by Peter Grant
The horses were watered at a nearby stream, then picketed in a field to prevent them straying. Their saddles and pack saddles were piled in the campsite. Walt warned everyone, with a grin, “Put your bedrolls out ready before you go into town. You may find it tricky when you come back later tonight, if you’ve been celebratin’ too hard!” With laughter and quips flying back and forth, the men complied.
Walt had a word with the first four guards, and those he’d delegated to relieve them later, before walking back to town. “Keep your eyes open and don’t slack off. Remember, we’ve had those men watchin’ us ever since we crossed the border. I’d not put it past them to try somethin’ tonight, while we’re all sleepin’ off the fun. Don’t let them get past you because you’re day-dreamin’ about the fun you’re gonna have, or did have, in town.”
“Got it, boss.” “I hear ya, boss.” The four rumbled their agreement, and kept their rifles in their hands as they watched the surrounding countryside.
Satisfied, Walt followed most of his men back into town. It was only a couple of hundred yards to the main square, so they didn’t bother to take their horses. The men split up into small groups and wandered around, buying food from this stall, a drink from that, and eyeing the attractive Mexican girls with appreciation.
Walt drew laughter from onlookers when he stopped at a stall selling straw products – baskets, hats and the like. He took off his Stetson hat, laid it on the table, and picked up a sombrero with an enormous brim, almost a yard wide. The children in particular seemed to find that very funny, giggling at this strange gringo trying on one of their hats, trying to look like one of their people. They couldn’t help staring at the metal hook on his left wrist. He bent down to their level and wriggled it back and forth, drawing shrieks of merriment from the little boys and smiles from their parents as they scrambled back to get away from it.
As he straightened up, an unkempt, unshaven man wearing greasy, dirty clothing stepped in front of him and picked up his Stetson from the table. “Esto es mio ahora,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “This is mine now.”
Walt was sure he’d seen this man through his spyglass. He’d been one of those following them over the past few days. Three more men shouldered their way through the crowd to stand in a half-circle behind him. The locals fell silent, edging away to make space around them.
“No, it’s not. It’s mine,” Walt told him as he took off the sombrero and set it down on the table.
“I didn’t ask you,” the man replied with a cold grin. “If I want something, I take it.”
“You’re not taking that one. I’ll tell you just once, politely, to put it down.”
“Why don’t you make me, cabron?” He tossed the hat behind him as he bent forward, hand hovering menacingly over the knife on his hip. A little girl operating the stall next door, selling what looked like lemonade or something similar, let out a cry of anguish as the flying hat knocked her big glass jug off the table. It shattered as it hit the hard ground, broken glass and liquid flying in all directions.
Behind the speaker, the other three men tensed for action. Walt realized at once what they were trying to do. The border officials had seen that he, as leader, was carrying the group’s money. If anything happened to him, these men – or those who had sent them – probably reckoned that the rest of the group would be easier to deal with.
Without warning, or telegraphing his movements by getting into a better position, he launched a forward stamping kick that smacked into the kneecap of the man facing him, hard enough that his knee joint reversed itself with a sickening crack! The man screamed in sudden anguish and toppled sideways, his hands going to his injured leg as he writhed in agony on the ground. Behind him, the other men’s hands stabbed towards their holsters – only to come to a frozen halt as Walt’s right hand made a sight-defying flip, and his revolver lined rock-solid on them.
There was a sudden, deafening silence around the stall, spreading out into the square. Only the sobs of the girl behind the next table and the moans of the injured man could be heard.
Walt said slowly, softly, “Do you want to live, or do you want to die?”
Their mouths still agape, for a moment none of the three could answer. At last one said, shakily, “L-live, señor.”
“Then shed your guns, very slowly, very carefully. Use one finger and thumb only. Let them fall at your feet. Your knives, too.”
A couple of Walt’s men had seen the trouble, and arrived on the run, guns drawn. “You need help, boss?” one asked.
“Stick around. When they’ve dropped their guns and knives, search them to make sure they haven’t got any more. One of you disarm that man on the ground, then search him too. Check inside their belts, boots and hats as well.” He half-smiled, thinking of the Remington Double Derringer hideout guns he carried inside the crown of his hat and his left boot top. If he found them useful, others might too.
Within two minutes, all four men had been disarmed and searched. Walt holstered his gun, then piled their weapons on the table beside him. He looked around. “Where is the alcalde?”
An older man pushed through the crowd. “I am the mayor, señor.”
“Do you know these men?”
“I have never seen them before, señor.”
“All right. Is there an officer of the law in town?”
“No, señor. We have little crime here. We are too small. A patrol of the Guardia Rural visits from time to time.”
“Very well. Please take charge of their guns and knives.”
“Si, señor.”
“Also, please ask those who saw what just happened to give a statement about it. They need not lie, or say much: only what they saw. Please give them to me when they are ready. I will hand them in to the Guardia Rural in Monclova, along with my own statement, so they can investigate if they wish.”
The alcalde smiled for the first time. “I shall, señor. Thank you for doing that. It will avoid trouble for us. I shall add my own statement also, and write them for those who cannot do so.” He called out two men and told them to run to his office, taking the guns and knives with them, and come back with paper and pencils to take the statements.
Walt turned to the three men who’d sided with the troublemaker. “Your friend broke that girl’s jug. You’re going to help him buy her a new one.” To his own men, he added, “Get every cent they’ve got, and give it to me.”
The three men stiffened, outraged, as their pockets were emptied and all their money taken. Walt did the same to the moaning man on the ground. He counted swiftly. He wasn’t familiar with all the coins in his hand, but it looked like the total would come to the equivalent of a few dollars.
“Watch them,” he told his men, then walked over to the still-weeping girl. “Niña, I’m sorry these men broke your jug. This will help you buy a new one.” He laid the money on the table, and her crying suddenly stilled as she stared at it with big eyes. He fumbled in his pocket, and laid a five-dollar half-eagle on top of the pile. There was a hiss of indrawn breath from the onlookers, swiftly stilled as Walt looked around. They clearly recognized the gold coin, and were in no doubt as to its value. It was probably more than she’d have made from selling her lemonade, or whatever it was, at two or three of these fiestas.
He picked up his hat from the ground, and dusted it off as he asked, “Does this girl have any family here?”
An old man stepped forward. “I am her abuelo, señor. Her name is Maria. I am Guillermo.”
“Her grandfather, eh? I’m glad to meet you, señor. My name is Walter Ames. If you’ll please wait with Maria for a moment, I’ll get rid of these men, then come back to see both of you safely home. I wouldn’t want anyone to get ideas about taking that money for themselves.”
“I will, señor. Thank you.”
Walt put on his hat, then turned back to the three disarmed and penniless men. “Pick up your friend, and carry him to where you left your horses. We’ll be behind you.�
�� He indicated his own men. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
They followed the four men to where their horses were tied to a hitching rail. Walt halted them before they got there, and had his men unload the rifles in the horses’ saddle boots and remove all the ammunition from their saddlebags. When he was satisfied, he told the three, “All right, put your friend on his horse, then get astride your own and get out of here. Don’t come back. If you do, it won’t end so well for you.”
One of the four looked down at him from his saddle, his eyes ugly. “We will not forget this, señor – or you.”
“See that you don’t. Remember how it ended, too, and don’t get any ideas. You’ll live longer that way.”
The men reined their horses around, two of them supporting the injured man in his saddle, and trotted away, heading north-east out of town.
Walt and his ranch hands watched them go until they were half a mile away, then turned back to the plaza. They didn’t see the four men meet up with two more, who rode out of the bushes a mile out of town. The six men halted in the road as they held a brief conversation, then turned off the track into the bushes.
Back at the plaza, the old man and his granddaughter were waiting at the table when Walt returned. He smiled at him. “Con su permiso, shall we see your granddaughter safely home?”
“Thank you, señor.”
The two lived just a few blocks away, in a run-down adobe shack on the edge of town. It had a small vegetable patch behind it, and a donkey in a little fenced enclosure next to it. As they approached, Maria scampered ahead, clutching her new-found wealth in her hand as she called excitedly, “Mamacita! See what the nice man gave me!”
A tired-looking woman stepped out of the door. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, but already her face bore lines of care and concern. Her eyes widened in surprise as her daughter thrust the money into her hands. “What is this? Where did it come from?”
The abuelo raised his voice. “Do not worry, Edelmira. Some bad hombres broke her jug. This gringo stopped them, and made them pay for it, and gave her the gold coin besides. He has just walked us home.”
“That’s how it was, señora,” Walt confirmed, doffing his hat to her. “I wanted to make sure no-one else gave her any trouble.”
“Th-thank you, señor!”
“Si, muchas gracias, señor!” young Maria piped up, beaming.
“I have nothing but water, señor, but if you would like some…?” her mother asked.
“Thank you. That would be very kind of you.”
“Please, come in and sit down.” She ushered him ceremoniously through the door into the small room within. It was lit by the fading daylight, and by an oil lamp on a small table against one wall, already lit.
Walt glanced around as he sat down on a rickety chair at the table. His eyes fell on a faded gray kepi hanging from the wall above the fireplace. He stiffened as he noticed its badge. Glancing at the abuelo as he also sat down, he asked, “Is that a Confederate hat – one that the soldiers in gray wore during the big Anglo war, some years ago?”
“Si, señor. It is. It came from a wounded man whom I found in the mountains over there. He died before I could bring him to safety. I brought his hat and some other things here, to keep them safe, as he asked me.”
“May I look at it, please? I wore one like it during that war.”
“Of course, señor.”
Walt rose, took down the hat, and inspected it closely. It was a standard medium gray uniform kepi, dusty, but still in good condition. Three rows of gold braid were sewn onto the top, sides, front and back of the kepi to indicate field officer’s rank, and three rows of braid ran around the hat above a yellow band that marked the wearer as a cavalry officer. The peak was of black leather, and brass buttons marked ‘C.S.A.’ secured the band.
The old man watched him closely. “You said you wore that uniform too, señor?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then it may be the providence of God that you came to our aid this day. You see, the man who wore that gave me some things. He made me promise that I would give them to his comrades in arms when they came looking for him – but none ever did. I have kept them to this day, waiting for their arrival.”
Walt sat down slowly. “Well… I suppose you could call me his comrade in arms. We fought for the same side, after all. What are they?”
“I will fetch them, señor.”
The old man shuffled through a curtained opening into another room. Walt heard him open what sounded like the lid of a trunk, rummaging through it. In a moment, he returned holding a well-worn leather satchel. It was stamped ‘C.S.A.’ on the flap above the buckle.
“Here, señor.” The old man handed over the satchel.
Walt opened it, and took out a holstered 1860 Army Colt, a big knife in a leather sheath, a pocket compass, and a small, thick book. His face lit up as he saw the knife. “This is an Ames knife!” he exclaimed, drawing it from its sheath. “It was the first knife designed for the Army, way back in ’49.” He hefted the big, heavy, foot-long blade. It was still in fair condition, apart from a few nicks and discolorations. “They only made a thousand of them. I’ve only seen two before, both during the War.”
He replaced it in its sheath, then drew the revolver. Its surface bore a light patina of rust, and the percussion caps on the cylinder nipples had all been fired. Walt sighed softly to himself. Clearly, the old man had not known how to clean it. By now, blackpowder salts had surely corroded the inside of the barrel and cylinders, probably too badly for further use. He re-holstered it, vowing to clean it as soon as he could, in case anything could be salvaged.
The pocket compass proved to be a high-quality instrument, made in London, England by James Parkes and Son, and dated 1850. Its face, almost two inches in diameter, showed all thirty-two major and minor points of the compass rose. The needle swung straight to North and remained steady on the bearing when he opened the compass cover and held it level. Walt nodded in approval as he closed its cover.
“What is the book, señor?” he asked as he picked it up.
“I do not know. None of us can read. I have kept it unopened since the day he gave it to me.”
Walt opened it. The handwritten inscription on the first page read, “Diary of Captain Gilbert d’Assaily, Confederate States Army, of Baton Rouge in Louisiana, begun on January 1, 1865, in continuation of his four previous wartime diaries.”
Fascinated, Walt flipped through the first few pages. The Captain had been serving on the staff of General Beauregard in North Carolina as the diary opened. He described the heartbreak of repeated, unsuccessful efforts to halt General Sherman’s northward advance towards Virginia. Walt had to tear himself away from the text, to look up at the old man.
“Yes, he was my comrade in arms. We were in different units, but we served the same cause. Where did you find him?”
“A day’s ride from here, just before you reach Santa Rosa de Múzquiz, on the left-hand side of the road, you will see a valley reaching into the mountains. There is a narrow trail leading into it from the road. If you follow it for about five miles, it enters a horseshoe canyon. The trail winds up one side, turns at the bend, then continues up the other side to come out on top. From there, it goes on through the mountains, with more trails leading off it.
“I was climbing the horseshoe trail when I found him. He had been coming down from the other direction. He had been shot several times, and had fallen off his horse. It had stayed by him, but galloped off when I tried to catch it. I never saw it again. He spoke some Spanish. We talked for a little while, until he died. I buried him in the horseshoe bend, at the side of the road, and rolled a rock over his grave. I carved a cross on it.”
He sighed. “When I came back that way a week later, someone had rolled the rock off his grave and dug up his body. He had been searched – his clothes were disarranged.”
“Was he wearing uniform?”
“A mixture of unifo
rm and civilian clothes, señor. Whoever searched him left his body exposed. I re-buried him, and rolled the rock back over his grave. Since then, as far as I know, his rest has not been disturbed.”
“You don’t know where he was coming from?”
“He did not tell me, señor. He asked me to give these things to his comrades in arms, but died before he could name them. I brought his belongings back here, but never saw or heard of his comrades. May I give them to you? It is more fitting that they be with you, who wore the same uniform as him, than with me, I think.”
Walt hesitated. Should he accept them? He realized, after a moment’s thought, that there was no reasonable alternative, and nodded. “I’ll take them. When I’ve read this book, I may find out what he wanted his comrades to do with them. If not, I’ll send them to his relatives, if I can find them.”
“Thank you, señor. That will lift a burden of honor from me.”
“Thank you for bearing it faithfully for all these years. If it’s given to the dead to know such things, he’ll know you’ve done what you promised you would do.” Walt nodded to the hat he’d left lying on the table. “If you kept these things in your trunk, señor, why did you keep his hat on the wall above the fireplace?”
Edelmira said softly, “Señor, I asked him to do that. Every night, when we pray before going to bed, we pray a decade of the Rosary for the soul of that man, even though we never knew his name.”
Walt had to swallow a sudden lump in his throat. He coughed, then said gently, “In that case, señora, please keep the hat there, and continue to pray for his soul. His name was Gilbert d’Assaily. If you would be so kind, please pray also for me. It would be a comfort to me, as I have had no-one else to do so since the death of my wife, two years ago.”
“We shall, señor,” she promised. Maria and her grandfather nodded their solemn assent.
