by Peter Grant
Margarita surprised him by presenting him with a formal black cutaway jacket, black trousers, a black bow tie, and a frilly-fronted white silk shirt. Don Thomas had been bigger in the body, but all the clothes had been taken in to his measurements. The jacket was still a little large, but the rest fit like they’d been made for him. Feeling awkward, he tried to thank her for the hours of effort she and the other ladies must have put into the clothes, but she waved him off. “It is only fitting that you look the part, patrón. Don Thomas will be looking down on us today, along with his wife. They must see that all is as it should be.”
He hastily polished his boots, then dressed. He couldn’t carry a holstered gun at his waist, in the usual way, for a funeral and wedding. He’d been planning on thrusting one into his waistband, covered by the jacket, but its looser fit offered a way around that. He retrieved another Smith & Wesson Russian Model revolver from his saddlebags. Its barrel had been shortened by a gunsmith in Denver, to make it easier to conceal. He put on its custom-made shoulder holster, inserted the gun, and adjusted holster and jacket so the weapon wasn’t visible.
He ate a light breakfast with Colleen, who was wearing the dress she’d donned for their hasty marriage the day before. She hugged him fiercely when she saw him. “Thank you so much!” she whispered. “It was so wonderful to have Papa take part in our wedding!”
“We’ll have to do it again today, to satisfy the legalities,” he reminded her.
She sniffed. “If we must, we must, but I feel as you said yesterday. As far as I’m concerned, we’re already married.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “In fact, if we weren’t already so smartly dressed, I’d suggest we adjourn to my – our bedroom, and make up for lost time!”
He had to struggle to suppress an instant surge of arousal. “Soon. Count on it.”
“Oh, I am!”
“You’re not feeling too sad over your father?”
“I’m sad, yes, and I’m going to miss him very much, but I’ve known for years that this was coming. It wasn’t a surprise. Besides, I’ve never seen him look like that. He died so joyfully! I hope my death is like that, when my time comes.”
“May that time be a long, long way away!”
Six of the estancia workers served as pallbearers to carry Don Thomas’ coffin into the little adobe church at Rancheria. Padre Francisco asked them to set it on trestles just inside the door. “We shall perform your marriage ceremony first,” he explained to Walt and Colleen. “It will go quickly, as it is not a nuptial Mass. The Mass today will be offered for Don Thomas. When your wedding is over, we shall move the coffin up to the altar.”
Walt noted that the priest had already had a grave dug at one side of the double plot that Don Thomas had bought for himself and his wife. As they waited, he whispered to Colleen, “It’s good that he’ll be buried here, beside his wife. We can always come back and visit their graves, if you want to; and that’ll only get easier, what with the railways expanding everywhere. They’ll lie where they lived and died. That seems fitting, somehow.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It wouldn’t have been right to take him with us, to bury him in Colorado. He never lived there, and it wasn’t his home, and Mama wouldn’t be there with him.”
The second wedding ceremony went off without a hitch. Padre Francisco had them sign the church registry, and issued them with a religious certificate of marriage, plus a secular marriage license issued by the alcalde. “I had him prepare this for you this morning,” he explained.
“Please thank him for us,” Walt replied. “Do we owe anything for his fee?”
“It is ten pesos, señor.”
Walt handed over a hundred dollars, in various denominations of gold coins. “Please pay him out of this, Padre, and keep the rest for yourself. It’s a thank offering for our wedding and Don Thomas’ funeral. Thank you for all you’ve done for all of us. We’re very grateful.”
The priest stared at the money for a moment, as if hypnotized. It was probably more money than he earned in a year. He managed to say, “You… you are very generous, señor. Thank you.”
The funeral mass was long-drawn-out, and mostly in Latin. Walt had no idea what to do or when to do it. He took his cues from Colleen, and hoped he was not shaming her by his ignorance of Catholic ritual. He occasionally glanced around, to make sure all was well. The four guards stood at the rear of the church, just in case, and the farm workers and their families clustered just behind himself and Colleen in the few simple wooden chairs at the front. Some townspeople who had heard of Don Thomas’ passing attended as well, standing in the center of the church in the space behind the chairs.
Colleen held up well until they carried the coffin out to the graveyard next to the church. After more prayers, the pallbearers used ropes to lower the coffin into the pit prepared for it. As it dropped below the surface of the ground, she gave a low cry, and buried her face in Walt’s shoulder. He embraced her, supporting her while the ropes were withdrawn. As soon as the final blessing had been given, he led her away gently while two grave-diggers began to fill in the hole.
“What about a headstone?” he asked her.
She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and looked up. “He already bought one to go at the head of both graves. All the stonemason will need to do is carve the date of his death. Padre Francisco will see to it.”
“Indeed I shall,” the priest promised as they walked out of the graveyard onto the street. The farmworkers followed them. “When it is done, I shall have a picture taken when the next photographer passes through town. Please leave me your address, so I can send it to you.”
“Thank you. I – Walt!” She clutched his arm in sudden alarm as six men turned into the street, a block away, and began to walk towards them. “That’s Enrique Sandoval! He’s the man who’s been trying to get his hands on Papa’s horses!”
Walt signaled, and the four guards moved forward to stand on either side of him. He assessed the oncoming men coldly. Five were the same sort of men he’d seen at Nueva Rosita, and in the horseshoe canyon, and outside the estancia. They were common pistoleros, probably just run-of-the-mill, not top-class with their guns. The sixth, however… he was different. Sandoval wore a white shirt, clean and pressed, with a silver-clasped black string tie over black trousers and gleaming boots. His gun, which looked like a nickel-plated 1860 Army Colt from this distance, bore solid silver Tiffany-style grips, glinting in the sunlight. He carried it in an ornately carved and embellished black leather holster with silver metal trim. His waistcoat, black embroidered with silver braid, was tailored to give his hand free access to the weapon.
Walt thought fast as he gently pulled free from Colleen’s embrace and motioned her to one side, out of the line of fire. That’s a real fancy gun and holster. If he knows how to use them, he’ll draw faster than I can from a shoulder holster… unless I can trick him.
He frowned suddenly as six of the estancia workers moved forward to flank the guards. He opened his mouth to order them back, then blinked in surprise as they pulled back their jackets, revealing revolvers thrust into their waistbands, just as Walt had first planned to wear his today. The six oncoming men suddenly hesitated, uncertainty clouding their faces. Instead of odds of six to five in their favor, they now faced eleven to six – a rather less attractive proposition.
“Who the hell are those campesinos pretending to be pistoleros?” Sandoval called arrogantly.
“You lost six pistoleros a few weeks ago, remember?” Colleen taunted from where she stood with Padre Francisco. “They met up with my husband. He brought their guns back to the estancia. I had our guards teach six of my men how to use them. They’ve been practising. Judging by those you lost, by now they’re probably as good as or better than your men.”
Walt called, grinning, “Colleen, that was a great idea! I’m proud of you! What do you want, Señor Sandoval?”
“You must be that arrogant gringo who thinks he’s going to steal my horses.”
“
I bought all Don Thomas’ horses a month ago, and paid for them. They’re not yours, they never were, and they never will be.”
“You’ll never leave here with them.”
“On the contrary. I’m taking them, and my wife, and all the estancia’s workers, to America with me, and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.”
“My men will shoot you from ambush, stampede your horses with bush fires, and block your trail with fallen trees and rocks. You won’t make it to the border unless you give me the horses now, and sign over the estancia to me. If you do, I’ll let you leave with no trouble.”
“No deal. What’s more, señor Sandoval, you’ve just threatened my wife’s safety and property, as well as mine.” He half-turned his head. “Sergeant Robles, would the Guardia Rural agree I have the right to defend my wife against those threats?”
“Of course, señor – not only the right, but the duty. That is entirely within the law.”
For the first time, Sandoval looked uncertain. “You brought the Guardia here?”
“Just me,” Robles retorted with a mocking smile, “but one of us is enough, no?”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Walt ostentatiously unbuttoned his jacket and smoothed it over his hips, trying to give the impression it concealed a gun thrust into his waistband, just like those the campesinos from the estancia were displaying. He looked beyond Sandoval to the five pistoleros standing behind him. “You men can back Sandoval’s play, and die with him, or you can drop your guns, turn around, and walk away. You have ten seconds to decide.”
“Nobody moves!” Sandoval screeched, fury in his eyes. “You cannot do this!”
“Try me,” Walt invited flatly.
One of the men behind Sandoval licked his suddenly dry lips. The odds no longer suited him. He’d known some of the six pistoleros who had not returned, a month ago. If this gringo had, indeed, killed them all, he was too good with a gun to take a chance – particularly with ten armed men supporting him, one of them a Guardia sergeant.
“I’m out,” he said thickly. With finger and thumb he slowly lifted his revolver from its holster, bent, and laid it in the dust of the street; then he took two steps backward, turned, and scurried away. Within seconds, another did likewise. The three remaining pistoleros hesitated, uncertainty in their faces; but they stood their ground.
“Sandoval’s mine,” Walt warned his people without turning around. “The four guards take the other three men. Everyone else, including the estancia workers, get out of the way.”
Within seconds, Colleen called from the church gate, “They’re all out of the line of fire.” Her voice trembled a little.
Walt raised his arms and crossed them, trying to appear deliberately casual. He knew the implied insult – that he believed he could beat Sandoval to the draw even from so slow and awkward a starting position – would enrage the man even further. Beneath his crossed arms, Walt’s right hand crept into the left side of his jacket, closing on the grip of his revolver in its shoulder holster. That was half his draw stroke completed already, before the fight had even begun.
“When you’re ready, Señor Sandoval,” he invited.
Sandoval hesitated a moment; then he screamed “Hijo de puta!” and grabbed for his gun.
He was as fast as Walt had expected, but he had to start his draw from the beginning. Walt didn’t. His right hand whipped out of his jacket, the hammer on the Smith and Wesson coming back under his thumb as he snapped out his arm at full extension. His finger twitched on the tuned trigger. A two-hundred-and-forty-six grain, .44 caliber lead bullet churned through the rifling and out of the muzzle.
Sandoval drew his gun with lightning speed, but Walt’s bullet slammed into him before he could line it. He grunted aloud and staggered, pain and fear etched on his face, but he still held his revolver. Walt didn’t hesitate. Dimly aware of guns thundering on either side of him, he triggered three more rounds, sending them into a tight cluster with the first in Sandoval’s chest, over his heart. The man stumbled back, his white shirt turning red with his life’s blood. He dropped his weapon, then crumpled to the ground.
Walt took a deep breath, looking at the three pistoleros who’d backed their boss. All were down. One had part of his head torn away, blood and gray brain matter leaking out. Another was face-down, unmoving, the back of his shirt torn and bloody where slugs had burst through. The third was on the ground, supporting himself on one elbow, coughing up blood, proof that at least one bullet had pierced his lungs.
Walt glanced to either side. One of the four guards was holding his left arm and cursing, blood showing through his fingers, but none of the others appeared to be hurt. That wasn’t surprising, of course; they’d been selected for their handiness with their guns, which was better than the average bandido. Walt holstered his gun and walked over to the wounded man. He gently prised his fingers open, and exhaled with relief. “It’s all right. The bullet just creased you. We’ll clean and bandage it, and you’ll be fine within a couple of weeks. No real harm done.”
“Thank you, señor,” the other said, a baleful gleam in his eye. “That cabron got lucky. I hit him before he hit me, but he lasted just long enough to do this.”
“It could have been worse. Be grateful for that.”
“Walt!” Colleen ran into his arms, hugging him fiercely. “Are you all right?”
“Not a scratch on me, darling.” He bent and kissed her. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Don’t worry. It’s over.”
“Oh, never mind seeing that! After all the trouble he caused for us, I’m glad he’s dead! I was just scared I might become a widow almost as soon as I’d become a wife. Things can always go wrong, can’t they?”
“That’s true enough. Today, thanks be to God, they didn’t – at least, not for us. They sure did for Sandoval, though.” He turned to Sergeant Robles. “Is there anything you want me to do, Sergeant?”
“No, señor. As I said, you had the right to act as you did. I shall report to the Comandante that you acted entirely within the law, and have no case to answer. Besides,” and he laughed unpleasantly, “you’ve saved me the trouble of having to give them ley fuga on the way back to the prison at Monclova.”
“Thank you, sergeant, particularly for your assistance back there. I think I owe you a bonus, over and above the fee the Comandante said I should pay you.”
“You are generous, señor. I thank you. I shall take charge of these bandidos’ guns, and the contents of their pockets, to hand in at Monclova.”
Walt guessed that anything valuable, particularly the silver-handled Colt, would never make it that far, but he didn’t care. Colleen clearly felt differently. She asked, “May I keep Sandoval’s gun and holster? They’ll be a reminder of his threats, and my husband’s bravery. I’ll make a contribution to the Guardia to cover their cost, if you wish.”
“Of course you may, señora. I will bring them to you.”
Colleen turned to Walt. “How did you think up that trick, folding your arms to hide reaching for your gun? I’ve never heard of that before.”
“I used it once before, when dealing with a pack of outlaws in Missouri just after the war. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing then, but I remembered it, figurin’ it might come in useful again sometime. Sure enough, it just did.” He turned to Padre Francisco. “Padre, will you give these men decent burial?”
“I shall, my son. What of the six others your wife mentioned?”
“We buried them on the range, about a mile from the estancia. There is no marker. Look for a bare heap of earth near the trail. I don’t know their names.”
“I shall go out there and bless the grave. They doubtless had more need of grace and mercy than most.”
“Thank you.” Walt reached for his wallet, and handed over another fifty dollars. “This will pay for four more graves, and for the extra work I’ve made for you. We’re grateful.” He turned to Colleen. “Shall we go home, darling?”
“It’ll be home only for an
other day or so, but yes, please!”
They stepped out onto the porch. The twilight had faded, the stars had come out, and a half-moon was shining in the night sky. They stood silently, looking around without speaking, for a minute or two.
“I’m sure you’ll miss this place,” Walt said. “What will you do with it? I mean, it’s yours now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated. Papa owned the land on which this house and the other buildings stand. All the rest – the pastures, the outlying corrals, and so on – are on open range. We’re using them because we got here first, but that doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t buy them, or take them away from us. A lot of estancias are like that. I could try to sell this place, but it’ll take a year or more for Papa’s will to be probated and the property put into my name. That would mean I’d have to stay here, to deal with lawyers and courts, and you’d have to leave without me. Even after the legal process was over, finding a buyer would be very difficult.”
She sighed. “The French occupation messed up this country terribly, and it’s going to take years for its effects to wear off. Mexico’s politics are in chaos. Many governors obey the President only if it suits them. The Army’s riven by factions, with generals setting themselves up as local warlords. Many who fought for or against the French have gone into business for themselves, as bandidos or pistoleros. Sandoval was one of them. He’s dead now, but someone will take his place before long. There’s no stability any more. It’s not safe to stay. Papa planned to just walk away from here, so that’s what I’ll do. You made that possible, of course – you paid much more for our horses than we’d have got by selling this place.”
“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do to help you keep it.”
