Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “What about your rifle?”

  “Mine?” Pearce raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, it was back in the truck. I don’t much care to shoot at them Mexicans. I always let Lucky do the shootin’.”

  “So a drifter disarmed two of my men.” Krieg sighed, shaking his head. “Go on.”

  “Well, he talked alright, you know not ruffled or anything. Just wanted Lucky to stop shootin’ at the Mexicans.” Pearce nodded. “I think it was mostly ‘cause there was kids and the woman over there.”

  “Alright, so you stopped shooting. Sounds like he had more brains than the two of you.” Krieg looked at Martin. “And his jaw? How’d that get broke?”

  “Well, I reckon it was something, Lucky said.” Pearce hesitated.

  “Finish it,” Krieg said, disgusted. “It can’t be any worse than what you’ve already said.”

  “Well, he was holding Lucky’s rifle, the drifter was, and he sort of took a step forward, and butt-stroked Lucky in the jaw.” Stu Pearce shook his head, repressing a smile at the memory. “I swear he dropped like a rock.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what, Mr. Krieg?”

  “Why did he butt stroke Lucky?” He cast a disgusted look in Martin’s direction. “With his own rifle?”

  “Oh that. Well, like I was sayin’, it was somethin’ Lucky said.”

  “What?”

  “He … uh … he told him he was a dead man when you found out and that …”

  “Go on.”

  “And if I remember right, Lucky said he was goin’ to cut the drifter’s heart out.”

  “And the drifter gave him something to remember him by for that.” Krieg laughed. “Don’t blame him. Did you happen to catch this drifter’s name?”

  “No, sir. We talked for a bit after that, but he didn’t never say his name, and he had the Colt and Lucky’s rifle, so I wasn’t pressin’ the issue.”

  “Sounds like the first smart decision you made,” Krieg said. “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

  “Well, he was hungry. Said he hadn’t eat in a day, so I sent him over to Creosote to the café.”

  “And he said he was going there for breakfast?”

  “Yes, sir. Near as I could tell, he left us and went to find him some breakfast. He didn’t seem like all that bad a fella. Talked nice once the shootin’ stopped and Lucky hit the ground. Even left Lucky’s rifle for him out where he had parked his truck. Took real good care not to get dirt in it.”

  “Alright.” Krieg stood. “Stu, go wait outside. Got a load coming in. You help with it when it gets here.” He turned to Martin. “You drive your dumb ass down to Brownsville and get patched up. Then you meet us back here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stu Pearce said.

  “Yeph, thur,” Lucky Martin hissed from his broken mouth.

  The two men left the office.

  “What do you think?” Krieg looked at Raul Zabala who had remained silent during the inquisition, trying hard not to laugh out loud.

  “I’d say those boys are lucky to be alive. This drifter sounds like a serious man.”

  “Someone we could use, maybe?”

  “Well, as you can see,” Zabala said jabbing a thumb at the door where Pearce and Martin had exited. “We’re not overloaded with brains around here. If he’s smart as Stu made him sound and half as tough, we could use him … if he’s on board with our operation.”

  “Yeah, that’s the kick.” Krieg nodded as he considered the dilemma Lucky Martin had faced. “It is getting harder to keep them on the other side, and make them pay up and go through one of our contacts.”

  “I imagine that Mex who got shot in the leg will spread the word. Mean and dumb as he is, Lucky may have done us a favor.”

  “Maybe.” Krieg grabbed his keys off the desk. “We’ll check the load coming in first. Pepe said he packed something special for us. After, we’ll head into Creosote and meet this drifter and see how he liked his breakfast.”

  12.

  Die Now, or Die Later

  Once again, there was a rush of feet from behind. Strong hands gripped him by both arms as he left Rosita’s Cantina again. This time it was in broad daylight.

  ¡Mierda!—Shit! This was becoming ridiculous. He was going to have to find another cantina if they kept this up.

  “Come with us.”

  “There is some mistake,” Mario Acosta said, sighing as he tried to pull his arm free. “I have already been to see your jefes in Texas.”

  “Shut up.” The man who spoke stood behind the two who held his arms.

  Half dragging, half carrying him, they walked to the end of the block away from the direction of his car. An old Chevrolet minivan waited there. The door slid open as they approached and the men holding his arms shoved him in ahead of them, pushing his face down on the floor. They climbed in and sat in the seat, side by side with their feet on his back, pinning him down.

  “I’m telling you, they already did this to me … sus socios de negocios!” Your business associates!

  The man with his foot closest to Mario’s head gave him a kick in the ear. “We told you to shut up.”

  Mario shut up. The van swerved through city traffic for twenty minutes then pulled onto a dirt road. The bouncing thumps knocked the breath from him several times as he was lifted from the floor and then thrown back down with the men’s feet still on his back.

  He began to feel nauseous. What would these assholes do if he puked up the tortillas, beans, and Victoria beer he had downed for lunch at Rosita’s? He didn’t want to find out and swallowed back the rising bile.

  Just when he thought the fight to hold on to his lunch was lost, the minivan skidded to a halt in loose gravel. The door slid open, and the men in the seats climbed out, dragging him with them. He stood blinking in the bright sunlight, surrounded by four men. The three who had abducted him and the van’s driver. He recognized none from his previous encounter with the men sent by Krieg and Zabala.

  Who were they? Fear rose in his throat, but he managed to squeak out a question. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but he asked, “Why have you brought me here?”

  “There.” The man who had been sitting in the front seat with the driver pointed at a small adobe shack fifty yards away. “Move.”

  Mario stumbled toward the shack, his knees threatening to buckle under him with every step. It was certain that these were not the gringos’ men.

  His head pivoted on his neck as they walked to the shack. They were in the desert, an hour or more out of Torreón. The high mountains in the distance told him they were south of the city, but he was clueless as to where in the vast expanse of desert. No one would find him here if these men did not want them to.

  The man in front pushed the door of the shack open and stepped aside for Mario to enter. He stooped to pass under the low door sill and then stopped to accustom his vision to the gloom. The place smelled of wood smoke, fried meat, and onions.

  “Sit.”

  The command came from a man seated at a table before the small fireplace. An iron skillet containing the remnants of breakfast sat on rocks beside the ashes of the morning fire.

  Even sitting, Mario could tell he was of short stature. His brown complexion, high cheekbones, and thin prominent nose showed that he was no mestizo—mixed blood Mexican. No Spanish conquistador or missionary had found his way into the man’s parentage.

  Probably Yaqui, Mario thought. They didn’t get along with anyone.

  A hand on his shoulder pushed Mario toward a chair across the table from the man. He sat and waited, afraid to look him in the eyes, but unable to avoid his stare.

  “I see you have met my sons,” the man began.

  Mario looked around at the faces, noticing for the first time the resemblance between them and the man at the table. He nodded.

  “My name is Benito Diaz. You will remember this name.”

  Mario nodded.

  “Do you want to know why you will remember it
?”

  Marion nodded. It seemed the safest thing to do.

  “You will remember it because you now work for me.” Diaz nodded at his sons. “And them. What they say, you will do.”

  His head swam with the absurdity of what the man said. First, the gringo and Tejan threaten him, and now this Yaqui gangster. His plan to get rich was definitely becoming too complicated.

  Diaz waited for him to acknowledge his instructions. Mario had no choice but to nod once again.

  “We are aware that others have approached you,” Diaz continued. “The norteamericanos are cutting into our business. This is our country, and if anyone is to send people north for profit, it will be us. Do you understand?”

  Mario nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” Diaz nodded this time. “Now, tell us what they have instructed you to do.”

  “But …” Mario hesitated. “They are very … serious … men. If I say anything, they will …”

  “We are also very serious men.” Diaz leaned close across the small table, the lids of his eyes narrowed until they were just slits with black dots in the center. “And we are here now with you. They are not.”

  “Yes, I understand. It’s just that …”

  “They will kill you?” Diaz's lips parted, revealing a line of white teeth. “What do you suppose we will do if you choose not to cooperate?”

  It wasn’t much of a choice. He could die now or die later. Mario chose to die later.

  “What do you want to know?” he said.

  “Tell us everything.”

  Mario nodded and told them everything.

  13.

  Soon

  Three metallic raps sounded through the wall of the truck.

  “We’re close now,” Inez leaned toward Jacinta and whispered, putting a finger to her lips.

  Jacinta nodded without speaking. Her heart beat like a drum in her chest, and she worried the others might hear it. Worse she thought it might be so loud the men outside could hear, or that it might make her so nervous, she would make some small sound that would draw their attention.

  Stop, she said to herself. You worry for no reason; look around. See how Inez rests her head back against the wall napping. Others do the same. Even the woman with the cold voice and icy stare had closed her eyes in peaceful repose, unconcerned with what was happening outside the truck.

  Five minutes passed in silence. Most did as Inez and rested their heads against the wall or on their knees, dozing, waiting for the truck to move forward across the border.

  Jacinta felt the truck inch forward, the engine whining a little, then stopping. Then a pause for a minute and move forward again. Another stop. Then move forward, and the truck stopped once more. She heard voices outside now, speaking in English, close to the truck.

  “How ya doin’, Sam,” the driver called down. “Missed you last trip through.”

  “Not bad.” The Border Patrol agent stepped up to the window. “Had a cold last week. Seems like it’s taking forever to get over it. Still coughing and sneezing.”

  “Yep,” the driver nodded and chuckled. “Grandma always said a cold is three days coming, three days with you, and three days going. She called it a nine-day event.”

  “Seems like nine weeks,” Sam muttered and sniffed. “Need to look at the manifest, Louie.”

  “Sure, sure. Here you go.”

  Louie handed the clipboard with the load manifest out the window. Sam, the agent, watched and looked over at the man sitting in the passenger seat. He took the clipboard and then called over to the passenger.

  “Heard you had some trouble over in Webb County, Jake. Wouldn’t have expected to see you this trip.”

  “Just a run-in, not much,” Jake replied, his tone indicating he didn’t want to discuss his absence.

  Sam, the agent, didn’t care and persisted. “The way it was told to me, you had a run-in with a couple of deputies.”

  “Said it wasn’t nothin’.” Jake’s tone was downright surly.

  Louie, the driver, decided he’d better intervene. “Ole Jake got liquored up. That’s all it was to it, Sam. Tussled with a couple of deputies outside Bigguns Bar. They tossed him for public drunk. Spent a night in jail.” Louie laughed. “You know what the worst of it was?”

  “What’s that?” Sam said as he looked over the manifest.

  “Mr. Krieg had to come bail him out.” Louie laughed. “Hell, I thought he was gonna tie a knot in Jake’s neck. Probably would have, if it wasn’t so damn leathery.”

  “Manifest looks good,” Sam said, chuckling at the story. “Pull up so I can check the back.”

  “You got it.” Louie shifted into gear, and the truck rolled forward a few feet and turned into a pullout on the right.

  While one officer walked a drug-sniffing K-9 around the truck checking for illegal narcotics, Sam went to the back door and opened it. Climbing onto the bumper, he looked over the stacked crates of tomatoes then jumped down to the ground.

  “All clear,” he said, walking up to the driver window. He handed the manifest back through the window.

  “Thanks, Sam. See you next time.”

  “Yep.” Sam nodded and waved forward the next vehicle in line as Louie put the truck in gear and began to move away from the crossing.

  In the back, Jacinta looked around at the others. They began to stir, lift their heads, and open their eyes. They smiled, relaxed, and raised their arms stretching as much as they could.

  “What does it mean?” Jacinta whispered to Inez.

  “We are across.” Inez smiled and patted her knee. “

  “Across the border? So easy?”

  “I told you it was nothing to be worried about as long as you are quiet.”

  Jacinta looked around, thinking that everything should look different in the truck, but it was the same truck, and the same tired people crammed into the small space behind the wall.

  “I wish I could see what it is like, outside … Los Estados Unidos” The United States.

  She said it with reverence. The world beyond the truck walls must be new and beautiful, she thought.

  “It is like Mexico,” the cold-voiced woman said, smirking. “Dry and dusty like Chihuahua, except the places where the whites live have bigger houses and fancy cars.”

  “Ah.” Inez hissed. “You are a cold bitch, you know that. I hope I don’t have to make another crossing cooped up with your vile temperament.” She looked at Jacinta. “The countryside here is much like Mexico, but much is different too. You sense it in the air. People do well here. They live and thrive like flowers in black earth.”

  “It sounds so nice,” Jacinta said. “I can’t wait for the door to open.”

  “Soon” Inez put an arm over her shoulder. “Little Jacinta—the little hyacinth, soon you will find your uncle and your new life.”

  14.

  Dust

  A cloudburst on the horizon filled the air with the scent of rain. Heavy with the fragrances of life, it blew across the plains on a breeze pushed by the distant thunderhead.

  Reynaldo ‘Sandy’ Palmeras touched the four-wheeler’s throttle, nudging the speed up over forty-five, fast enough on this dirt road. The machine hummed under him like a cat purring with contentment. He smiled and allowed it to slow without braking, coasting until the four-wheeler rolled to a gentle stop. Sherm Westerfield was going to be happy to have his old buggy back in working order.

  He was ten miles out of Creosote on the dirt road that cut across the prairie, west to east. The two men who controlled life in Creosote and along this stretch of Texas brush country lived down this road.

  Ten miles to the north Tom Krieg ruled his ranch and everyone who worked for him with an iron hand. An equal distance to the south, Raul Zabala was the lord of everything he could see.

  He swung a leg up and rested it on top of the saddle, leaning forward with an elbow on his knee. The day was hot and clear, except for the thunderstor
m in the distance.

  He lifted his nose to the breeze. “God, I love that smell.”

  Sandy spoke to himself and wasn’t self-conscious about it. Growing up in Creosote, you talked to yourself a lot, or not at all, and he was too young not to talk at all.

  “Looks like it might rain today.” His eyes moved from the storm clouds to the horizon and back.

  “No, it’s headed off to the northeast. Too bad.” He shook his head. “Damn, I love the rain. If I ever get away from this place, I’m gonna live where it rains a lot … where it rains every day. That’d be just about perfect for me.”

  A line of dust appeared, several miles off to the northeast, closer than the storm.

  “Some of Krieg’s men,” he muttered. “I expect they’re coming in to join the others at Mazey’s.”

  He was in no hurry to move. He was where he wanted to be and didn’t appreciate the interruption coming his way.

  With a sigh, he touched the starter. The ATV’s engine rumbled to life, and he turned the handlebars and let the idling engine roll him out of the road to the shoulder.

  The dust was closer now. He could make out two pickups, moving fast. That wasn’t unusual. Fast was the only way to drive when everything was fifty miles away from where you were now. Sandy figured he’d let them pass and then ride on another ten miles or so and enjoy the morning, before turning back to help his mother at the café.

  The trucks were a half-mile out now and coming fast. Dust rose behind them, a hundred-foot-high rooster tail, billowing like the smoke from an old locomotive.

  Sandy lowered his head, squinted his eyes, and held his breath to keep the dust out. He’d let it settle and then continue on his ride.

  “Stop!” A voice shouted from the lead pickup as they passed.

  Shit. Sandy knew the voice.

  “That’s the half breed! What the fuck’s he doin’ out here?”