Scent of Tears

by M. Juan Knecht

  When I got to the slaughterhouse, I stopped and looked back toward town. I thought I knew where Procopio Bustamonte was staying and felt I owed him something.

  Did I know who he was? I did indeed. There were many reasons why a sighting of Procopio would cause a firestorm of comment. He was extraordinarily handsome. He was the nephew of Joaquin Murrieta and had a reputation as the most bloodthirsty man in the Alta Sierra country. A man who killed for the pleasure of the deed.

  In the nights I went out with my compadre from the slaughterhouse we would occasionally end up on the shady side of town. Intermingled with the bars and gamboling houses were the bordellos. Some were little more than low rent cribs and some were reputed to have the most expensive furnishings in San Francisco. That morning at the office, I had overheard gossip that the dreaded outlaw Procopio Bustamonte had been seen eating dinner across the street from where a prostitute he favored worked.

  Thinking of his arrogant stare when I walked into my house made the blood pound so hard in my head I saw spots. My mouth went dry remembering him with his hand on Lucinda’s shoulder.

  The stable hand had a bottle of salsa he liked to put on his lunch burrito. As a joke he had asked me to try it. I did and bolted out of my chair looking for water with tears running down my cheeks. I found the crusty, old bottle and poured some of the hot sauce in a coffee cup, then cut and squeezed an orange into the cup as well. I carried the coffee cup with me.

  I went to the home of my business partner and stood in the fog pounding on the door. He eventually came to the door with a .44 in his hand.

  “Jesus, Charlie. I usually like to sleep till daylight. What is it?”

  “What is the name of the whore Procopio is supposed to be sweet on?”

  “Why would you want to know that? If you want a girl there are plenty around that aren’t involved with an outlaw who uses a knife because he likes the color of blood.”

  “You are well acquainted with the ladies of the night. Can you give me a name or not?”

  “Teresa, I think. She works in the brothel across from the Pacific Steak House. The place is called Monica’s. If you are going to do something stupid I would like to watch. Give me a second and I’ll jerk on my boots and go along.”

  “No need,” I said and left the house as he yelled at me to wait. At the bottom of the steps, I stopped. Another question had occurred to me.

  “Is the constable who works in Butcher Town any good?”

  “Do you mean good as in easy to buy off?”

  “Is he worth anything as a lawman?” I asked.

  “No better or worse than the rest of them. What are you going to do?”

  “Read the newspaper tomorrow to find out.”

  I walked the quarter of a mile to the constable’s office. I pushed the door open and woke the lawman from his was slumber in his chair. He was a big man, no more than thirty years old with an oversize mustache and short brown hair. The veins on his face were already showing the signs of heavy alcohol consumption.

  “You want to make a name for yourself? Become a famous footnote in history?

  He stood and tried to shake the effects of sleep out of his brain.

  “I have met you before I think. Charlie Horn? You’re a cattle buyer.”

  “Would you like to advance your reputation and your position in the police department? Maybe even get your name in the newspaper? What do you say?”

  Now he was awake. He stretched and scratched his neck, yawned and passed some gas.

  “Which desperado are we talking about?

  “Procopio Bustamonte.

  “Red Hand? Jesus. He is as dangerous as they come.”

  “I’ll bring him out from his girlfriend’s room. Give me a pair of handcuffs and I’ll make sure he isn’t a threat.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “I’m going down there anyway. One of us will end up shot and you will have a report to write. My way, you end up a hero. You can run for sheriff or at the least leave a story your children will tell their children.”

  The deputy reached into the desk drawer and tossed me some handcuffs. He wore a heavy Navy revolver and I asked for that as well, exchanging my small .32 for the larger pistol.

  “What do you want out of this? Are you looking to collect the reward?”

  “He is a stock thief and I am a cattleman. That’s all you need to know.”

  “How are you going to take him?”

  “I’ll worry about that when we get there. Get your shotgun and follow me.”

  The constable picked up a shotgun and checked the weapon to make sure it was loaded. He gestured with his hand to lead the way.

  We walked a considerable distance to the Pacific Steak House. It was a foggy night which got even foggier. I felt like I was outside of my body looking down at myself and the lawman walking in the misty darkness.

  We drew up in front of the Pacific Steak House. I told the policeman to stand in the alley. If he heard shots, he would be in a position to shoot Procopio as he ran out of the building. If I brought out Procopio in handcuffs, he could take custody and take him back to the jail.

  Walking into the bordello, I startled the painted harlot manning the front room. She jumped in surprise, then regained her composure and asked me what was my pleasure.

  “I am an associate of Procopio Bustamonte and I need to speak to him immediately. The law is on the way and he needs to be warned.”

  “We don’t have a Procopio here.”

  “Look, in about ten minutes a well-armed group of constables is going to show up to arrest him. Do you want to spend the next year buying new mirrors, windows and all the fine furniture that has been destroyed by a prolonged gun fight? Tell me which room he is in. I need to let him know the constables are on their way. Be smart about this. All I need is a room number.”

  “You don’t impress me as being a friend of Procopio. Now get the hell out of here before you get your cap peeled,” the woman said roughly. I stood for a moment, looking into my coffee cup.

  “Tug, come throw this clown into the street,” she yelled. From the hallway, a lumbering figure came into the room. From the size and demeanor of the whorehouse tough, I knew further conversation was pointless.

  When the bouncer reached for me, I threw the orange juice and salsa mixture in the cup into his eyes. He clawed at his face. I whipped the heavy revolver across his temple, knocking him to the ground and followed up with a strong kick to the back of his head. Turning to the woman, I pushed her against the wall, jamming my forearm under her throat.

  “Tell me the room number or I’m going to swipe your face with this pistol and then start kicking in doors,” I said, my mouth inches from her ear. She glared at me, and stayed silent.

  “If you don’t want to be a casualty, I advise you to answer me.”

  “Our rooms don’t have numbers. It’s the last room on the left at the end of the hall.”

  Wondering if Bustamonte had been awakened by the ruckus, I walked rapidly down the hallway and kicked in the door. Two bodies were lying on the bed. As I entered, the woman came out of the bed and ran to the corner of the room. She crouched down by a dresser, dark hair and nipples standing out against a white body. I leveled the pistol at Bustamonte and threw the constable’s handcuffs toward him.

  “Put the cuffs on or get shot. Your choice,” I said.

  “Lucinda’s husband? What are you doing here?”

  “I will count to three but you will only hear me count to two,” I said and cocked the pistol.

  “Easy compadre. Let me get dressed first,” he said.

  I stepped over to a chair where a vest was draped. I lifted the vest and felt the weight of a pistol.

  “One,” I said and took aim at his chest.

  “There is no problem here, I’ll put on the handcuffs,” he said then glanced toward the woman.

  “Put that down, you crazy bitch,” Procopio said in a level voice to the woman. I looked back at his paramour
who had produced a knife and was advancing on me.

  “If you try to stab him, he’ll shoot me. He can’t miss from this distance.”

  She stood with the knife in her hand, confusion on her face. She lowered her knife.

  Procopio finished putting on the cuffs. I motioned to him with the pistol to walk out the door.

  “Can I put on my pants, at least?”

  “I think not. This isn’t my pistol so I am unsure what the trigger pull is. If you so much as burp it might go off,” I said.

  “Relax, amigo. We can straighten this out. What would you say if I told you where I have some gold coins close by? I can share it with you. I can give you more money than you can make in a year.”

  I pushed him out the door, down the hall and out into the street.

  The burly constable’s mouth gaped open at the sight of Procopio Bustamonte walking naked into the street. He raised his shotgun and pointed it in our direction.

  “Do you think you can get Red Hand down to your jail?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything but nodded at the handcuffed man and pointed in the direction of his office.

  “My advice to you is to update your last will and testament,” Bustamonte said with an icy smile.

  “My advice to you is to stick to traditional whores and stay away from married ones,” I replied and handed the deputy his pistol back.

  Scent of Tears