Navarro

by Ralph Compton

  Tom yelled, “Stop!”

  When the man kept coming toward him, raising the pistol and thumbing back the hammer, Tom drilled a round through his left thigh, just above the knee. The man dropped to that knee, his own screams joining those of the big man as he rolled onto his left hip, dropping the pistol and wrapping both hands around his leg.

  Ejecting the smoking shell casing, Navarro took another step forward and raised his rifle to the other two men at the table. One froze with his right hand on his right hip. The other sat to his left, both hands lying flat on the table, fingers splayed and digging into the wood as if to gouge a sliver. Both stared at Tom fearfully, their jaws hanging.

  The man on the floor before the table snapped his gun off the floor, cursing. He raised it toward Tom. Tom dropped the Winchester’s barrel and shot him through the right temple, spraying the floor with blood, brains, and bone.

  Navarro jacked another shell and raised the rifle in the general direction of the two men sitting frozen behind the table. “You hombres want daisies growin’ out of your jaws, or do you think we can palaver like civilized folk?”

  The man with his hands splayed on the table squinted at Tom and grumbled thickly in Spanish, “What do you want to talk about, amigo?”

  The big man lay propped against the far wall, clutching his bloody shoulder and breathing hard as he stared at Navarro. Tom glanced right. The man who’d been cooking was now on both knees before the fire, his arms around the woman who lay at his feet. Her round eyes in her round, dark face regarded Tom cautiously.

  “You own this place?” Tom asked the young man who’d been cooking.

  “Sí.” He looked at the man tied to the chair behind Tom. “With my brother.”

  “That your wife?”

  “Sí.”

  “Untie your brother. Then all of you go outside and get yourselves cleaned up.”

  “Amigo,” said the Mexican with his hands on the table, lifting them and shrugging reasonably, “we are only settling a debt. Vincente and Alonzo bought whiskey from us last month on credit. We came for our money, and they didn’t have it. . . .”

  Navarro glanced at the young man again, jerked his head at the gray-haired man. When the young man had untied his older brother, and they and the girl had gone outside, Navarro walked over to the table, Winchester extended from his hip. He looked at both drunk Mexicans sitting before him, still frozen in their chairs, bloodshot eyes rolling around in their sockets.

  “Toss your guns in that corner. All of ’em—hideouts included.”

  When the two men at the table had tossed five pistols into the corner behind the door, Navarro walked over to the man lying behind them. He removed a pistol from his cartridge belt, one from a shoulder holster, and a bowie from a boot sheath. He tossed the weapons into the corner with the others, then regarded the three whiskey traders coldly. They stared back at him in kind.

  “Who belongs to that white Arabian out in the corral yonder?” Navarro asked.

  When none said a word, Navarro approached the table. He swung the rifle back and forward, laying the barrel soundly against the head of the man on the left. The man was nearly thrown from his chair. He clutched his ear, drew the hand away, and looked at the blood smeared on his fingers. “Son of a whore!”

  “I’m gonna ask you one more time, and I better get a straight answer. Who bel—”

  “It’s his!” cried the man with the torn ear, jerking his head back to indicate the man lying against the wall.

  The big man lay glaring up at Tom with flared nostrils. Blood puddled the floor beneath his shoulder.

  “Where’d you get it?” Tom asked.

  The wounded man shrugged his good shoulder. “Cabelludo cazadores.”

  “Where’d you run into these scalpers?”

  “Rio Bavispe.”

  “Which way were they heading?”

  “They head south. Traded the horse for whiskey.”

  “They have Yanqui girls, gringas, with ’em?”

  The wounded man nodded slowly. “They have gringas.” He made a lewd gesture and spread a grin. “Bonita gringas.”

  A half hour later, when Navarro had learned the direction Bontemp’s men were headed, he sent the whiskey traders off in their wagon.

  He left their guns with the goat herders and headed south. Karla’s Arabian followed on a lead line.

  Chapter 20

  Two hours after good dark, Bontemps’ slavers herded their captives single-file through high, pinion-studded buttes and deep-scored canyons. Hooves clipped rocks, saddles squeaked, bridle chains jingled. Gassing to kill time, the men snorted occasional laughs and were shushed by Bontemps, wary of Indians or bandits having spied the female flesh.

  They’d been riding ten hours since sunup when the renegade leader called a halt at the lip of a wide, deep valley. Karla lifted her head from a doze, and glanced below, where stars shimmered off a stream curving at the valley’s bottom. Loud booms sounded in the distance, like giant hammers pulverizing rock.

  “Home, sweet home.” Bontemps rode among the girls clumped at the lip of the ridge, slumped in their saddles, hands tied to the horns. “Boys, give our girls a long drink of water. I want ’em lookin’ fresh for Sister Mary Francis.”

  “You got it, Edgar,” one of the men said. He and two others kneed their mounts up to the girls and held canteens to their parched lips.

  Karla was too fatigued to be thirsty, but she drank the warm water, anyway. Strange as the name sounded, she didn’t ask who this Sister Mary Francis was. She was too dispirited to care about anything except curling into a ball and drifting into dreamless sleep.

  When she and the other girls had finished drinking, Bontemps turned his horse to the ridge, throwing an arm forward. “Let’s go down and turn our booty in, then see about some women and panther juice!”

  The others whooped and yelled as, tugging and kicking at the girls’ mounts, they followed their leader over the ridge and down the valley’s steep wall. Karla leaned back in her saddle to keep from being thrown over the horn. Her horse followed Billie’s, switchbacking along the slope toward the lights of a town twinkling at the bottom, spread out along both sides of the stream.

  When the trail finally leveled and widened into a road, Billie glanced at Karla riding up on her right. It was too dark for Karla to see much of the girl’s face, but she sensed Billie’s terror. Her own fear sparked beneath her fatigue, her heartbeat quickening, nudging away her dolor.

  What awaited her and the other girls at trail’s end?

  The eager slavers urged their mounts into a jog as they headed toward the lights clumped ahead along the stream. They met several heavy wagons, with wheels taller than most men, clattering over the pot-holes. As they passed, the bearded wagoneers shouted jubilant greetings while raking their glances across Karla and the other girls and yelling bawdy epithets to Bontemps’ men, who responded in kind.

  “Nice bunch you got there, Edgar,” a driver called as the group traced a slow bend in the trail, passing an old mine portal yawning from a slope. “A very nice bunch indeed!”

  “Glad you’re pleased, Aldo!” Bontemps returned, waving his battered bowler.

  The procession passed several shacks and corrals buried in the rocks and sage, then split two lines of adobes and false-fronted clapboard establishments throwing lantern light onto boardwalks and the dung-littered street.

  Pianos clattered behind brightly lit saloon windows. Two dogs ran out from an alley to bark and nip at the horses. Men standing along the boardwalks—broad, bearded men in cloth caps and low-heeled boots and suspenders—held out their drinks and cheered.

  “Nice to see white girls again, Edgar!” one man shouted in a heavy German accent. “Ole Chris here has started lookin’ as purty as a Frisco dove. Ha!”

  Karla’s horse followed Billie’s around a dry fountain. A few seconds later, she found herself sitting before a vast stone church standing dark against the sky. There was a seven-foot-high wal
l around the church, with several saddled horses tied to hitchracks.

  Beyond a wrought-iron gate, a man holding a rifle rose from a chair. The man opened a door and disappeared inside the church. A minute later, the door opened again. A stocky woman in a long dress stepped out, silhouetted by the lantern light behind her. The first man and two others, with pistols on their hips, stepped out behind her.

  The three men dwarfed the woman in height but not in girth. She paused before the open door. Dark hair was piled atop her head. A cigarette smoldered in her right hand. She took a puff and blew out the smoke. Then she and the three guards moved down the flagstone path and out the squeaky gate.

  “It’s about time you’re gettin’ in,” the woman said to Bontemps, who was sitting his horse ahead of the others.

  “Nice to see you, too, Sister Mary Francis,” the renegade leader returned, his voice thick with irony.

  The stubby woman took another puff from her cigarette as she strolled before Karla and the other girls still sitting their horses, dusty hair hanging in their eyes. While the three guards waited in the shadows of the adobe wall, she strolled back over to Bontemps, planted her fists on her hips, and glared up at the man.

  “I told you not to run the damn fat off of ’em. They’re skinnier than the last bunch you brought in. These Germans and Micks like their women with a little tallow. I done told you that, Edgar.”

  “It’s a damn long ride, Sister.”

  “And what is that smell?”

  “What smell?”

  Sniffing, Sister Mary Francis turned to the horse of the man sitting just behind and to the right of Bontemps. Scowling, she pointed her cigarette at the scalps hanging from the saddle. “Jesus H. Christ!” the woman exclaimed, her shrill voice echoing off the church’s stone walls. “You took scalps again!”

  Bontemps said nothing.

  “I thought I told you not to take any more scalps when you were trailin’ girls. You know how hard it is to get that stink from a girl’s hair? The miners may not mind, but the high-stakes gamblers don’t pay for stink. They getta whiff o’ that just once, and that’s all they smell—ever!”

  “Mr. Ettinger pays just about as much for scalps as he does for wimen.”

  “I told him like I told you.”

  “Well, he didn’t tell me,” Bontemps said, leaning out from his saddle and giving the woman a caustic glare. “And he’s who I work for. Not you.”

  Sister Mary Francis balled her fists at her sides and returned the renegade’s glare. Karla could hear her labored breath, but the woman said nothing.

  “Come on, boys,” Bontemps said, reining his horse around. “Let’s get us a drink.”

  When the eight slavers had turned back toward the saloons, their horses clip-clopping down the hard-packed street, Sister Mary Francis stood scrutinizing the eight captive girls, fists on her hips. Her cigarette smoldered in her right hand. Flanking her was the man with the rifle. He was tall and balding, with curly hair tufted above his ears.

  “Lyle, cut these girls free of their saddles.”

  “You got it, Sister Mary Francis,” the man said slowly, his words slightly garbled.

  As he plucked a knife from his belt and ambled over to the girl on Karla’s right, the stout woman announced, “I’m Sister Mary Francis. You girls have been brought here to pleasure the miners who work for Mr. Ettinger. Pleasure means whatever they want you to do, you do it. You don’t do it willingly and act like you’re enjoyin’ it, you’ll get your skinny asses sent down to Hermosillo or Mexico City.” Sister Mary Francis nodded. “Take my word, you’ll like it a lot less down there.”

  The man with the knife had cut Karla’s ropes, then stepped over to Billie. Stiffly, Karla climbed down from the saddle and turned to the woman called Sister Mary Francis, rage steeling her spine and making her voice tremble. “Who are you? And what in hell gives you the right to bring us here against our wills?”

  The broad woman turned to her. As far as Karla could tell in the dim light, the woman’s face was expressionless. She stepped toward Karla. “You got spunk. I like that.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  The woman’s right hand came up so fast that Karla didn’t see it before it connected with her right cheek—an ear-ringing blow that knocked the girl back against her sweat-lathered horse. Her legs were so weak from the long ride that her knees buckled. She fell, clutching her cheek. Hating herself for showing weakness, she sobbed.

  “I like spunk, but I’ll have no truck with backtalk.” Sister Mary Francis raised her voice to the others. “Let that be a lesson to you all. You’ll be treated right if you do your jobs. But I don’t cotton to back-talk. Never have, never will.” She turned to the three armed men ushering the other girls out in front of the horses. “Bring ’em on upstairs so we can get ’em cleaned up and in bed.”

  When the woman turned and disappeared into the courtyard, Billie appeared at Karla’s side. “You all right, Karla?”

  Karla nodded as Billie helped her stand. Her right cheek was aflame but the ringing in her ears was subsiding. The stout woman packed a punch. “I’ll be all right.” Her voice was thin, quaking. She had to get ahold of herself.

  “You two shut up and get movin’,” one of the armed men growled, taking both Karla’s and Billie’s arms in his big hands and shoving the girls forward.

  One man led the way through the wrought-iron gate and into the stone courtyard, while the two others brought up the rear, making sure none of the girls broke and ran. A few seconds later, Karla found herself standing beside Billie inside the church.

  Only it was no longer a church.

  All the pews had been replaced with square tables and Windsor chairs. Here and there, plush sofas and coffee tables had been arranged in isolated, intimate sitting areas complete with brass spittoons, silver ash trays, and bear, wolf, or panther rugs. Bawdy paintings lined the thick walls between the arched stained-glass windows. Chinese lanterns hung from square-hewn joists and the low wainscoted ceiling.

  “Get movin’, honey,” urged one of the men behind Karla, giving her a brusque shove.

  As she moved forward, following Billie and the man with the rifle, she turned her gaze left, where a black-haired, black-mustached man in a dove gray uniform sat on a dark blue couch, a young girl on his knee. The brown-eyed redhead, dressed in a low-cut cream gown, was leaning back against the man’s right shoulder, nuzzling his neck and fingering the gold buttons on his tunic.

  When he’d spied Karla and the other captives moving down the room’s center, he glanced at the other men in the room and yelled something in Spanish. Several others cheered and clapped. Eyes glassy from drink, the man with the redhead raised the goblet in his right hand. “Salud!”

  The redhead turned to Karla and smiled, then turned her head sideways on the man’s chest and resumed talking in his ear and playing with his buttons.

  Karla regarded the back of the room, where the original church altar served as a bar, with heavy plank extensions winging out from both sides. Several other dark, uniformed men stood at the bar, drinking, smoking, and regarding the girls lewdly as they turned and followed the man with the rifle up a red-carpeted staircase.

  Karla was so tired and sore from riding that, with each step, her legs shrieked with pain.

  “Two to a room,” the man with the rifle said dully, when they’d all reached the dimly lit, second-story hall.

  Doors opened off each side. Kerosene bracket lamps, shaded by deep red glass to make the hall even dimmer, guttered and smoked, revealing the shag carpet runner beneath their feet. The girls just stood there, hesitating. Like Karla, they sensed that once inside those rooms, they were doomed.

  “Two to a room, damn it,” boomed one of the two men marching up the stairs. “Come on, pair off, damn it! We ain’t got all night.”

  A door opened to Karla’s right, and she was thrust inside. Because Billie had been standing beside her, Billie was thrust into the same room.


  “Strip down and get ready for baths,” ordered the man, closing the door behind them. From the outside, a key clicked in the lock.

  On the door hung a small placard:GENTLEMAN, PLEASE USE THE SPITTOON

  AND ASH TRAY.

  Wearily, Karla shuttled her gaze from the door, looking around the room, with its big brass bed, mirrored dresser, washstand, and armoire. Small containers of face paint sat in a silver tray atop the dresser. There were two chairs positioned on either side of a small table, and a scroll-backed fainting couch along the wall right of the door. A copper tub lay on the floor near the bed and a glistening brass spittoon. On the bed itself were towels and nightgowns.

  Karla turned back to Billie standing beside her. The girl regarded her fearfully, lips trembling. Billie clutched Karla’s hand. “What are we gonna do?”

  Saying nothing, Karla gently led Billie over to the fainting couch, and pulled the girl down beside her. She wrapped her arm around Billie’s shoulders, drew the girl to her breast, and held her as she sobbed.

  “I don’t know,” Karla said, staring at the floor. “I’ll think of something.”

  A few minutes later, several Chinese boys in dungarees and rope sandals hauled water to the four rooms occupied by the captive girls. The copper tubs were filled. Sister Mary Francis supervised the baths, letting no girl leave the tub before the death smell had been scrubbed away.

  The smirking guards were allowed to watch from the open doorways.

  Later, when Karla and Billie were in bed, the lock clicked. The door opened. Karla lifted her head. Five shadowy figures entered, silhouetted by the hall light behind them.

  Two grabbed her and held her down. Her heart pounded; she gasped for air against her fear. Two other men grabbed Billie, who squealed against their grips.