Fistful of Hate

by Steve Lee

  El Muerte strode over to the writhing boy. 'Take him to the mission,' he called out so that all the villagers could hear. 'Let the old women who call themselves priests see to him!'

  El Muerte walked from the boy towards his horse. On the way something caught his eye. He stooped and picked it from the dust. Then he approached the villagers, searching amongst their empty-eyed faces. He found what he was looking for — a young girl who would have been pretty had it not been for the bitterness which veiled her youth.

  'For you, Carmen,' he smiled, pressing something cold and moist into her hand. 'The ear of the bull should always go to the prettiest girl in the crowd.'

  The bandits grinned like monkeys. There was not one amongst them who had not sunk his flesh into the flesh of Carmen many times. Carmen looked at Pascual's bleeding ear in her hand, stared at it as if it were a scorpion nestling on her palm. Yet she did not throw it down. A life with shame was better than no life at all. Her hand closed tight around the ear.

  'Gracias, señor,' she said and curtsied. Her lips even succeeded in forming a smile of thanks.

  'De nada, señorita,' the bandit smiled, clicking his heels and bowing with mocking courtesy.

  El Muerte mounted his black horse and galloped from the arena, scattering villagers. His men followed in a pack close behind, yipping and yeying.

  Later, José the pulque-vendor took home his new champion fighting cock, feeling considerably more than fifty pesos wealthier and musing that the ways of men and God were strange but not without their small rewards.

  * * *

  'Jesus, it's hot 'nough to sweat the Devil's tail,' Joe Hardy told himself, loud enough for Sloane and Billy Wang to hear.

  Their horses were hoofing through an endless rolling sea of baking sand, and blistering heat poured down onto their heads like the sun had a personal grudge against them. They seemed to be taking a long time getting nowhere. Except that the tracks of El Muerte's gang still stretched ahead like a welcoming red carpet leading them ever deeper into the land of death.

  'Well, now, here I am ridin' through somewheres what's hotter'n Hell to me certain death,' Joe mused, 'in comp'ny with a heathen Chinee an' a feller that looks like he's just missed his own funeral — and not a word a' decent conversation between the two of 'em! If that ain't a sign I've gone an' lost what Utile good sense the Lord saw fit to gi'me, I don't know what is…'

  Sloane and Billy weren't the only company Joe had. Above, patient buzzards followed their slow progress, wheeling over their heads in wide lazy circles. Joe eyed them defiantly.

  'Stick around as long as you want, ya squawkin' devils,' he told the buzzards, 'but you'll wait till this hell freezes over afore you gets a free meal outta Joe Hardy!'

  Joe swung round on his two human companions.

  'Promise me one thing, boys — that if I gets called to me maker, you'll give me a grave to rest me bones in… with a marker so folks'll know that patch a' dirt's just a mite different from all the rest.'

  'You keep airin' that mouth of yours the way you been doin' and we won't wait till you're dead before burying you,' Sloane told him.

  It was Sloane who first saw the tepee. A tepee where no tepee ought to be. It stood in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing. Nothing alive that is. They rode towards it. It wasn't like any tepee any of them had ever seen before. The skin covering the frame was fresh-scraped rawhide with no Indian markings. There was a chair outside the tepee. The legs of the chair were human shin-bones. A short distance from the tepee rose a great heap of bones of all shapes and sizes. And beside that was a smaller mound of skulls, mostly human. There was smoke curling from the smoke-hole of the tepee.

  The three men sat on their restlessly shifting horses looking at the heap of bones and the chair with the human legs and the pile of skulls and all three thought about Joe's story of the bone devil the Mexicans believed in, the evil spirit that grabbed hold of passing strangers and stripped the flesh from their bones.

  'Come on in — coffee's on the boil!' a cordial voice invited from within the tepee.

  'I'm thinkin' it's time to be movin' on,' said Joe with sudden urgency.

  Without replying, Sloane swung down off his horse and slowly approached the tepee. He drew back the flap and peered inside. He was greeted by a smell of coffee and a dazzling white smile in a dark face. The face belonged to a tall negro with regular clean-cut features. He looked about thirty-five and there was nothing unusual about him as far as Sloane could see. Except that he only had hair on one side of his head. One side there was a close-curling crop of deep brown hair streaked with gray. The other side was smooth as an egg.

  'Hi, there!' the negro welcomed. 'Ain't yo' friends comin' in for coffee?'

  Sloane turned back to his companions and beckoned them forward with a jerk of his head. Reassured to see that Sloane still had meat on his bones and was not already a skeleton, Joe and Billy joined him.

  'Dred Jefferson's the name,' the negro told them and cheerfully rubbed palms with the three of them.

  They sat inside Dred's tepee and drank his coffee. There were more skulls inside the tepee, neat little piles of them all gleaming and brightly polished. Each time Joe's eyes fell on them he pulled a face, wrinkling up his nose like he was downwind of a mule-skinner. He peered suspiciously into the dark and steamy depths of his cup for tell-tale signs of a Mickey Finn. He didn't want to wake up later and find himself looking down from atop one of those neat little piles.

  'Guess you folks is wonderin' what I's doin' with all them bones all over, huh?' Dred asked good-humouredly.

  'It had kinda crossed our minds,' Sloane admitted.

  Dred chuckled richly. 'I'm in the bone-pickin' business,' he told them. 'Done found me some people'll take all the bones I kin find. I picks the bones an' they makes 'em into fert'liser to put on the ground.'

  Billy reached out and plucked one of the skulls from a pile. He balanced it on his palm, peering into the sightless sockets. 'I never knew they made fertiliser out of people,' he said conversationally.

  Dred's laughter boomed melodiously around the tepee. 'Don't reckon they does neither,' he said. 'But you knows what they says — "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"' Turning, he fondly patted the top skull of a pile at his side.

  'I got me a side-line,' he revealed. 'There ain't much profit in the fert'liser bus'ness no more. But there's a feller back east pays fat money for skulls like these 'uns here. A dollar fifty for an Injun skull, two fifty for a white man's. Three dollars for somethin' real fine. He sells 'em again for a whole lot more money… I guess to folks lookin' for somethin' cosy to stick on their mantel-shelves. If'n it's a Injun skull he tells how the Injun done got hisself killed raidin' a wagon train. With a white man's skull he makes out the feller was some mighty fine hero died savin' some chilluns from the Apaches!'

  'How 'bout a nigger's skull?' Joe asked huffily. 'How much d'you get for that?'

  Dred flashed his teeth at Joe. 'We's all white folks un'neath, mister,' he said without offence. He leaned over and rapped his big knuckles vigorously on the dome of a skull.

  'Bone-white!' he laughed.

  'I still reckon it's a dirty business,' said Joe. 'Sellin' the skulls outta the heads a' decent folk like they was just so many cabbages in a heap.'

  The negro looked pained. His smile retreated. 'Shoot, it's as honest a livin' as any,' he said defensively. 'Just tidyin' up other folks' mess is all. No harm in that. Why, I guess if I wasn't doin' it, it'd be somebody else, sho' 'nough.'

  'Man's gotta make a living,' Sloane pointed out generously.

  'When we saw your tepee, we figured you for a bonedevil,' said Billy.

  'A bone-devil,' Dred repeated with slow delight. He liked the name and he showed his approval with a deep sonorous chuckle.

  'Yeah, I guess that's what I am, f'sure — a bone-devil!' He went on chuckling, right up until Sloane said:

  'We're looking for El Muerte. Any idea where we might find him?'

  'El
Muerte!' The name punched Dred's smile right off his face. He stared wide-eyed at Sloane, then shook his head slowly from side to side. 'You sure don't wanna mess none with him,' he said.

  'We aim to mess with him plenty,' Joe assured him. Dred was silent for a moment, his massive shoulders hunched over his dipped and brooding head.

  'All I can tell you's 'bout El Muerte,' he said finally, 'is he usually hangs around a village near here by the name of Lascara. But you'd be crazy to go anywhere near there. He don't like strangers no better'n he likes nobody else. Only good thing 'bout him is he's sure good for bus'ness. Pickin's been real fine since he done showed up…' Dred nodded, his smile creeping back. 'Yah, real fine.'

  The faces of the other men hardened against him.

  'I think business is gonna take a turn for the worse,' said Sloane.

  'Uh-uh, no way!' the bone-devil grinned. 'If you three is ridin' out lookin' for El Muerte, I got me a feelin' bus'ness is gonna get a whole lot better!'

  'Let's be on our way,' said Joe, his voice strained harsh. He stood up to leave. The other two followed.

  Billy hesitated. 'There's something I just gotta ask you,' he said to Dred.

  Dred clapped a big brown hand over the bald side of his skull. 'You bin wonderin' 'bout my hair, ain't you?' he said knowingly.

  Billy nodded.

  'Shoot, that's nothin',' Dred laughed.' 'Fore I come down this way, I was in the Cavalry with the boys in blue. One time we was out on a patrol when a pack of Cheyenne hit us. Whole patrol done got themselves wiped out. There was just me left and I was pretty wiped out myself, let me tell you. Then along comes a Cheyenne an' starts to gi'me this here Injun haircut. I told him straight I didn't want no haircut offa him but he just wasn't payin' me no heed at all. Then up comes this big ole chief an' he done took one look at me an' he says — "Hey, leave that boy be — can't you see he's brother to the buff'lo spirit?" Man, there wasn't nothin' them Injuns wouldn't do for me after that!'

  Dred followed the three men to their horses, his tall lean body moving with catlike grace. Sloane saw the negro looking at him in a sly-smiling way and he wondered what he had that Dred wanted. Then he knew. His head.

  'That's some fine piece of goods you got there 'tween your shoulders, Missuh Sloane,' said Dred admiringly. 'Yessir, that's sho' 'nough a three dollar special. Hope it don't get messed up too bad when you meets up with that El Muerte.'

  Sloane looked down at the negro from the saddle. His thin mouth tightened into a suspicion of a smile. 'I'll ask 'em to shoot low,' he said.

  Chapter Seven

  The soil grew red on the trail to Lascara — like a great drop of blood had splashed down out of the sky and given a bit of life back to the death-lands. Clumps of ocotillo began to eat greenly into the desert, timidly at first then voraciously. Lofty cadrons sprang up, reaching for heaven with their many-fingered arms. Cirio trees bowed their withered tapering heads in respect to the three men riding past. They were riding towards the twin towers of the mission which rose blackly against a gaudy sky. As they rode nearer they could see the village beyond the mission, an impoverished collection of shacks and a few small houses of adobe. El Muerte had chosen his name well, Sloane decided. The village looked like it had died a long time ago.

  People shouted when they saw the three men riding in out of the wavering heat. They shouted in fear and ran like they had just seen a whole regiment of enemy infantry advancing on them with fixed bayonets. They took refuge inside the sturdy mission walls. By the time Sloane and his two trail companions reached the mission there wasn't a soul to be seen.

  Then one of the mission doors creaked open and a broad heavy-set man appeared. He hurried towards them, his black robe flopping to and fro above his sandalled feet. Gravely, he positioned himself in the path of the three strangers.

  'I do not bid you welcome, señores,' said the priest, 'for you have the misfortune to find yourselves in the village of Lascara.'

  'Then we're in the right place,' said Sloane.

  The priest looked at Sloane with pity, pity for this hard-faced Americano who did not know his danger, pity for the tormented people of Lascara, pity for himself.

  'No, señor,' he shook his head, 'you are mistaken. Lascara has not been the right place for many years. Now you must return — go back to where you have come from.'

  Joe addressed the priest in a tone of enormous patience. 'Padre, we've been travellin' for days through some a' the hottest country this side a' Hell — an' now you're tellin' us to turn ourselves right round an' go all the way back again without doin' what we came for… There's no sense in that at all!'

  The priest seemed tortured by indecision. He looked from face to face searchingly. Finally, his expression mellowed. 'Forgive me, señores,' he said repentently. 'It is not my wish to appear discourteous. I am Father Francesco and this which you see before you is the mission of San Pietro. Will you not join me inside for a glass of limon or wine if you prefer… But then you must go,' he added more firmly.

  'Seems to me you're mighty anxious to get rid of us,' said Sloane.

  Father Francesco nodded. 'There is much danger for you here,' he said. 'Terrible danger.'

  They hitched their horses and followed the priest into the mission. Father Francesco was a big man, big enough to have been a vaquero or even a prize-fighter. But the eyes set in his broad strong face were those of a priest — warm, compassionate and contemplative. They were also troubled eyes, for Father Francesco did not always find it easy to be both a man of strength and a priest. There were times when he was plagued by the thought that he might be better able to help his people with the strength of his big body than with the strength of his faith. Such times had become disturbingly numerous lately.

  He led the three Americans through his church. Several shawled women and an aged man were kneeling in prayer, their heads bowed towards the altar with its many flickering candles. Pine needles were strewn on the floor. They made the church smell cool and good after the airless heat of the desert. The four men emerged into an open courtyard. There were vines in the courtyard. And white roses and flowering trees of various kinds. There were also people in the courtyard. People that looked at the strangers with frightened eyes — those of them who were fortunate enough to have eyes to look. For some were blind, their empty eye-sockets masked by patches. Others were horribly mutilated, their noses or lips cut from their faces. Some lacked a limb — an arm or a leg or both.

  A scurrying movement down low made Sloane lower his eyes. Two legless men were scuttling along like crabs, fleeing from his gaze behind the legs of the others. Their torsos were supported on small trolleys with squeaking wheels and they pushed themselves forward with their hands. The men and women in the courtyard looked like the civilian casualties of a long, cruel war.

  'What happened to these people?' Sloane asked the priest.

  Father Francesco knew only too well the suffering faces of his flock. Many a night they crept into his dreams — crept and crawled and hopped on crutches. He did not turn to look at them now.

  'Pobrecitos,' he murmured. 'Death has done these things to them. They have felt the pain of his bite but not its release. We call them the Unfortunate Ones.'

  Shaking his head, Father Francesco led them to the room where he spent most of his time when he was not in prayer or tending to his flowers or his flock. It was a small cool room, sparsely furnished with a cupboard, a table, chairs and some books. There was a plaster madonna praying in an alcove and a gilt-framed picture of a fierce Christ on one wall. A smell of incense hung sweetly about the room. A youth sat dully on one of the chairs, staring one-eyed into space whilst another priest, younger than Father Francesco, bandaged his injured eye. An old woman, black-robed and cowled, watched the bandaging with grieving attention, her hands pressed tight together.

  Father Francesco and the three Americans waited by the doorway for the younger priest to complete his work.

  'I will come and see you later, Juan,' the pri
est promised the boy when he was through, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. The priest nodded to the old woman. She helped Juan from the chair and led the boy by one arm past the newcomers. Sloane looked at the boy as he passed. The boy seemed numb from some kind of shock. His free arm dangled uselessly at his side.

  'It is a dreadful thing to see one so young lose the sight of his eye,' said Father Francesco sympathetically when the old woman and the boy were gone. Turning, he raised his hand towards the younger priest who had stepped forward, eyeing the strangers with unveiled curiosity.

  'This is Father Josef,' he told them, 'my companion in the work of the mission.'

  Father Josef greeted each of the travellers in turn, grasping their hands firmly in his own. He was a small man, barely taller than five feet. His size, together with the flowing monk's habit, made him appear delicate — yet the robes hid a lean sinewy body capable of quick confident movement. His brown straight hair was cut in a fringe which nearly touched the dark smudges of his eyebrows and a neat half-moon beard disguised a weakish chin. There was nothing weak about the eyes though. Whereas the eyes of Father Francesco were inward-turned and meditative, those of Father Josef peered brightly out at the world with a piercing and demanding gaze. Something in the dark bright eyes implied that most of what they saw dissatisfied the young priest and that here was a man who longed to do something to lessen his dissatisfaction.

  The Americans accepted an invitation to make themselves comfortable and stretched out in chairs around the room. They persuaded Father Francesco to pour out glasses, not of limon but of the sombre sweet vino made from the grapes of the mission vineyard.

  'That boy — and those people out there — is that El Muerte's work?' Sloane asked when he had approved the wine.

  Father Francesco glanced quickly over at Sloane, a suggestion of alarm springing into his eyes. 'You know of El Muerte?' he asked.

  Joe cut himself into the conversation with a chuckle. 'Padre, seems to me there's two kinds a' people round here,' he said. 'Them's as have heard of El Muerte an' them he's up an' killed.'