Road to Justice

by Glenn Trust

  “The bed is clean and …” Isabella sniffed the air comically. “There’s a shower.”

  “Alright. Maybe I can stay for a couple of nights.” Sole nodded. “What’s the rent?”

  “Do some odd jobs for me here. Sweep up, wash dishes, change light bulbs, that sort of thing and we’ll call even.” Lips pursed together, Isabella gave a nod, settling the matter. “Finish breakfast and I’ll show you the shack where you can bunk for as long as you like.”

  The roar of engines speeding into town turned their heads toward the window. The pickups skidded to a stop on the dirt road outside. When the cloud of dust settled around them, the doors to both pushed open. Two men exited the first truck, one from the second.

  “That’s Doyle Krieg and his asshole sidekick, Paco González.” Sherm gave a sigh. “Things always seem to take a turn for the worse when those banty roosters show up.”

  “Who’s the other?” Sole watched them stand in the middle of the road, scowling for a few seconds while the man in the second truck said something, pointing a finger at the one called Doyle Krieg.

  “That’s Bud Lawton, foreman out on Tom Krieg’s ranch.” Sherm gave him an approving nod. “Decent man, loyal to Krieg, but still a good enough sort. Seems to be reading the riot act to Doyle.”

  “Doyle Krieg? What’s his relation to the Krieg who owns the ranch?” Sole watched the trio through the window.

  “His son.” Sherm shook his head. “Always got a chip on his shoulder. Looks for trouble wherever he can find it, and if there’s none to be found, he’ll find a way to start some.”

  “Looks like the lecture is over.” Isabella wiped the empty countertop in front of a couple of stools, then turned to head into the back room. “I expect they’ll want some breakfast, late as they are.”

  The door pushed open, and the three men entered taking seats at the counter.

  “Morning Isabella,” Bud Lawton called toward the sound of pans clanging in the kitchen.

  “Morning, Bud,” She called back.

  Doyle threw a scornful glance in Sherm’s direction and looked at Sole. “Who the fuck is this?”

  Sole sipped his coffee without comment, in no mood to find more trouble in an out-of-the-way hole like Creosote.

  “That’s Bill Myers.” Sherm looked Doyle up and down. “The bigger question is what the fuck happened to you?”

  The bruise on the side of Doyle’s face and torn shirt were signs that he had been in some brawl already this morning. It didn’t require much intuition for Sherm to figure that Doyle had been the prime instigator of the problem.

  “Mind your own fucking business, old man.”

  “Man shows up bruised and torn like he got his ass whipped …” Sherm shrugged and grinned as he turned away. “Only natural to ask a question.”

  “Warnin’ you, old man.” Doyle turned back to Sole, seated at the end of the counter. “I asked you a question, asshole.”

  “Yeah, he asked you a question,” Paco chimed in.

  Sole put the coffee mug on the counter and rested his eyes on the pair. Doyle glared at the newcomer. Paco looked at Doyle, waiting for the next move.

  “What was the question?” Sole replied, his eyes fixed on Doyle. If there were to be trouble, it would start there.

  “I said, who the fuck are you?”

  Sherm started to say something, but Sole gave a shake of his head, indicating he would handle things from this point on. Sherm smiled and looked at his coffee. This should be interesting. He didn’t figure Bill Myers was going to have much trouble handling a peacock like Doyle.

  “Like he said. Name’s Bill Myers.”

  Doyle stood up and walked around the counter to stand behind Sole. “And what the fuck are you doing in Creosote, smelling up the place like a shithouse.”

  Sole swiveled on the stool to face Doyle. “Having breakfast. Now you need to go sit down and do the same. There’s nothing here you can handle, son.”

  “Who the fuck you callin’, son. I ain’t your fucking son.”

  Isabella came from the kitchen. “Doyle, leave him be. He hasn’t done anything to you, and he’s my customer. Set down and eat or get out.”

  “You talk to me that way?” Doyle raised his brow. “I already did for your half-breed son this morning.”

  “What?” Isabella stepped toward him. “If you …”

  “It’s alright,” Bud Lawton broke in. “I stopped it. No real damage done to either.” He chuckled. “In fact, I’d say Doyle got the worst of it.”

  “Shut up, Bud!” Doyle turned his stare on Isabella “And you, you puta—whore—get your ass back in there and get our breakfast.”

  Doyle gasped. Sole’s right hand flashed out, taking hold of his throat in an iron grip while his left hand went low and applied vice-like pressure to his balls. He pulled. Doyle tip-toed forward, wincing in pain.

  “Mind your language.”

  Doyle’s eyes widened, casting a look for help to Paco whose eyes were as wide and surprised as Doyle’s. Paco was going to sit this one out. Sole pulled Doyle closer.

  “Let him go, mister.” Bud Lawton figured it was time to break things up. “You don’t want to have his daddy down on your head.”

  Sole ignored him, his eyes fixed on Doyle’s. “Now sit down and eat or get out. Either way, I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth.”

  He gave a shove and Doyle tumbled backward, hitting the wall and sliding to the floor. Paco rose and ran to his side, helping him to his feet.

  “You don’t know what you done, you motherfucker!” Doyle shouted and headed to the door.

  “Yeah, you motherfucker,” Paco repeated, looking over his shoulder as he followed Doyle into the street and across to Mazey’s.

  Sole turned back to the counter. His eyes met Isabella’s.

  “I think I will take you up on that offer of a room and bed.” He shook his head and smiled. “Lack of sleep must be making me irritable.”

  “Good.” She laughed. “And, for dealing with those two, I’d say the first week’s rent is paid in full.”

  17.

  Interesting

  “Who is this man?” Benito Diaz peered through the fly-specked window of Rosita’s Cantina.

  Across the street, a man exited a dirty pickup truck and stood on the curb, lighting a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and let his eyes wander up and down the street as if he were waiting for someone.

  “That’s Pepe Lopez.” Mario Acosta sat wedged between Diaz’s two younger sons at a tiny table by the window. There was no hesitation in his response. In fact, he was downright eager to please his captors. Besides, Krieg and Zabala were far away on their Texas ranches, not facing an angry Yaqui.

  “And who is Pepe Lopez?” Diaz asked, blowing smoke from a cheap cigar across the table.

  “He is like me.” Mario shrugged. “A coyotaje, working with the gringos, Krieg and Zabala.”

  “You no longer work for them.” Diaz’s eyes narrowed. “Do not forget this.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand. I was only answering your question.” Mario spoke rapidly, reminding himself to be more careful with his words.

  He had heard that during the days of the revolution, Yaquis cut the tongues from those who offended them. He had no idea if this was true and had no intention of finding out firsthand.

  “The man there,” Mario continued, “Pepe Lopez works with the gringos as I did before meeting you. He has been with them much longer, though.”

  “Good.” Diaz smiled and flicked ash from the cigar onto the tiled floor. “And where has he been?”

  “I heard that he had a load that went north yesterday. He must be back from that trip.”

  “He takes them north for the gringos himself?”

  “No, no. It doesn’t work like that.” Mario shook his head. “The gringos arrange the transport in their trucks.”

  “Then where is he returning from?”

  “There are stops along the way.”


  “Stops?” Diaz’s eyes flicked in the direction of his oldest son, who nodded.

  “Yes, stops. Places where they allow everyone out for water and to relieve themselves,” Mario explained. “They treat the travelers well, guarantee they will not be harmed. That is why so many are willing to pay the gringos to go north.”

  “So this Pepe Lopez is coming back from one of the places where they stop? But you don’t know where. Is that it?”

  “Exactly. He goes to the last stop to give instructions and make sure all is well before the final part of the journey to the border crossing.”

  “And this is how it always happens?”

  “Yes.” Mario nodded solemnly. “To my knowledge.”

  He was nervous. Cramped between the two brothers, his shirt was soaked with perspiration. Worse, they perspired also, their wet clammy bodies pushed against him, preventing him from getting up from his chair. It was clear they had not bathed recently. Their stale body odor even overpowered the stench of the reeking cigar their father smoked.

  Diaz was quiet for a minute, watching through the glass. Pepe Lopez finished the cigarette and tossed it in the gutter, lighting another immediately, his eyes moving up and down the street.

  “He is waiting,” Diaz said.

  “Yes.” Mario nodded. “It seems so.”

  “Who does he wait for?”

  “How can I know?” Mario shrugged, lifting his hands, palms up. “Not everything is about the business of taking people north.”

  “No, he waits for business. I can tell by the look on his face, the way he searches up and down the street.” Diaz rested his elbows on the table, the cigar clenched between his teeth. “He has just returned from the last stop, as you say, and now he comes back to Torreón and stands in the street smoking, without any purpose, but he is not relaxed and at ease.” Diaz shook his head. “No, it must be about this business of taking people north.”

  “Perhaps.” Mario had no way of knowing why Lopez stood smoking in the street, but he figured it was best to agree.

  “There.” The oldest son pointed out the window. “Someone comes.”

  “A priest,” Diaz muttered. “What can that mean?” He looked at Mario, his heavy brow almost covering his eyes.

  “I don’t know.” Mario watched as the priest stopped to converse with Pepe Lopez. “I have never met him.”

  “What does he have to do with the business?” Diaz asked.

  “I can’t say.” Mario shook his head slowly side to side. “It could be nothing?”

  “No, it is something.” Diaz nodded his head, certain. “It is about the business of taking people north.”

  “I have met this priest,” one of the younger sons who had Mario wedged in said.

  “You know a priest?” the older son said, laughing.

  “I don’t know him, but the girl I am with sometimes, she knows him. She made me go to church so she could confess what we were doing to a priest.” He nodded to the cleric conversing with Lopez across the street. “That priest … Father Alfonso.”

  “A priest and you can even remember his name his name!” The older brother laughed. “This is interesting.”

  “Leave your brother alone,” Diaz ordered. “But you are right. A priest meeting with Lopez who works with the gringos. This may be very interesting.”

  18.

  Downright Rude

  Isabella was right. He was exhausted, running on adrenalin and coffee for weeks. He hadn’t realized until now how exhausted. Sleep was for later he told himself. He could rest after it was done, he had muttered to himself during the long hours on the road.

  Now, lying back on the bed in the old driller’s shack, John Sole felt the last bit of reserve energy fade away like an overworked engine idling down to a complete stop. He closed his eyes and slept.

  The big Dodge 3500-dually rumbled into town. It was more truck than Tom Krieg needed for personal use, but most things Krieg had or did were more than the average person would consider necessary. He lived life large and enjoyed throwing it in the faces of others.

  Raul Zabala was cut from a different cloth, a simpler cloth. He lived life for pleasure. When he wasn’t rolling on the floor with his children or frolicking in the bedroom with his plump wife, he was out looking for entertainment at Mazey’s or cruising the bars of Brownsville or Laredo.

  On the surface, they made an odd pair of partners. What made their business relationship work was their mutually ruthless approach to any endeavor involving money. Their business enterprises, legal and illegal, were managed without concern for the consequences to others. And God help the person who deliberately stood in their way.

  Krieg brought the Dodge to a stop in front of the café and stepped out. Zabala exited the passenger door. Both men eyed the line of pickups from their respective ranches parked in front of Mazey’s.

  “Looks like the boys are in full swing.” Zabala grinned and took a step in that direction.

  “We’ve got business first.” Krieg looked into the truck and motioned. “Let’s go.”

  Stu Pearce shoved open the back door and jumped to the ground. Like Zabala, he cast a longing glance at Mazey’s but followed Krieg to the café door.

  “That his truck?” Zabala nodded at a dusty Ford pickup parked at the end of the café building.

  “Could be,” Pearce said. “Didn’t get a good look at it. He was parked up towards the highway. We were down by the river.”

  “Let’s find out.” Krieg pushed the front door open and stepped inside followed by the others.

  “Must be big doings today.” Sherm was seated in his usual spot, drinking coffee.

  Isabella sat on a stool behind the counter, sipping from her own cup. “What brings the bosses to town?” she asked as Krieg led his party in.

  Krieg stopped by the door to survey the small space and then walked to the counter. “Looking for someone.”

  “Not too many to choose from.” Sherm chuckled. “Are they male or female? Take your pick. We got one of each.”

  “Tell them.” Krieg nodded at Stu Pearce.

  “Yeah, well right … so I sent a fella this way earlier. Said he was hungry.” Pearce nodded to the street outside. “Could be his truck there.”

  “Could be,” Isabella said. “Yeah, a new face showed up to have breakfast. What of it?”

  “Where is he?” Krieg’s tone sent the message that cooperation was expected and interference would not be tolerated.

  “Not here.” Isabella put the coffee cup down on the counter and stood up straight. Her eyes met Krieg’s defiantly. “What’s he to you?”

  “Not your business.”

  “You come in asking about a customer. I reckon that makes it my business.”

  Their eyes were locked. “Don’t get in my way, Isabella. I won’t tolerate it, even from you.”

  Raul Zabala decided it was time to intervene. “You two, always blowing up at each other. Such a waste between a man and a woman.” He shook his head and leaned on the counter. “His truck is outside. That means you either have him in the kitchen washing dishes for his breakfast or he’s at Mazey’s with the boys.” His eyes narrowed, and a grin spread across his face. “Or do you have him hidden away in a bed somewhere … maybe your bed.”

  “A man smells like he did, he’s not getting in my bed.” Isabella’s lips pursed in annoyance. “What do you want with him?”

  “Like Tom said, none of your damn business.” Zabala turned from the counter. “But you told us enough. Come on, Tom, let’s check the drill shacks.”

  Krieg glared into her eyes for a few seconds longer, then turned to follow Zabala. Stu Pearce shuffled from foot to foot for a few seconds, not sure what to do, embarrassed at being the cause of the trouble with Isabella.

  “Get your ass out here, Pearce!” Krieg bellowed from outside.

  “Sorry about all this,” Stu said, turning to the door and hurrying to follow his bosses.

  Sherm looked up from his coffee as the
door closed. “This could be ugly.” He put his cup down. “I think I’ll go keep an eye on things. Waking a man up from a deep sleep, bad things can happen, and I don’t think Krieg is gonna be gentle about it.”

  “You’re right.” Isabella stepped from behind the counter. “I’m coming.”

  The door burst open sending sunlight blazing across the bed. John Sole’s eyes flashed open and then blinked shut in the glare. His right arm lifted holding the Colt pointed at the three forms silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he mumbled as he tried to shake the sleep from his head.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.” Krieg held his ground as did Zabala.

  Stu Pearce eased himself back toward the open door. He had already stood in front of that big-ass Colt once that day and saw no reason to repeat the experience.

  Sole sat up in bed, eyes moving over the intruders. No weapons were visible. He lowered the pistol enough to rest it on his knees while keeping an eye on them.

  “You always break in on a man like this?”

  “I do.” Krieg nodded. “When he assaults one of my men for no good reason.”

  “Oh.” Sole nodded and eased his legs over the side of the bed to stand.

  His eyes never left the men by the door as he loosened and stretched his neck and shoulders, feeling more awake as the seconds passed. The advantage they held over him when they came through the door had dissipated to a standoff.

  “Didn’t seem like for no good reason at the time. Seemed like I had plenty of reason.”

  “Such as?” Krieg snapped back.

  Sole had to give him credit. The big man in the doorway wasn’t backing down, even with the Colt in his face.

  “Well, let’s see.” Sole smirked. “First off, he woke me up with his firing rounds off so early in the morning. That was impolite. Then I found him shooting at a family of Mexicans across the river. That seemed uncalled for and since they weren’t shooting back, also impolite.” He shrugged. “Then he threatened to kill me … I think his exact words were I’ll cut your fucking heart out.” He called to Stu Pearce, visible and huddling just outside the door. “That’s about right, isn’t it?”