The Vanquished

by Brian Garfield

  The earth glittered. A peak stood round and lofty, its slopes darkened by rock. The air was thin and at the same time like a fire’s radiant heat, with an acid burn against the skin. Dust gritted on the roof of his mouth. When he turned his head, the shirt collar scraped his neck. At the head of the column, Colonel McCoun made a signal and the men climbed to their feet. Charley capped his canteen, hung the rifle across his shoulder, and stepped into line.

  A few trees; a patternless scatter of adobe buildings, made with great thick walls and tiny windows. A cupola-roofed well in the center of the square. One cactus wren perched with dusty weariness on the rim of the well. A heavy woman in a shapeless dress, black dusty hair knotted and stringy across her eyes, moving on springless feet with a wooden bucket toward the well; the bird flapped its wings and departed for a slim mesquite branch at the edge of the square. The woman reached the well and listlessly brought up the bucket on its rope, and balanced it on her head when she trudged back into the shade of her house. Across the square on the veranda of his office sat the alcalde, whose name was Redondo, and who was also the comisario of Sonoyta—behind him his building served as general store, mayor’s office, jail. Sonoyta was technically north of the border, and thus a part of the newly annexed Gadsden Purchase area of Arizona; but Redondo, who had lived here under Spanish and Mexican flags, was a man slow to heed change, and still owed his allegiance to Mexico—in particular, to the governor of Sonora. Perhaps it was a trifle illegal; but no representative of the United States, or of the Territory of Arizona, had ever paid a call on him, and in the absence of orders to the contrary, Redondo considered himself a Mexican subject. He looked upon his town without delusions. No one cared very much, one way or another, what happened in Sonoyta. The surveyors had been haphazard, lazy men, and perhaps after all it was true that if a decent survey of the boundary had been made, Sonoyta might perhaps still remain a part of Sonora. But Sonora did not seem to care, and Arizona remained silent, and for all practical purposes Sonoyta town was a reasonably independent province by itself, and Redondo its baron. He was satisfied.

  He was a potbellied man of middle years, with no particular distinction of features except for a scar along his cheek that he had earned at San Jacinto in the war against Texas. He wore it as a badge of honor. Not all men could claim to have fought under the great general, Santa Anna. Redondo had a habit of running his index fingernail along the ridge of the scar.

  His wife, who had put on weight in the past few years, came from the store and spoke a few words to him and dipped a drink of water for herself out of the olla, the clay jug that hung under the veranda roof suspended in a net of rope. Having satisfied her thirst, she replaced the long-handled dipper in the olla and made her brown-skinned, heavy-legged way back inside the store. Redondo remained seated in his cane-bottom chair; it was too hot to busy himself. He thought without emotion that the summer would get a good deal hotter before it got cooler. Today was only the twenty-seventh of March. The thermometer hung above him and he had to twist his head to look at it; bunched folds of fat rippled along his neck. Ninety-six degrees in the shade. He poked a cheroot in his mouth and struck flame with a flint-and-steel mechanism, and thought that in another two months the midday temperature would be up to a hundred and fifteen. Sometimes it gave him cause to wonder why humanity sought out such inclement districts in which to build homes. Why had anyone ever come here? The nearest town of any consequence was Altar, in Sonora on the Concepcion, and that was almost two hundred kilometers distant. To the northeast, it was even farther to Tubac and Tucson. He made no sense of it. For himself, he would never have settled here, except that the government had made him alcalde, and as the only storekeeper except for Dunbar within forty miles in any direction he was bound to make a profit.

  His daughter Teresa appeared in the doorway and he made a frown at her, so that she shut the door to keep the heat out. She dipped a drink from the olla and handed the cup to him. He muttered his thanks and drank, and handed the cup back. Teresa drank the rest of the cupful. “It is very hot,” she said.

  “It will get worse.”

  “Of course.” Teresa put the cup back into the olla. Redondo took pride in his daughter. Her back was straight, her waist was long and slim. Her eyes and hair glistened like a raven’s wing. Her flesh was smooth and brown; her arms were firmly round. She was a very fine daughter. He hoped to see her marry a wealthy man. There was a ranchero from San Perfecto who had been calling on her of late. He was not an old man yet—he was only thirty-one—and he owned a great many acres and many head of cattle. Unfortunately he was quite fat; but one could not ask for everything. The ranchero was a good suitor. Even so, Redondo now and then wished idly that he could live in a larger town, so that his daughter would have more to choose from.

  She had a small head, set aristocratically on a long graceful neck. When he considered his own bull-throat and meaty shoulders, he was amazed that she had proved so beautiful. He wore a gun at his hip, not so much because he was the only law officer within three days’ ride, but rather to keep the young caballeros aware that his daughter Teresa was not to be trifled with. She was but sixteen. There was plenty of time yet.

  She was nibbling on a salt cracker; her hip was perched against one of the posts that supported the veranda roof. Since his was the only shaded porch in Sonoyta, Redondo was jealously proud of it. He squinted into the west and tried to decide whether it would rain. There had been no rain for three months. There were gray clouds on the western horizon, but on the other hand there was no particular wind; and in all his experience he had never known it to rain without raising a wind first.

  A horseman trotted into town from the northwest. That was young Luis, and since Luis was something of a young rake, Redondo told his daughter to go inside the store. She went, after casting an innocent but speculative look toward the slim rider. Luis rode up, his horse’s hoofs boiling up little whorls of dust, and dismounted gracefully, leaving the reins trailing and coming up on the porch with a tinkle of spurs. Luis grinned amiably and touched his thin black mustache, and dipped a drink for himself out of the olla. “Muy seco,” he said—very dry. After wiping his lips he said, “There is a very large group of gringos approaching from that way.” He waved a hand.

  “How large?”

  “Many more than I could count on fingers and toes,” said Luis. “Most are on foot. A few ride horses. They have a number of pack animals, both horses and mules.”

  “They are armed?”

  Luis gave him an impatient look. “What kind of question is this? Only a fool empty in the head would travel in this country without arms. Of course they are armed.”

  Redondo for the moment chose to ignore the young man’s sass. “Anything more?”

  “They will be here within two hours, I think.”

  “Good. Thank you, Luis.”

  Luis grinned and stepped off the porch, and led his horse out into the square. His spurs dragged the dust. He pulled up a bucket of water at the well and gave his horse a drink, then loosened the cinch and led the horse out of the square toward his father’s stable. Redondo watched him go. The party Luis had reported would no doubt be the Norteamericano filibusters against whom Pesquiera’s dispatch rider had warned him not a week past.

  He sighed; his wide chest lifted and fell. In a moment he went inside the store and around behind the counter, where he brought out a double-barreled shotgun. He inspected its loads, gave wife and daughter a bleak look, and returned to the porch. When he sat down he put the shotgun across his lap.

  Time stretched at a ragged pace. Teresa came out for another drink of water, and he said to her, “I have instructions for you, niña. There is a crowd of gringo pirates on the road coming here. They will arrive within an hour—if you look closely you can see their dust beyond the bald mountain.”

  She looked. “I see nothing, Papa.”

  “Just the same, the pirates are there. I do not wish you to be visible to them. One does not put t
emptation in the devil’s path. I have decided what you must do.”

  “Sí, Papa?”

  “Go down to your Aunt Lita’s house by the arroyo. Stay there with her until the gringos; have left the town.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Take a gift for your aunt from the store. And take food with you. The gringos may stay here for an hour or a week—I do not know. You are to avoid them at all times. Do not speak to any of them. Keep a knife with you. Comprendes?”

  “Sí, Papa.”

  “Go, then.”

  She turned into the store. On his cane-bottom chair, Redondo touched the hot metal of the shotgun and settled back to wait. The dust haze to the northwest was advancing slowly. The thermometer read ninety-seven degrees.

  CHAPTER 15

  It was Sus Ainsa’s feeling that matters were not as they should be. Normally he was easygoing enough, in most respects, to take adversity as it came. Today it had come in the form of a complacently delivered message uttered by the fat alcalde of the town, Redondo. The message had been brief and to the point. It had taken Redondo approximately a minute and a half to speak it. It was now taking the rest of the afternoon to digest it.

  The column was encamped in the scanty shade of a row of mesquites that bordered the rim of a dry eroded creek, an arroyo. Crabb was seated with his back against the bole of one such tree. It was so stunted that its branches barely left his face visible. Sus squatted on the dusty ground and, with the other officers, looked worried. The sun was made of brass; its great brilliance attempted to fry them all. Sus’s shirt was soaked against his back and there were drops of oil sweat on his forehead. A lean man, he did not normally perspire much. His legs felt cramped and he stood up to stretch them. He looked out across the camp at men feeding horses, men playing cards, men oiling guns, men arranging equipment, men talking in quiet little knots of conversation.

  Sus thought back upon the alcalde, stuffed with self-importance, sitting in his cane-bottom chair on the porch and delivering his message with pompous tones. “The government of Governor Aguilar has instructed me to inform Señor H. A. Crabb and his party that the people of Mexico will tolerate no invasion. The administration of Governor Aguilar accepts no responsibility for treasonous or unlawful pacts entered into by any previous administration. The present administration refuses to honor any such pacts, and accordingly announces to all immigrants or attempted invaders that to enter upon Mexican sovereign soil is to risk property and even life. No covenants that lead to invasion will be honored. I speak with the authority of the Señor Don José de Aguilar, Governor by God’s Grace of the State of Sonora.”

  The alcalde had gestured for emphasis with the black shotgun he held securely. Then Crabb had replied to him that the party would make camp outside town while considering the announcement. Redondo had nodded and smiled and told them to take all the time they desired. Crabb had been steaming when they reached the campsite, and Captain David McDowell had threatened to return to town and wring Redondo’s fat neck.

  Crabb began to talk, slowly at first, then with heat. “The message is clear enough. Pesquiera, through his puppet Aguilar, has made it plain that he’s going back on his word. This is what we all feared when we learned that Pesquiera had whipped Gandara. Frankly I had hopes that Pesquiera would prove to be an honorable man and would keep faith with his contracts in spite of the fact that he no longer needed the services we were supposed to supply. After all, as you gentlemen know, Pesquiera is related to my wife, and I had hoped that would count for something. It’s clear now, however, that not only is Pesquiera going back on his word, he’s actually denying that he ever gave his word. From the wording of the threat Redondo gave us, it’s plain that Pesquiera is trying to shift the blame to Gandara. That’s what he meant by saying he would not honor any pacts made by ‘previous administrations.’ Of course it’s hogwash, but the Mexican people will believe it. They’ll believe anything Pesquiera tells them. They’re fools—cattle. They don’t deserve sovereignty over this country. Look at the kind of backbiting men who are their leaders. Look at Pesquiera—a man entirely without honor. Gentlemen, I believe that whatever else happens, the people of Sonora should at least be rescued from such foul dealers as Pesquiera and his followers.”

  Sus found himself smiling a little. It was typical of Crabb, to get confounded in his own rhetoric so that at one moment he condemned the people as cattle, and at the next moment he vowed that they deserved to be rescued from their leaders.

  “Gentlemen,” Crabb said, “my friends. We have come far. The desert lies behind us. We have experienced many a hardship. If we allow ourselves to be intimidated and driven away by this pompous threat, then what is it all to come to? Have we labored in vain? I know that some of you fought in the war against Mexico not a decade past. You know the qualities of the Mexican fighting man. Without intending offense to my fine brother-in-law here”—Sus had to smile again—“I think we must all agree that as a soldier, the Mexican makes a very poor showing for himself. Gentlemen, I believe we have come too far to be turned back now. I believe we have expended too much money, too much effort, and too much time to allow ourselves to fail in the face of an empty threat. My friends”—and here his voice rose to a fine peak of energy—“I am convinced that together we must resolve to advance!”

  It was McCoun who offered objection. Colonel W. H. McCoun. Sus looked upon the man with a certain measure of cool contempt. McCoun had been a well-known leader in the state legislature for many years. He had held the respect and friendship of his constituents in the palm of his hand, until at a late date during the last elections he had switched his allegiance to Crabb and the Know-Nothings. And now McCoun gnawed the political bone that had been tossed to him—the position of second-in-command of the expedition. Sus had never liked the big, balloon-cheeked man; he liked him even less now for his hedging.

  “It’s a nice speech, Henry,” McCoun said. “I applaud you. You have a knack of uttering the proper words of courage. But I’m not sure that this is the time for courage or rashness. After all, our skins hang in the balance.”

  Crabb said quietly, “I’m disappointed in you, old friend.”

  “If you want to despise me for cowardice, go ahead,” McCoun said. “But believe me, if mine were the only life I had to consider, I’d probably be a good deal bolder. As it is, I don’t find it as easy as you seem to find it. In effect you’re asking eighty or ninety men to march into a situation that we know is a hostile one. Even under the best of possible circumstances, men are bound to be hurt or killed.”

  “You seem to forget,” Crabb told him, “that within a week’s time General Cosby will be on the Concepcion with a thousand troops. We have promised to meet him in the Altar valley. What is he to do if we don’t arrive?”

  “I’m forgetting nothing,” McCoun said. “Send a dispatch rider to meet Cosby farther downriver. Tell him to turn back, if there’s still time for it.”

  “And if there isn’t? My friend, by this time Cosby has undoubtedly landed his force at Lobos Bay. If Pesquiera is looking for an armed invasion, he’s already got one. You don’t think we could stop him now, do you?”

  “We might be able to turn Cosby back before there’s more bloodshed than necessary,” McCoun insisted. “Besides, with a thousand men he can take care of himself better than we can.”

  Crabb looked up toward the mile-distant adobes of Sonoyta, golden in the afternoon sun. Shadows were sharp-edged and olive in color. He was stroking his brown beard—it was, Sus knew, a sign of thoughtfulness. Presently he said, “No. I suspect that if Pesquiera is preparing defenses against us, he will by now have been advised that Cosby’s army has made a landing on the western shore. It will be a good opportunity for us to move down the Concepcion and take Altar and Caborca from behind, and reinforce Cosby’s column from inland. Gentlemen, the truth of the matter is that we stand in a good strategic position. I don’t understand this talk of retreat. If Pesquiera has alerted his troops
, so much the better—we shall catch him where he’s not expecting it.”

  Sus watched him with interest. This was almost a new Crabb—resolute, belligerent, offensive. He suspected that Pesquiera’s brusque threat had piqued Crabb to the point of stubborn resistance and retaliation.

  “I want to hear no more arguments,” Crabb said. “We will advance as planned.”

  McCoun, a politician, was unwilling to take orders flatly without response. He continued his argument, but failed to sway Crabb. Sus watched it all with dry amusement and a growing concern. His own principal objective in this affair was to restore his family to its proper place in the Sonoran hierarchy. The revolution years ago had stripped the Ainsa clan of its mines and lands and driven them out of Mexico. Displaced to San Francisco, they had done well; but it was a needle pricking the family pride that their lost properties in the Arizpe district had never been restored to them. Sus had seen, in the alliance between Crabb and Pesquiera—both of them relatives—a good chance to effect such a restoration of property and position. But now he could see easily enough that if Pesquiera had turned against Crabb in spite of his promise, then he would just as quickly turn against the Ainsa family in spite of his promise to them. It seemed clear enough to Sus that if he were to turn back now, he would have exhausted himself for nothing. Crabb was right. No doubt the general was exaggerating the ineffectiveness of Mexican soldiery, but at the same time Sus was confident that with Cosby’s force on the mainland, victory was a distinct possibility. For himself he was willing to take the risks; as for the other men, it was not up to him to decide for them.