Jailbreak

by Giles Tippette

  I stopped to take a look at Lew and his prisoner. Davilla looked pretty beat. Lew had untied him, but he still looked like a man that hadn’t been very comfortable for a considerable amount of time. I said to Lew, “Let him walk at first. Elizandro’s men are going to have to trade off. Let him trade off with them.”

  I didn’t know if Davilla understood me or not but he give me a sullen stare and mouthed something in Spanish I couldn’t understand. I asked Lew what he’d said. Lew said, “Well, I don’t reckon you want to know. I don’t think you want to know. I figure ol’ Davilla here ain’t real well acquainted with your temper else he might have kept his mouth shut.”

  “Just let him walk awhile,” I said. “If I thought he could stand it I’d have Norris walking too. It’s him and Davilla that has got us all in this pickle. But you stay in the saddle. If any trouble comes up I want you and Ben and Hays mounted.”

  I swung into my own saddle, noting with what difficulty Jack got mounted. I hoped he wasn’t just being brave to save me worry. If he was bad hurt I wanted to know about it.

  My horse was some rested though I knew he would have admired to have a good drink right about then. But there was nothing I could do about that. I rode to the front of my little caravan and said, quietly, “Let’s go.”

  We went trailing off across the plains, skirting the little hummocks, traveling by the moonlight and generally heading for the railroad tracks and the telegraph line.

  8

  All through that long night we trailed east by northeast. I didn’t want to head directly east because that wouldn’t have taken me a mile closer to the border. I wanted to make every mile north I could while at the same time angling toward that telegraph line.

  The trek was wearing us all down. We hadn’t ate, we hadn’t slept and the horses had had no water. I could tell they were suffering badly, especially the Mexican horses, who were simply not as strong as the stock we’d brought from home.

  We kept trailing through the night. Occasionally I would drop back to see how Jack was doing. He was suffering and there was no mistake about that. Lew had untied Capitán Davilla’s hands because his wrist was swollen so badly. I asked Lew how it had come to be broken and Lew said he thought someone had whacked the good capitán across it with a pistol when the capitán was slow putting down a gun. I said, “You wouldn’t know who that someone was, would you?”

  He said, “Oh, just someone who was there at the time. The capitán got confused. He was told to fetch this person one of his spare uniforms and he must have misunderstood because he fetched out a revolver instead. Reckon his hearing had gone off.”

  I inspected Lew in the poor light. But I had taken note earlier that he looked mighty authentic in his uniform. It was even a pretty good fit. I said, “Well, how does it feel to be a capitán in the federales?”

  He said, “Well, it’s kind of funny. I have to catch myself every once in a while to keep from arresting the lot of you sorry bandidos.”

  Once Norris rode up alongside me and said, determinedly, “I want to talk to you.”

  “Not now, Norris,” I said. “My poor tired horse is having enough trouble carrying me without that extra load of righteous bullshit you are dying to load on me.”

  About four in the morning we struck a wide-open stretch of salt flats. It made the going easier, but it also made us more vulnerable to attack. Having the strongest horse, I dropped back, telling Ben to take the lead and keep pointed in the same direction we’d been going. I wanted to see if there was any pursuit behind us. I waited a good half hour. Nothing showed up. And they would have been easy to see with the moon glinting off the white of the salt flats. I gave it another quarter of an hour and then put my horse into a canter to catch up. He didn’t much like it but he was game and he was a stayer.

  So we went on. I taken notice that Senor Elizandro did not exhalt his position. He changed off walking just like the rest of his men. Ben and Hays volunteered to do the same but I wouldn’t have it. Fortunately for the Mexicans, they were wearing low-heeled, calvary-style boots. Next to our high-heeled Texas boots, that made walking a near-bearable chore. A Texas cowboy wears those high-heeled boots so as to have an excuse to never do anything on foot that he can do on a horse.

  I was worrying considerable about Jack. He was looking worse and worse, and every now and then I’d see him sway in the saddle. Norris had taken to riding alongside of him, putting out a comforting hand every now and then to steady him.

  Finally, just about the time I was ready to give up on it, the sun started putting in an appearance. I looked at my watch. In the dim light I could see it was just after six o’clock. We’d been trailing for nearly seven hours. I didn’t know how many miles we’d made, not as impeded as we were, but I had to figure it was close to fifteen.

  At seven I called a halt. I didn’t like our position. We were out in the middle of a broad-ass plain with the nearest cover a good two or three miles away. But there was nothing I could do about it. I had to take a look at Jack and I had to see to my ankle. It wasn’t throbbing worse than I could stand, but it was getting a good deal of my attention.

  And the horses had to have some rest. The Mexican horses were standing splay-legged, their heads down, their flanks heaving even though they hadn’t been doing nothing but walking. A man can go longer without water than a horse can, and these horses had been sweated up a bunch. I doubted the Mexican horses had been heavily watered, as ours had, before we’d departed Monterrey in haste.

  We crawled out of our saddles, most so weary they just sat down where they stood. I went over to Jack and helped him down. When I got him on the ground I saw immediately he was pretty sick. I felt his forehead. He was burning up. I said, “Well, Jack, we’ve let this go too far. At least I have. You’ve got yourself a pretty good infection.”

  Ben and Hays came over to see if they could help, but I ordered them back to the head of the line. I said, “I’m fixing to get kind of busy. So, Ben, it is your watch. I don’t want anything slipping up on us.”

  Senor Elizandro’s men were out to one side, watching, hunkered down on their heels. Miguel had come to my side offering his assistance. I said, “You can build me a little fire. Won’t take much. I can already tell I’m going to have to use a knife.”

  I got Jack’s shirt off and it was about as bad as I’d thought. I yelled at Hays, who was officially in charge of the supplies, to bring me the last bottle of whiskey. Then I took a closer look at Jack’s wound. If we’d have got to it right away it would have been nothing. The slug had hit him in the meaty part of his side and passed on through without touching any of his vitals. But in the time that had passed, the wounds had scabbed over and set up an infection inside. From both wounds, the entry point of the bullet and the exit, little red lines were running out and the flesh was puckered and inflamed around the holes. I was going to have to open him up, let the infection drain, and then stick in some whiskey-soaked tents to keep it draining and keep down the infection. Jack just sat there, his head down, his hands in his lap. He said, “’Twas my own damn fault. I knowed I wadn’t no gun hand no more.”

  “Let that be,” I said. “Can’t be helped now.”

  Senor Elizandro had a small blaze going in front of us from some dried brush he’d gathered up. He said, “How else may I be of assistance?”

  I said, “You might want to hold his shoulders when the time comes. But mainly you can tell me where the hell that telegraph line and that railroad is.”

  He shrugged and pointed east. “It is over there. I know not how far. Perhaps just over the next rise, perhaps a mile.”

  “That’s just dandy,” I said. “Here I am with a wounded man and worn-out horses and we don’t even know where we are.”

  Jack said, “Justa, I’d appreciate it if you’d git on with it.”

  I could hear the hurt in his voice. I said, “Here comes Hays with the whiskey.” I took the bottle out of Ray’s hand, uncorked it and held it out to Jack. “You be
tter take a pretty good slug of this. I reckon this little bit of foolishness might smart some.”

  He tilted up the bottle gratefully. His throat worked several times and then he took it from his mouth. He said, “Aaaah.”

  I said to Hays, “I’ve got a clean shirt in my saddlebags. Take and rip off a couple of rags from it about two inches wide and about six inches long.”

  “Huh?” he said. “A clean shirt?”

  I said, “Don’t stand there gawking and mumbling. Do like I tell you.”

  While I waited I got out my jackknife and began to heat the tip in the fire. Ten yards away I was aware of Elizandro’s men. They were watching us but they were having a hell of a palaver in Spanish. They were speaking low, too low for me to hear at that distance even if I could have understood them. Benito seemed to be doing most of the talking. We were along toward the middle of the line, sort of strung out in the same fashion we’d traveled. Ben was up at the front and Lew and his prisoner were at the end. Norris was lurking somewhere behind the horses and Hays was running to get the rags. All of a sudden Benito and two of the other three got up. The fourth just stayed hunkered down, staring at the ground. Benito and the other two drew pistols. I was so startled I just stared at them. But it didn’t matter. Where I was placed and the position I was in there wasn’t a damn thing I could have done. All three pointed their revolvers straight at me. I stared at them.

  Benito said, “Hey, choo pinche gringo. We want choo dinero and choo horses. Comprende?”

  I shifted my eyes left to Elizandro. I said, “You got a funny way of thanking a man for getting you out of jail.”

  He said, quietly, “This is none of my making, señor. But I will attend to it.”

  Benito cocked his pistol. He said, “Ah doan want none of choo chit, Senor Williams. Choo git up an’ han’ me choo money.”

  I stood up slowly, the hot knife still in my hand. But Señor Elizandro was already walking toward Benito. Perhaps fifteen to twenty yards separated them. He said, in Spanish, “You will not do this thing, Benito. These are our friends. You will not rob them.”

  Benito said, in Spanish, “Get away, Don Miguel. You have nothing to do with this. I am dealing with this gringo. I am tired of being chased and shot at. He has enough money in his pocket and good horses on which we can make our getaway and have no more trouble. We cannot win your way.” He pointed the revolver toward Elizandro.

  I said, “Miguel! Leave him alone! He’s loco. Don’t fool with him.”

  But Elizandro kept walking and kept talking in that calm voice. He said, “I am not going to let you do this. These people have helped us. Is this the way you want to repay them? I thought we were working for the cause of a better Mexico. Now I want you to put that pistol away and obey orders.”

  “The hell with you!” Benito said. By now all three guns were trained on Miguel.

  He was perhaps five yards away when Benito shot him. The bullet took him high in the left shoulder, flipping him sideways and down.

  But almost as an echo to that single shot there came a fusillade so fast I couldn’t count. All three of the Mexicans went staggering backwards, falling after one or two faltering steps. I looked to my left and there was Ben with his revolver drawn and smoke issuing out the end. He had shot all three faster than you could have thought, faster than Senor Elizandro could hit the ground. He was some quick, that Ben.

  The fourth man of the group got quietly to his feet and put his hands above his head. I looked around quickly for the fifth man. They had been six in all. He was standing by the packhorse, by Hays, staring in disbelief and wonder.

  I ran over to Senor Elizandro. He’d caught a bad one. He was on his back, bleeding from his left shoulder. After all the explosions of the shooting, the morning had got suddenly quiet. I ripped open his shirt. The ball from Benito’s revolver had hit him square in the bone of his shoulder. There was no exit wound. It was clear the slug was in the complicated apparatus of bone somewhere around the upper reaches of his arm. I closed his shirt gently. I said, “Miguel, there is nothing I can do for you. This is work for a doctor. All I can do is pour a little whiskey in there to try and keep the wound from festering. Meanwhile, I must attend to my own man, Jack Cole.”

  He said, through clenched teeth, “I beg your humble pardon for bringing men such as Benito and the others down on your troubles. I had never thought they would behave in such a manner.”

  I said, “Rest as easy as you can.”

  I glanced up. Norris was there. I said, “Try to make him as easy as you can.” Then I added, bitterly, “He’d of never of got shot without your help.”

  I got up and went over to the three dead Mexicans. Ben was standing there, reloading his revolver. Each of the three had caught two perfectly placed bullets in or near the heart. Ben said, “I was slow, Justa. I’m sorry. I should have pulled the minute I seen this son of a bitch”—he tapped Benito with his boot toe—“come out with his. Hell, it could have been you they shot.”

  I give him a look. He was a pretty good kid.

  But I still had Jack to worry about.

  The fire had burned down but there was still enough blaze to get my knife tip a glowing red. I advised Jack to take another long hit off the whiskey bottle. The first one was already beginning to work and he was glad enough to have another drink. I let it soak in while Hays brought me the strips of cloth off my clean shirt, the tents, as they were called, to keep the wounds draining. After I’d given him a few minutes I had Hays get around behind him and hold his shoulders while I took after the two punctures with my hot knife. Lord, what blood and gore poured out of those two holes. I was amazed the man could still be alive with so much poison in him. He done a good bit of squirming and smothered curses, but all in all he took it pretty well. When I had let both holes drain as best they could I took the two pieces of cloth, soaked them in whiskey, and then prodded them into the holes with the point of my knife. The idea was to make them heal from the inside out rather than to have them seal off and then putrefy from within. When it was over Jack was just about spent from the pain. I gave him another drink of whiskey and then carried the bottle over to Senor Elizandro, who was lying on his back staring up at the sky which had now turned a merciless blue with that hot summer Mexican sun bearing down on us.

  I hunkered down beside him. I could see he was in considerable pain. I pulled his shirt back to expose the ball of his shoulder. The bullet couldn’t have taken him in a worse place. I poured a little whiskey into the opening the slug had made. He winced and jumped enough to tell me it had done some good. Norris was beside him, down on his knees. He looked a little pale. I said, “Fun, ain’t it, Norris?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Señor Elizandro said, “How many—” Then he gasped a little as some of the whiskey trickled on down into his wound. After a few seconds he got control of himself. “How many of my men were involved?”

  “Just the three,” I said. “They are dead. My brother shot them.”

  “Gracias, mi Dios, ” he said.

  I said, “But we got trouble. We got to get you to a doctor. I just can’t help you. And that is a bad wound you got. Miguel, I got to tell you, right now I don’t know what to do.”

  He said, trying to struggle up, “I can ride.”

  I stood away from him. Hays came over at that second. We looked around. Ray said, simply, “Well, at least we ain’t short no horses no more.”

  I yelled, “Lew!”

  He was there in an instant. I said, “Take Capitán Davilla and ride east. That son of a bitch has to know where the railroad line is. And the telegraph.”

  He said, “He wants to see you. By the way, the bastard speaks English. Some, not much.”

  I said, “Get him over here.”

  After a moment or two Lew appeared with Capitán Davilla. He didn’t look real spruce. His wrist was swollen about twice the size it ought to have been and his uniform was dirty and stained. He walked with the gait of a man
who had either drank too much whiskey or had been tied in a saddle for too many hours. I knew which one was the truth. He stood before me, giving me a sullen look. I said, “I hear you speak English. Tell me what you have to say.”

  He said, without too much disguise for the contempt he felt, “You let me go. I make ever’body go back.”

  I said, “Now, Capitán, don’t bullshit an old bullshitter. I let you go, you are going to bring rain around our heads and it ain’t going to be the kind that makes crops grow. Not unless lead is good for corn.”

  He said, “You make big meestake.”

  I said, “No, you made a big mistake when you treated my brother as you did. Now the best thing you can do is to cooperate with us. Help us. That is if you want to get out of this alive. Do you want to get out of this alive?”

  For answer he spit on my boots and said, “You gonna feed some crows. And maybe some wild dogs. Or coyotes.”

  I didn’t do a thing. I just said to Lew, “I don’t think you’ve got your prisoner in hand. Y’all take off and find us that railroad as fast as you can and get right back here.”

  Well, we were in a hell of a mess. I sat down and eased off my boot. I was expecting the worst but it was nowhere near as bad as I’d thought it would be. The bullet hadn’t even made a hole in my boot, just a deep crease in the leather. There was no wound in my ankle, just a bruise caused by the passage of the slug. Still it hurt like hell and I realized it might handicap me if I had to do any great amount of walking. And it was so considerable better than what Jack and Señor Elizandro had suffered that I gave a silent prayer of thanks. All we’d have needed at that point was for me to be hurt to the point where I couldn’t lead.

  I watched Lew and the capitán taking off across the plains at a slow lope. I turned around to Hays, who was standing by my shoulder, and said, “Let us hope we are close. We are damn near out of options.”

  Lew was gone a good solid two hours. The passage of so much time made me nervous as hell and I kept an apprehensive eye on our back track, but nothing showed up. Actually, the time was handy because it gave Jack some room to get over the shock of what I’d done to him and gave the horses a little rest. It didn’t help Senor Elizandro, but then nothing was going to help him except a good surgeon. And he was about seventy-five miles short of one. I didn’t see how he was going to last that long. Studying him, seeing how he was laying on his back with his hurt arm cradled in to his chest, seeing the pain in his face, I couldn’t see him riding five miles a-horseback let alone the distance to Laredo, which was the nearest help.