice made me leap three feet.

  “Ola! Que quiere usted? Quien es usted?”

  I fairly shuddered with relief. “Amigo! No tiras! Soy forastero!”

  A shape loomed up a few yards ahead, and I saw it was a Mexican in a poncho, rifle at the ready. “Venga,” says he, so I came forward, and he fell in behind as I led my horse into a clearing under the cottonwoods, where the great fire blazed, with what looked like an antelope roasting over it. There were groups of men seated around smaller fires, some of whom glanced in my direction – buckskin hunters, Mexicans, two or three Indians in shirts, but mostly rough traders or hunters, so far as I could see. Close by the main fire stood a group of three, headed by a burly fellow with feathers in his hat and two pistols belted over his frock-coat; when he turned I saw he had a forked beard and a great red birth-mark over half his face – a Sunday school-teacher, devil a doubt.

  “Who’re you?” grunts he, in English, and for some reason or other I replied: “Flashman – I’m an Englishman. Going to El Paso.”

  The cold eyes surveyed me indifferently. “You’re late on the road. There’s mole in the pan, there – ’less you want to wait for the buck.” And he turned back to the fire, ignoring my thanks.

  I hitched my horse with the others, got out my dixie, and was helping myself to stew and tortillas when one of his companions, a tall Mexican in a serape, says: “You go alone to El Paso? It’s not safe, amigo; there are Mescaleros in the Jornada, and Jicarilla bands between here and Donna Ana.”

  “Which way are you going yourselves, then?” says I, and the Mex hesitated and shrugged. Fork-Beard turned for another look at me.

  “Chihuahua,” says he. “In a week, maybe. Doin’ us some huntin’ in the Heeley forest. You want to ride with us?” He paused, and then added: “My name’s Gallantin – John Gallantin.”

  It meant nothing to me, but I had a notion it was supposed to. They were watching me warily, and I had to remind myself that in this country men seldom took each other on easy trust. They were a rough crew, but that in itself was not out of the way; they seemed friendly disposed, and if there were Apaches on the loose, as the Mexican said, I’d be a sight safer along with this well-heeled party, even if it took a few days longer.

  The Mexican laughed, and winked at me. “Safer to arrive – how you say? – than not get there?”

  That wink gave me a momentary qualm for the cargo of dollars in my money-belt, but I was in no case to refuse. “Much obliged to you, Mr Gallantin; I’ll ride along with you.”

  He nodded, and asked had I plenty of charges for my revolver and Colt rifle, whereafter I sat down by one of the smaller fires and gave my attention to the grub, taking stock of the company as I ate. No, they were more like hunters than bandits, at that; some sober c
itizens among ’em, mostly American, although as much Spanish as English was being spoken. But it was English, with a nice soft brogue, that broke in upon my thoughts.

  “I’d ha’ sworn the last time I saw you the name was Comber. Flashman, is it? And where have I heard that before, now?” says Grattan Nugent-Hare.

  * * *

  g One who lives off immoral earnings.

  Chapter 10

  Since I had my mouth full, it wouldn’t have done to speak, but for a moment I had difficulty swallowing. There he stood, large as life, pulling at his nose, and then he snapped his fingers.

  “Eleventh Hussars! That duel … at Canterbury, was it? And then Afghanistan, seven-eight years back. You’re that Flashman?”

  My indiscretion could hardly matter down here, so I admitted it, and he gave that slow foxy grin, but with a harder eye than I remembered; there was nothing lazy about the set of him, either.

  “Well, well … wonders never cease. Didn’t I know ye were cavalry? Travelling incog, too. And what might you be doing down this way, so far from Santa Fe – not looking for me, I hope?”

  Until that moment I’d absolutely forgotten that this rascal had two thousand of my – well, of Susie’s – dollars in his poke. Plainly, this called for tact.

  “Far from it,” says I. “Have you spent it yet?”

  He took a sharp breath, and his hand moved on his belt. “Let’s say it’s cached in a safe place,” says he softly. “And there it’ll stay. But ye haven’t answered my question: what’s your purpose here? Don’t tell me ye’ve left that old strumpet?”

  “What’s it to you if I have?”

  “Faith, ye might have given me warning, and I’d ha’ stayed on, so I would.” The grin was decidedly unpleasant now. “She’ll be needing a man about the place.”

  I chewed, and looked him up and down, but said nothing, which stung as it was meant to. He gave a bark of a laugh. “Aye, look how ye like,” says he. “It’s not that kind of look she’d be giving me, at all – or did, while I rogered her fat bottom off all the way from Council Grove. Didn’t guess that, did you? – while you were taking the tail of every black wench in sight, more shame to you!” He sat down beside me, well pleased with what he supposed was his bombshell. “Fair mortified at your infidelity, so she was – and her such a fine, hearty woman. Ah, well, she paid you back by making a cuckold of you.”

  I’d never liked or trusted friend Grattan above half even when he was being civil; now I found him downright detestable. Not, oddly enough, because he’d kept Susie warm – for I didn’t doubt his story, and it didn’t diminish my affection for her a bit. The randy trot, paying me back in my own coin! And why not? – she’d always known well enough that I was like the tobyman who couldn’t be satisfied by one woman any more than a miser could by one guinea, and that I’d stray sooner rather than later. She was another of the same herself. And it was gratifying to realise that she’d been prepared to keep me on, knowing I was unfaithful, and never say a word; quite a compliment. Dear Susie … no, my dislike of Grattan was for his own sweet sake, nothing else.

  “Ye don’t seem to mind?” says he.

  “Why should I? She’s a lustful bitch, and has to have somebody. I daresay she preferred you to one of the teamsters. Not much, though, or she’d have given you for the asking what you had to steal in the end. I think,” says I, rising, “I’ll have some coffee.”

  He was on his feet when I came back, but the foxy grin was absent and the voice less soft than usual. “I don’t care for the world ‘steal’, d’ye know? Especially from a man that’s ashamed to use his own name.”

  “Then stay out of his way,” says, I sipping. “He can stand it.”

  “Can he so? Well, and he’d better stay out of mine,” says he nastily. “And if he has any clever ideas about a certain sum of money, he’d best forget ’em, d’ye see? I’ve seen you in action, my Afghan hero, and I’m not a bit impressed.” He tapped his Colt butt.

  I weighed him up. “Tell me, Grattan,” says I. “Did Susie ever cry over you?”

  “What’s that? Why the devil should she?” asks he suspiciously.

  “Why, indeed?” says I, and ignored him, and after a moment he swaggered off, but continued to keep an eye on me. He couldn’t believe my arrival had nothing to do with his theft, and certainly it was an odd chance that had brought us together again; no doubt he too was on the run for Mexico. I’d have set his doubts at rest if he’d been less offensive about Susie, but he’d proved himself a cheap creature, without style. Chainy Tenth, what would you? I kept my eye on him, too, and when we bedded down I changed my place after an hour – and in the morning saw that so had he.

  We were away before dawn, and I saw that the group was about forty strong and well able to look after itself, riding two and two, with point and flank scouts. In the afternoon Gallantin sent two Indians ahead to find a camp-site; they came back at the gallop, and conferred with Gallantin and the tall Mexican, constantly pointing ahead; I was too far back to hear, but the way the word “’Pash!” rippled down the column, and men began to look to their priming and tighten their girths, said all that was necessary. We went on at the canter, until we smelled smoke, and then in a big clearing among the woods we came on a burning hacienda, a splendid place it must have been, but now a blackened ruin with the flames still licking on its charred walls, and a dense pall of smoke overhead.

  There were bodies huddled about the place, and a few slaughtered beasts, but no one gave them even a look; the party scattered on Gallantin’s orders, hunting among the outbuildings and stables, and the Indians circled about the limits, their eyes on the ground. Presently there were shouts, and I went with three or four others to where a couple of our buckskin men were kneeling beside a trough, supporting the body of a small, white-haired woman; they’d found her crouched under a blanket in an outhouse, but even when they’d given her water, she could only gaze about in a stupefied way – and then she began to sing, in an awful cracked voice, and laughed crazily, so they laid her down on the blanket and resumed their search.

  I went with the tall Mexican – and found more than I wanted to. Behind the hacienda were other smaller houses, all of them smouldering wrecks, and among them more bodies, scalped and mutilated. They were all peons, so far as I could bear to look at them, with flies buzzing thick about them; the Mexican stooped over one.

  “Dead less than an hour,” says he. “A few minutes earlier, by the guts of God, and we would have had them!” He grimaced. “See there.”

  I looked, and stood horrified. Only a few yards away, by a high adobe wall, was a row of trees, and from their branches hung at least a dozen bodies, naked, and so hideously mutilated that your first thought was of carcases slung in a butcher’s shop, streaked with blood. They were all hung by the heels, about a foot above the ground, and beneath each one a fire was still smouldering, directly under the heads – if you can call ’em heads after they’ve burst open.

  “They stayed long enough fer fun, anyway,” says one of the buckskin men, and spat. Then he turned away with a shrug, and said something to his partner, and they both laughed.

  That was the most horrible thing of all – not the hanging bodies, or the scalped corpses, or the vile stench, but the fact that none of Gallantin’s followers paid the slightest heed. No one bothered with a body, except the Mexican when he pronounced on the dead peon; for the rest they just hunted among the ruins, and whatever they were bent on, it had nothing to do with the two score or more poor devils who’d been murdered and tortured in that ghastly shambles. I’ve served with some hard cases, but never with any who didn’t betray horror or disgust or pity or at least interest at such beastly sights. But not this bunch of ruffians.

  Then there was a yell from the other side of the hacienda, and everyone gathered where Gallantin and the Indians were examining a ball of horse dung in the dust. There was a great buzz of talk as an Indian and a bearded trapper poked and sniffed, and then the trapper cries: �
��Gramma!” and held up a peck of ordure for inspection. I didn’t know then that these Indians and frontiersmen could tell from the age and composition of droppings just where a horse has come from and who owns it, and what his grandfather had for luncheon two weeks ago, damned near. (Maize seeds in the crap mean Mexicans, and barley Americans, in case you’re interested.)

  Another Indian was crawling about, examining the ground, and presently comes up to Gallantin and says: “Mimbreno.”

  “Copper Mines band, for sure,” says Gallantin. “How many?” The Indian opened and closed his hands nine times, rapidly. “Ninety ponies, eh? Maybe two hours off by now, but I doubt it. Headin’ west. Hey, Ilario – that smoke t’other day. Could be a camp, huh? Ninety ponies, could be a couple o’hundred ’Pash.”

  “That’s forty, fifty thousand dollars,” says someone, and there were yells and laughs and cries of hooraw, boys, while they brandished their pieces and slapped each other on the back.

  “Hey, Jack – that’s better’n beaver, I rackon!”

  “Better’n a plug a plew o’black fox, ye mean!”

  “That’s your style! Mimbreno ha’r’s the prime crop this year!”

  I’m not hearing right, thinks I, or else they’re crazy. I couldn’t make out why they were suddenly in such spirits; what was there in this ghastly place to be satisfied about, let alone delighted? And I wasn’t alone, as it turned out; Ilario, the tall Mexican, roared to us all to saddle up, and when we came back to the group about Gallantin, all became suddenly, and shockingly, clear.

  Two fellows, one a plain, bearded emigrant sort whom I’d noted as a sober file the previous night, and the other a youngster of about twenty, were in hot argument with Gallantin; I came in towards the finish, when the sober chap was shaking his fist and crying, no, damned if he would, so there. Gallantin, hunched in his saddle, glared at him in fury and flung out a hand to point at the burned-out hacienda.