“One day follows the next,” McDowell said. “Eventually you die.” He was in a dark mood. “I wonder what made McKinney volunteer?”
“He’s an old friend of the general’s. I expect he thinks he’s doing the general a favor.”
“He’s going to have a rough time of it. The desert’s getting hotter every day.”
In this part of Mexico, the sun of late March was an angry god. José Maria Giron, colonel of the governor’s troops, felt its malicious arrows against the back of his sweat-damp shirt as he ascended the stone steps of the Governor’s Palace of Ures. A sentry came to attention, presenting his rifle, but for the moment Giron ignored the man and let him stand at stiff attention. Giron turned and put his eye on the town. Sun had baked the weathered ’dobes into the land’s common yellow gray. Beyond the square he saw the dome of the church. Absently he crossed himself—forehead, shoulder and shoulder, chest. He tipped back his duck-billed hat and hooked a thumb inside the belt strap that glistened as a black ribbon diagonally across his body from shoulder to waist. The air was very hot; a residue of dust hung suspended. He turned, met the utterly blank stare of the sentry, and saluted, whereupon the sentry resumed his legs-apart position at parade rest. Giron went into the shade of the entranceway. A soldier took his hat and sword and, wiping his hands together, Giron turned up the stairs.
At the head of the staircase another sentry barred his way. This man, following orders, demanded and received Giron’s papers, though he was an old soldier and Giron had known him for years. Giron took his papers back and spoke a few pleasantries with the soldier, inquiring after his family; and went down the hall.
Beside a wooden statue of Santa Maria stood Ignacio Pes-quiera. Aguilar, who was governor at least in name, sat behind the massive oaken desk. Clustered by the far window of the office were Gabilondo and Lorenzo Rodriguez and Jesús Ojeda, the latter two men being officers under Giron’s command. Giron nodded to them all and stood waiting with inbred patience, reflecting on the pleasant company of the melon-breasted girl he had been forced to leave behind in his quarters when Pesquiera’s message had come. He put a hand on his paunch and pushed it inward. I am becoming a soft man of middle age, he thought regretfully. He regarded the stocky, powerful figure of Hilario Gabilondo, who had little fat on him. Gabilondo’s arrogant stare met him and made him look away. The taste of beer hung on Giron’s tongue.
Pesquiera moved away from the statue and crossed to the governor’s desk. He stooped and spoke soft courteous words in Aguilar’s ear, whereupon the governor got up and with a certain stiffness left the room. It was unfortunate, Giron thought; no man should have to act as a pawn. Aguilar was no more than Pesquiera’s tool. Soon he would be dispensed with. It was the way of politics; that much Giron understood. He knew little of the meaning of politics, and disliked what he had seen of it. He was a soldier.
“Señores,” Pesquiera. said, and stood by a corner of the desk until the four men had turned toward him. “I have a mission for you.”
Giron looked upon his commander expectantly. By the window, Gabilondo cocked his hip against the sash and sat tilted that way, arms folded across his chest. There was something cold in the man’s eyes that made a chill run down Giron’s back. He was not ordinarily a particularly perceptive man, but it would have been hard to miss the chilly contempt with which Gabilondo looked on everything indiscriminately. Just now that half-lidded gaze was directed at Pesquiera, who seemed to take no notice of it. His gray beard was carefully combed; he wore the clean dark clothes of a don. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Presently he said:
“My friends, we now have power firmly in our grasp. But to keep it, we must remain popular. Gandara lost office for one reason only. It was not because he was ruthless. It was not because he was greedy. It was, simply, because he lost favor with the people. You understand?”
It was a rhetorical question; no one answered him. He went on:
“The people are happy with us. We must keep them so.”
Giron said, “What must we do?”
“Stop the filibusters,” Pesquiera said promptly. He was looking at no one in particular.
Giron stiffened. When he looked at Gabilondo, all he could see was the hint of a smile. Pesquiera said in a conversational voice, “My agents have been among the people. We have made it known to the people that Manuel Gandara was responsible for inviting the Norteamericano colonists. The people understandably do not wish another Texas.”
Pesquiera looked very complacent. Giron wondered about it. He wondered how such a good man could utter such things with so straight a face. He wondered if this was what would happen with others of Pesquiera’s promises. But it was politics, and since he did not understand politics, he said nothing.
Pesquiera went on:
“Gandara is to blame, then. The people do not want us to allow the filibusters to invade our state. Señor Crabb must be stopped.”
Giron felt the stale taste of beer; he swallowed; he said in a small voice, “How?”
“I have dispatched a messenger with a letter to Sonoyta, which is on the border of the Estados Unidos. In the letter I have warned Señor Crabb that we have no further need of his services, and that he would be well advised to turn back.”
Giron felt himself relaxing. “That is good,” he said, and nodded his head wisely.
“But,” Pesquiera continued mildly “I do not believe that the letter will have much influence on our friend the good Señor Crabb. If you will pardon my saying it, I believe the man is a foolhardy adventurer. Of course, he may take heed. He may turn back. In that case we have nothing to worry about, no? But we must of course be prepared for whatever comes.”
He went around the desk and sat down in Aguilar’s chair, the governor’s seat. The desk top was a massive brown polished surface against which he placed both hands. He sat back with a proprietary air. Giron, standing twenty feet away, folded his hands behind him and tucked his chin down. Pesquiera said: “We must be prepared. All we know for certain is that Crabb left San Francisco in January with approximately one hundred men. How many men he has now, we do not know. He may perhaps have recruited many more soldiers during his journey. He will be made bold because he undoubtedly still expects his comrade, General Cosby, to reinforce him at the Concepcion with one thousand men. I am sure Señor Crabb does not know that General Cosby died five weeks ago in a runaway wagon. An auspicious accident. At any rate, we do not know where Crabb is now, or how many followers he has. We must assume the worst. Ojeda.”
“Sí,” said Jesús Ojeda, stepping forward from the window, standing smartly at attention. Ojeda wore his sword, Giron noticed. Pesquiera said, “Ojeda, you will take twenty men and march to Sonoyta. If Crabb is still there, you will conceal yourselves until he moves. If he turns north and goes away, you will leave him alone. If not—if he advances across the border and seems to be marching this way, you will fortify your men at Sonoyta to prevent his return.”
“Sí,” Ojeda said. Giron met his eyes. Ojeda was a good soldier. Giron liked him.
“If Crabb has already passed Sonoyta,” Pesquiera went on, “you will find out which way he went, and act accordingly. If you find him headed toward the Concepcion, you will dispatch a messenger on a fast horse to the town of Caborca, with a message for Colonel Rodriguez, so that he may prepare himself. Comprende?”
“Sí,” Ojeda said a third time.
“Very well. Rodriguez?”
Lorenzo Rodriguez came forward to stand at Ojeda’s shoulder. Giron did not like him so well. He thought that Rodriguez was a fool when it came to military work; he did not see with a soldier’s eyes.
“Rodriguez,” said Pesquiera, “you will leave immediately with a squad of well-armed soldiers, and you will take with you sufficient wagonloads of arms and ammunition to equip the local militia at the town of Caborca. You will prepare the town for a possible invasion, and you will fortify yourself so that, if Crabb’s column arrives, you will be able to contain
him until reinforcements arrive. Is that understood?”
“Sí,” Rodriguez said.
“Bien. Now, as to you, Hilario.”
Gabilondo did not step forward. He maintained his slouched seat in the windowsill. His bleak gaze wandered around the room like a restless horsefly and finally came to rest on his commander. Pesquiera said: “You will take two hundred soldiers and a pack train with weapons and ammunition to arm as many additional volunteers as you are able to gather in the towns between here and the Concepcion. You will take sufficient time to recruit a large party and train them, at least rudimentarily. At the same time you will maintain a steady march toward the Concepcion, and you will throw scouts forward to find out if the Crabb filibusters have penetrated the valley. If they have, you will make contact with them and stop them. You will prepare yourself to engage them in battle if they choose not to surrender.”
Gabilondo’s smile was cool. Pesquiera said, “Oh, and you, Giron—you will accompany Hilario as his second-in-command. That is all. Good luck to you, amigos.”
Outside, on the steps of the palace, Giron thought of the woman who awaited him in his quarters, and the jug of beer yet half full, and he said, “I suppose we will decamp in the morning, eh, General?”
“We will decamp immediately,” Gabilondo said flatly. “Gather your equipment and meet me on the parade ground at the barracks. In half an hour, Colonel.” Saying no more, Gabilondo went briskly down the steps pulling on his gloves.
Shrugging with regret, Giron squinted toward the afternoon sun and tramped slowly across the dusty square. There were times when one had to forego one’s pleasures for the sake of duty.
CHAPTER 14
From the hilltop, Charley looked back across the barren eroded leagues and saw, bright in the morning sun, the little camp a mile away. One man stood on the flats—Captain Freeman McKinney, waving his hat to them, a tiny shape threatened by the vast sweep of the dry flats. Charley kicked aside the whitened skull bone of a mule. The jaw clattered. He went on, tramping pebbles into the earth. In time they were over the far side of the hill and McKinney’s little camp was no longer in view. McKinney had twenty men, sick or blistered; the main party was reduced to fewer than seventy. Charley trudged along in formation beside old John Edmonson. In front of them walked Carl Chapin, who did not talk at all, and one-eyed Sam Kimmel, who had regretfully left Chuck Parker behind. Kimmel appeared to hold himself responsible for the lurch of the ship that had made his gun go off and smash Parker’s leg. Perhaps it was right that he should feel so; Charley didn’t know. He did know that as far as his own feelings toward Chuck Parker were concerned, there was no regret in him and no particular sympathy for Parker. It was Parker, after all, who had killed the little miner for his poke.
At the head of the column the officers rode horseback. All the other men were now afoot; what horses and mules could be spared were burdened with packs, and the rest of the stock had been left with McKinney for transportation of the sick. Far out ahead of the column a solitary rider appeared occasionally on the horizon. That was Norval Douglas, scouting the trail and leaving markers as he went. A sluggish current of air scorched Charley’s dry skin. He pulled his hat forward against the sun that burned his face. His feet, sore a month ago, had toughened up; his legs moved along with an easy rhythm, wasting no motions. On the nearby horizon swells was a spindle tracery of greasewood and yucca stalks. Particles of mica and pyrites in the ground flashed slivers of brilliance against his squinted eyes. Heat pulsed along the ground. Ahead, the violent pattern of the land buckled up in crooked shattered tangles of yellow and brown and gray.
Across the silent air, old Edmonson’s voice seemed to jump at him: “I had a talk with our friend Douglas last night. He’s a sound man, but I believe he needs something to soften his hardness.”
Charley turned an indifferent glance on him. Just now he felt little respect for Edmonson; the past few weeks had given him the impression that Edmonson was always padding around like a dog waiting for scraps. But at times Charley listened with respect to the old carpenter’s talk of kindness and unhurried satisfaction with life as it came. In moments like this one he found himself almost torn between the attitudes of Douglas and Edmonson; he seemed to lose his identity and become nothing but a slate on which impressions of other men were printed.
Edmonson bent over his hollow chest and coughed without losing stride. “That’s a bad cough,” Charley said.
“Just came back to me recently,” Edmonson said, and shrugged. “When I was young, each year there would be a doctor who told me I was dying. After a while you learn to ignore things like that. For a dying man I’ve lived a good span of years.”
“Just the same, this would be a hell of a place to die.”
“Well,” the old man said, with a quizzical turn of his lips, “perhaps you could suggest a good place to die?”
“You know,” Charley said by way of an answer, “I don’t think you really know what you’ve bought into. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be here now.”
Edmonson walked scuffing the ground with his bootheels. He said, “Putting too much trust in too many people—perhaps that’s my great fault. But I’ve survived through it this far. With luck I’ll last a little longer. I don’t have much to lose, at any rate. But with you it’s a different thing. I should think that of the two of us, you’re the one who’s putting the most in the balance.”
“I can look out for myself,” Charley said.
“That’s fine,” the old man answered, and Charley wondered if he imagined the touch of dryness on his tone. Hard bright heat lay across the desert. Edmonson gestured with a lunge of his arm. “Just the same,” he said, “this is a hell of a thing to die for.”
“The desert, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Then what are you doing here?” he said bluntly.
Edmonson looked at him. An obscure smile came to his mouth. “Well, I’ll tell you something,” he said. “Essentially, nothing has much meaning to an old man. Everything can be canceled at any time. I just walk along and run my little shoestring life and mind my own business most of the time. I like the desert air—even if it’s hot I can breathe it. I’m all right, you see, as long as I keep my lungs dry.” He paused. There was the sound of feet regularly crunching the earth. Back along the column somewhere a man was softly humming a tune. Edmonson seemed to be rummaging in his thoughts. He said, “You strike me as a shrewd enough young fellow. What are you looking for?”
“Looking for?”
“You must be searching for something. Otherwise why are you here?”
Charley made no answer. In truth, he didn’t have a ready answer. “You’re still walking around looking for a place to sit down,” Edmonson said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When you accumulate a little humility,” the old man went on, as if Charley had said nothing, “then perhaps you’ll have found what you’re looking for. But it will take time. Humility is not a virtue of youth.”
“What have I got to be humble about?”
“Exactly,” Edmonson murmured. “Youth is arrogance. From where you stand, a man is either a hammer or an anvil. To your eyes there’s no third alternative. Therefore, naturally, you seek to become a hammer. Nobody wants to be hammered upon. But you’ll be making a great mistake if you maintain that attitude very long.”
“Why?”
“You become too hidebound. If you insist on being the hammer, it can only lead you in one direction. You’ll become a strong man but a lonely one. Look at Norval Douglas.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s not a happy man.”
“Show me a happy man,” Charley said.
“I put myself on display,” answered the old man.
Charley could not agree. To reduce oneself to the point of accepting whatever happened—that was not happiness; it was vegetation. Edmonson went on: “When you learn to be content with yourself, you’ll hav
e arrived where you wanted to be. Until then, impatience will drive you relentlessly. Look at the way it drives Douglas. He’s a strong man, smart. Probably he’s never knuckled under in his life. But he’s no longer young—and he’s still driving himself because he isn’t satisfied.”
“No,” Charley said. “You’re wrong. He’s satisfied. That’s why he pushes himself. The only way to keep your self-respect is to make the most of yourself.”
Edmonson chuckled softly; the chuckle turned into a cough. “You’ve been listening to Douglas too much. All he’s really managed to do is find a shortcut from nowhere to nowhere. What will all his driving amount to when he dies?”
“It won’t matter then.”
“Just so. Then why not be satisfied with things as they are?”
“Because it matters now.” Charley said nothing further. He did not, however, believe the old man. He did not see how it could be worthwhile to let the wind push him around until he died. What was important was the now—otherwise the only thing that came after birth was death, and there was no point in living at all. He had learned that much: that the present was no longer a dismal uncertain gray; it was, in fact, the only sure thing he had.
Edmonson, he felt, was an old man who was not so much embittered as unknowingly defeated. The old man had given up, and was now busy trying to convince himself that he had been right in giving up. But it would not suit Charley. The greatest failure of all would be failure for the want of trying. In this old man it seemed that fear had turned to a flame that had consumed his strength. But that was no good. Time was here to be used; it was here for him to make something of it. The words, passing through his mind, seemed to echo something he had heard Norval Douglas say. He could not place the time or memory.
Rich light streamed across the desert. On the hour the column halted to rest. Charley sat down on a flat smooth rock and sipped from his belt canteen. The rifle, slung across his shoulder, was a half-forgotten weight that had worn a callus along his flesh. He laid it aside and pushed his hat back, feeling the wind cut through the dampness of his hair. When he looked at John Edmonson, who was lying back on one elbow and regarding the desert without much interest, it became plain enough that the sharp savor of life had passed the old man by. Charley resolved not to let that happen to him. Probably long ago Edmonson had found himself struggling under the belief, encouraged by his doctors, that life was tragically brief and therefore essentially without value. He had lost his capacity to believe; he had flattened himself and somewhere he had obviously lost the knowledge that the day was a stretch of time that he could use as a tool to his accomplishment.
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