The nearest man gave a grunt of anger and the sun gleamed blue on barrel steel. To Bill all movement became stickily slow, as though the low sun and the blue shadows formed some underwater scene. It was incredible that these guards should have such colossal indifference to the law that they would shoot him, kill him here in the dusty sunlight. And he knew at once that it would be written off as a fanatic’s attempt against the life and person of Atahualpa, prevented by his brave guards.
He moved in, ducking low, striking upward at the gun arm, feeling that the portion of a second was stretched out like rotten rubber, would break with the impact of the slug against his face. And the gun hammered the air beside his face, blasting his eardrum, leaving a ringing, frozen silence.
He stood on his toes, feeling the aim of another gun close to the small of his back, wanting to cry out that had he known how bold the guards of Atahualpa had become, he would never have bothered them, never.
And a deep voice with a bullfrog thrum in it commanded the guards. They grasped Bill’s arms and ran him up to the car, ran him there with such energy that he craned his head back as his chest struck the top of the doorframe. They pulled him back a bit, so that he could see into the car. Atahualpa sat in the precise middle of the back seat. His belly bulged against the white cotton outfit, the pajama suit worn by workers in the fields. Underneath the level brim of the spotless white sombrero, the eyes, imbedded in dark pockets of flesh, showed nothing, neither anger nor curiosity nor amusement. They were merely eyes. Organs for sight. As the eyes of any creature in the brush. Hands and wrists, heavily haired, rested on the blocky knees, made childish by the weight of the belly, carried like a sack against the thighs. A bright serape, neatly folded, lay on the seat beside him.
“You know Atahualpa and yet you dared speak in that fashion,” the voice rumbled.
Bill began to understand how this illiterate indio had achieved so much power so quickly. There was a brutal, elemental thrust to his personality.
“Because I thought Atahualpa was not a fool, I spoke in that fashion.” Bill did not use the slurring idioms of the fields, but the crisp precise Spanish of the cities.
The guard on his left twisted his wrist cruelly, bending it back. Bill felt the grasp build up in his throat, but shut his teeth hard against any such fatal show of weakness.
“Perhaps it can be explained why it is foolish to fend off the attack of a stupid young turista.”
“It was not an attack. The mother of the foolish young man is unconscious in the back of that truck. He is desperate to take her across to the doctor in San Fernando. He saw you usurping his rightful turn to cross the river. The ill woman and her son are rich important citizens of the Estados Unidos.”
“I do not wish the good wishes of that imperialist nation, or of the turistas. The turistas have made our money cheap. My people suffer.”
“This is not a talk of politics, Atahualpa. This is a talk of mercy. But as you wish to speak of politics, I must ask if Atahualpa wishes to be known as the man who let an elderly señora die because he pushed ahead of her in line? Or as the man who caused an official protest to be made to the presidente? I had thought you were not yet strong enough to attract so much attention, señor.”
Atahualpa looked at him steadily for long seconds. He gave an order to one of the guards. The man trotted over, stared into the back of the truck, trotted back, and said, “It is the truth.”
“Who are you?” Atahualpa asked gently. It was the question Bill had dreaded.
“The younger Señor Danton, of Mante.”
For the first time there was a flicker of expression in the man’s eyes. “Indeed? The Rancho Danton is a rich place. You dress poorly. But I see you have a gringo arrogance.”
“Matched by the arrogance of your guards, who would kill without question.”
There was another quick order. The men released Bill’s arms. He carefully tested his left wrist. It was painful, but apparently not sprained.
Atahualpa leaned over, grunting, and fumbled with something at his feet. He came up with a cheap plastic mechanical pencil. It was the sort given away by the tens of thousands by United States firms. In an imperious manner he handed it through the window. Bill took it, curiously. He looked at it. On the pencil was printed, “A Friend of Atahualpa.” He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh so hard that he would drop in the dust, hugging his sides and gasping. He knew his face was reddening.
“Do not say that Atahualpa cannot recognize a service, Señor Danton. You will keep the pencil in a safe place. Atahualpa never forgets a service.”
Bill managed to bow and say grave words of thanks and appreciation.
Atahualpa gave a quick order. The man who had fired the shot turned and tried to run. The others caught him. It was very quick, merciless, brutal. Bill turned his eyes from it and saw the young Mrs. Gerrold do the same. Pepe watched with a look of horrified fascination. When the thick wet sounds of blows had ceased, the gun and gun belt were placed in the second car. The unconscious guard’s pockets were slashed and his few pesos removed. He was dragged diagonally across the road, across the gray mud, and pulled out of sight behind the brush.
“There are many others who are eager to serve,” Atahualpa murmured to Bill. “Who will accompany the sick señora?”
“Her son, of course, and the wife of the son, the girl with the pelo blanco.”
John Gerrold had regained his senses. He got weakly to his feet, wiping at the thin line of blood that ran down behind his ear into his shirt collar. He leaned quite heavily against his wife, and his eyes were dazed.
When the guards took the stretcher from the truck, John Gerrold made a hoarse protest. Bill grabbed his arm and said in a low tone, “Look, this is O.K. You and your wife are going along. He’ll see that you get to the doctor. Just keep your mouth shut.”
The unconscious woman was placed, with great tenderness and many sounds of sympathy, in the back of the second car. The displaced guards got into the lead car. The young couple was ushered politely into the second car.
Atahualpa leaned toward the window. “Señor Danton, the doctor will be advised that it will be unlucky for him if he is not able to make the señora well.”
“I am deeply grateful.”
“I am grateful to you, señor.”
The big cars crawled up the blocked planks onto the ferry. The crew removed the planks with astounding dispatch. Grossing the narrow river, the men pulled so energetically on the tow cable that the heavy craft made a perceptible bow wave.
Bill watched closely as it reached the far shore. This time when it stopped, it seemed closer than on the last trip. Shovels flashed in the sun. Men worked like maniacs. The black sedans were like beetles that glittered.
“Boy, you got more guts than sense,” a voice said.
Bill turned and looked down into the tough face of the man called Benson. Benson seemed genuinely awed. Bill said, “I had a little luck, too. I didn’t know I’d get shot at. I thought the worst I could get would be a good beating.”
“What the hell did he give you?”
Bill showed him the pencil. “This.”
“I’ll be plain damned! A two-bit pencil. Friend of Atahualpa, eh? Just like a big greaser. Brother, you seem to know this country pretty well. I’d think you’d know that these gooks would just as soon kill you as look at you once they get big enough to wear guns.”
Bill looked at the man and looked away. He knew the hopelessness of ever trying to reach the closed mind, of ever trying to explain that there are no people in the world more innately decent and courteous than the Mexicans. True, it was a country of poverty, of great hardship. But out of that poverty were coming men who were truly great, as well as social cancers like the indio calling himself Atahualpa, teaching his policy of hate, of blind racial nationalism.
You could almost see the roots of men like Atahualpa being nurtured in the Mexican ghettos of the towns of the Río Grande Valley. Men like Atahualpa would gain the
ir strength in the northern provinces, where the border tension was a thing that could be felt as easily as the hot weight of the sun.
No, you couldn’t take a man like Benson down the main street of the village near Mante, just when the dusk was royal blue, and have him see anything but filth. The huts were small, with packed-dirt floors. Women’s hands slapped in endless rhythm at the tortillas, and in the dusk there was love and contentment, a quiet peace of the soul.
Men like Benson would think Mexico was ageless, static, sitting forever wrapped in dreams of mañana. But Bill knew well the truly enormous strides that had been made in the last decade. Education, reclamation, industrialization. Truly, it was a race against time. The comunistas bred in discontent, like flies in offal. Turista arrogance created no love for the powerful neighbor to the north. But if the great men of the nation could move fast enough, could do enough good in the limited time left, then Mexico, a giant awakening, could take a true and strong place in the ranks of the democracies.
Bill shivered with reaction. There was still a shrill whining whistle in the ear that had been too close to the muzzle blast. He could take no pride in having done what was, basically, a foolish thing. It could have destroyed in a few minutes what Dad had taken twenty years to build. And yet, with an incredible luck, he had come out of it labeled Friend of Atahualpa. Something in a girl’s grave eyes…
He felt as though this incident had caused an odd awakening. Something in his brain had shifted a bit, formed a new pattern. He wondered if he would continue to be as content as he had been before, content with the work and the planning at the rancho.
Benson had wandered away. Pepe moved close to Bill. “I shall now die before my time, amigo. There is a damage to the heart.”
“To add to the damage already caused by a lady.”
“I do not believe it wise to tell your father, Beel.”
“I will tell him. It is a thing he should know.”
“Ai! A nice little trip for parts for the machines. I am quieting my nerves by observing the tall twins with the blonde hair. Such statues. Such splendor! How is it possible that they should belong to the little man with the crooked face?”
“Perhaps he has great wealth. Or it was not permitted to break up a set.”
“When the trouble came, the twin girls looked on with excitement, and yet a certain calmness. The little man with the crooked face disappeared behind a tree, very wisely, I thought.”
“And you?”
“There happened to be a wrench on the floor boards of the truck. It jumped into my hand. Believe me, I did not pick it up. I do not know why I held it. Had they killed you, it would have impeded the speed of my running. The two little darlings of the small automobile left quickly and have not returned. She of the yellow dress dodged between the cars. The hard little man with the wicked face dropped flat in the ditch at the sound of the shot. Everyone was wise except you, Beel.”
“And now I am a Friend of Atahualpa. Let us see if we can help the guard who was beaten.”
They went to him. Some children stood at a respectful distance, gravely watching the unconscious man. His face was a bloody ruin. They took his arms and dragged him well into the shade. He groaned and put his arms across his eyes.
“How do you feel?” Pepe asked.
The injured man uttered an obscenity.
“Obviously,” said Pepe, “his mind is undamaged. The pattern of his thoughts is unchanged.”
The man suggested in a ragged voice that both Pepe and Bill depart for the purpose of committing impossible acts on themselves. Pepe shrugged. They left him there, in the shade, the children still staring at him.
The two boys had come back to their MG. They looked cool, haughty, as though they had arrived at some new mental attitude that enabled them to feel completely indifferent to their surroundings. The face of the injured one had become swollen and dark in the area of the broken nose. It was evident that he would have, quite shortly, two stupendous black eyes.
Bill looked across the river. The planks had been set in place and he saw the second car dip cautiously down, gain the foot of the opposite road, and follow the other one up into San Fernando, in a swirl of dust.
“At last,” said Pepe, “it appears that we may one day cross this mightiest of raging torrents. And when we are old men, we shall reach Houston. And by the time I return, I will find that my beloved has married a rival and borne seven children.”
The two blondes in their denim play suits and red shoes approached Bill and Pepe.
“Do you speak enough English to tell us what was going on?” one asked.
“Just a little political discussion,” Bill said.
“Is anybody going to do anything for that man behind the bushes, or do they just let him lie there and bleed?” the other one asked indignantly.
“Let him bleed,” said the little man with the crooked face. “Friend, that sounded like Texas talk. Let me introduce myself. Phil Decker. These are my partners, Riki and Niki. We’re the Triple Deckers. Been playing the Club de Medianoche. Bet you’ve heard of us. Got a good play in the Mexico City papers.”
“We live out in the sticks,” Bill said apologetically.
“What was all the shooting about? Shooting makes me nervous.”
“Just a little mistake, Mr. Decker. My name’s Danton. Bill Danton.” He turned to introduce Pepe, but Pepe had wandered discreetly away. He stood by the truck looking fondly at the two sets of long slim legs under the blue play suits.
“We’re number twenty-three or so in line, Bill,” Decker said. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”
“Looks to me like the river has stopped dropping. If the current doesn’t fill up those holes they’ve dug, they ought to get back on a regular schedule. Say, offhand, ten minutes for each trip.”
“Four hours, maybe? Say now, that’s all right. Listen, gals. It’s a little after four now. We’ll be across around eight, be in Harlingen by midnight, anyway.”
One of the blondes was staring across the river. Shouts came thinly through the air. Shouts of warning.
“What goes on over there?” the girl asked.
They all stared over. A gray truck was lumbering up the planks. The motor was racing, but it didn’t seem to be making any progress. Then, looking like a child’s toy in the distance, it swiveled a bit to one side. The back end dropped abruptly. They heard wood ripping and splintering. The front end of the truck lifted a bit, wheels turning slowly, and then the whole thing dropped over onto its side. Muddy water shot out in a high hard spray. There was silence and then more shouting.
“That really does it,” Bill said softly. “That does it good. Damn fool raced his motor and spun his wheels on the planks and she went off. Couple of tons of truck plunk on its side right in the way. Mr. Decker, you better add four or five hours to that estimate.”
Nearly all of the people who were waiting to get across came running down and crowded on the bank, staring across at this new catastrophe. Bill heard Benson cursing softly, torridly. On the faces of most of the rest was apathy, resignation. The feeling seemed to be duplicated on the far side of the river, where weary men stood and stared at the beast of a truck on its side in the water.
Chapter Seven
WHEN Linda had heard the grating crack of barrel steel on the skull of her young husband, had seen him turn with a dazed question in his eyes and go down heavily into the roadway, she had forgotten for a time the way his hand had cracked her across the mouth, forgotten his hysteria.
She went to him and turned him over, completely stunned by the casual brutality of the men who had struck him. It was a manner of life completely outside of her experience, and there was enough of the primitive in her so that she did not break down, but instead turned to the nearest possible source of help, the tall, wind-bitten man with the gray eyes, the quietness in his slow voice.
She looked at him in appeal and saw the wariness in his eyes, sensed his reluctance. For a time she tho
ught he might turn away, and then he flipped the cigarette aside, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the armed men.
She knelt by her husband, reached out, groped for his glasses, put them in her purse without for a moment taking her eyes from the tall wedge of Texan back. As John Carter Gerrold sighed, as a child will in its sleep, she saw the aimed blow and cried out, but her cry came after Bill Danton had dodged the blow, came as his heavy hand swiped down and slammed the attacker into the dirt. It all happened with a frightening speed. She caught the wink of murder in the opaque eyes of another, heard the shot, flattened by space and heat, and did not know in that moment if the bullet had hit Bill Danton. She thought it had, and she remembered his reluctance, knew that the moral guilt was hers. And then they grabbed him and ran him against the side of the car, the two stocky men handling him easily, as though he were a long-legged rag doll.
For a time the man who was her husband, sitting up slowly, slack-faced, was forgotten. She saw the acts in the tableau, but she could not understand the words. John stood up, protesting as they took the stretcher gently from the truck. His face looked bald and naked without the glasses, the eyes peering and vague.
They were urged into the second sedan and it followed the first one up the braced planks onto the deck. There was the driver, and one guard, in the car with them. As soon as the wheels were blocked on the ferryboat deck, the driver and guard got out, leaving the three of them alone.
She saw how pale he was. “How do you feel, John?”
He. looked at her as though trying to remember who she could be. “All right. How did this happen?”
“Mr. Danton fixed it. He asked the man to do it.”
“He did better than I did.” John said bitterly. “Everybody goes better than I do. Danton, Benson, that Mooney girl.”
“You’re doing all you can, John.”
“Within the limitations of my ability.”
His mother was between them. Now she was a stranger to Linda. She had been a stranger before, also. A compact, merry woman with cool eyes, treating her daughter-in-law as a necessary evil. Treating her not as a person, but as something she disapproved of, yet thought was probably necessary to the well-being of John Carter Gerrold. Like the red bicycle at twelve and the catboat at fourteen and Dartmouth at eighteen. John was the picture, and a toy or a college or a wife were changing frames for the picture. Linda had felt strongly that Mrs. Gerrold had judged her purely on the basis of probable virginity at the time of marriage, and personal cleanliness. There had been the air of “I do hope she will amuse John.”
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