Book of Secrets

by Chris Roberson

  Tan came walking into the room, as only he can. Suspended from the ceiling in midair, he moved hand over hand, gripping onto the rungs of a ladder bolted horizontally onto the ceiling.

  "You get your nest all straightened out, little chick?" he taunted, barely out of breath.

  "Yeah," I answered. "Thanks for letting me crash here."

  "Hell," he grunted, moving over towards the table where his wheelchair sat, "don't give me that shit. You can stay here anytime you like, and you know that."

  "Okay, but thanks anyway."

  Tan maneuvered himself right above the wheelchair, and without a second glance let go his grip on the ceiling rungs and dropped like a shot into the chair. He landed artfully, a ten point Olympic landing, and casually lit up a cigarette.

  "You know," he continued, blowing out a cloud of rancid gray smoke, "I could probably find out about this bird of yours a lot quicker than Humidor can."

  I let the dig slide, and crossed to the table where my own cigarettes were.

  "Yeah?" I asked.

  "Sure, I still got connections, you know. Just 'cause I'm retired doesn't mean I forgot everything I ever knew, or everybody, and I knew a lot of bodies when I was inside."

  "Alright, then," I answered. "You want to ask around, great, I appreciate it. But don't be giving me shit for it later, like I can't do my job." I jabbed a finger at him in mock accusation. "You're not doing my job for me, you lecherous old fart, you're doing me a favor."

  "Fine, fine." He waved me off. "Just stop crying about it. Come on, fix me a drink."

  The old man finally gave up on the day, just before he was about to drink me under the table, and wheeled off to his bedroom. I kicked off my boots, wondering just what kind of luck I'd got from them after all, and settled onto the floor on my little nest of bedding. The western pulp magazine was at hand and, still too wired up to sleep, I dragged it over to me and flipped it open to the first page.

  "Guns At Dawn: A La Mano Negra Adventure"

  by J. C. Reece

  (originally appeared in

  True Wester n Tales, Sept 8th, 1918)

  1

  String him up, Lefty," shouted the swarthy rider on the seventeen-hand painted stallion. "Don't let him get away."

  "I'll get him, Shorty," replied his companion, in the saddle of a high-shouldered bay. "Just keep your shirt on."

  The two men, ranch hands from the state of their clothes and the easy way they sat in the saddle, were galloping through the brush, across the hard, level ground of the Rio Grande Valley, in pursuit of a man on foot. Their prey, a stocky Mexican in simple white cotton, was on foot, out of breath, and just about out of luck.

  Lefty, standing high in his stirrups, let fly his lariat, and with practiced aim brought the loop down around the Mexican's shoulders. Kicking his mount to a halt, he pulled tight the rope, and brought the Mexican to the ground.

  "Good eye, Lefty," Shorty admitted.

  "What would you know about it, booze hound?" Lefty shot back. "If it weren't for you we'd've got him five miles back."

  "I told ya, I was aiming for his horse, not for him."

  "Yeah," Lefty spat, crossing his arms over the saddle horn, the rope clutched in his fist. "Well, next time you best oughta aim at me. You'd have a better chance of hitting him that way."

  Shorty looked from Lefty to the Mexican, now laying dazed on the ground.

  "Whatta we oughta do with him, you think?" Shorty asked. "Shoot 'im now?"

  "Nah," Lefty answered. "I figure we oughta have a bit a fun with 'im, teach 'im what it means to rustle cattle from Mr. Pierce." Lefty paused, and spat out a greasy line of tobacco towards the Mexican. "Then we shoot 'im."

  "Sounds good to me."

  With a practiced hand, Lefty tied the end of the lariat to his saddle horn, and then turned his mount away from the Mexican. The Mexican, knowing what was coming, struggled to his feet, hoping against hope to find a way out. Lefty kicked the bay into motion, and it slowly trotted forward, bringing the line taut.

  Lefty turned to Shorty.

  "You ready, saddle sore?"

  "I reckon," Shorty answered.

  "Alright then," Lefty replied, grinning. He whistled, one long, high note, through his broken teeth, and then made to kick his horse into a gallop.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out, and the taut line between the Mexican and Lefty was burst in twain.

  Shaken, Lefty and Shorty turned to the sound of the gun shot, and saw a hundred yards away a pair of riders. As they watched, the two riders approached. On the left rode a man on a magnificent Arabian, nineteen hands high if it was an inch, as black as night. The man was dressed all in black, with a mask wound round his face, obscuring his eyes and nose, a wide black Stetson perched on his head. In each fist he gripped a Colt Peacemaker of burnished black steel, each trained on one of the ranch hands. At his side rode a Chinaman, dressed all in red silk, with his thick black hair falling in a queue down his muscled back. The Chinaman rode a stunning bay, and had a Winchester rifle in hand, its barrel aimed at Lefty's heart.

  Both Lefty and Shorty, just barely containing their fear, knew who the two riders must be: none other than that scourge of the plains: La Mano Negra, the Black Hand, and his faithful Chinaman companion, Jin Ti.

  The two riders stopped just short of Lefty and Shorty, coming to rest at either side of the Mexican, who looked from one to the other with a kind of quiet awe. La Mano Negra, each of his Peacemakers still trained on the ranch hands, was the first to break the long silence.

  "What seems to be the trouble here, boys?" His voice was low, and rich, and seemed to rumble through the air like distant thunder.

  Lefty was the one to answer.

  "We're just taking care of justice, mister," he spoke, his voice belying his discomfort. "This here Messican stoled cattle from our boss, Mr. Buck Pierce of the Pierce Ranch. We was only doing our jobs, bringing him to justice."

  "You say he stole cattle?" La Mano Negra asked, indicating the Mexican.

  "I didn't steal anything," the Mexican piped up, indignant. "Those cattle were stolen from me. By Pierce. He is the thief."

  La Mano Negra motioned him silent with a wave of his hand.

  "We'll get your side in a minute here, mi amigo." La Mano Negra turned to the ranch hands again, and repeated his question. "I said, you say he stole cattle?"

  Lefty and Shorty looked nervously to one another, and then nodded their consent.

  "Yessir," Shorty answered. "He stole cattle."

  "That he did," Lefty added.

  La Mano Negra turned to look behind him, and then around to all sides, the pistols still on the ranch hands.

  "That's funny," he finally said. "I don't see any cattle." La Mano Negra turned to Jin Ti, who sat stoically in the saddle. "Jin Ti, you see any cattle?"

  "No, Heishou," the Chinaman answered. "I don't."

  "Well then." La Mano Negra turned back to the ranch hands. "I'm not sure I see the problem, gentlemen."

  Lefty and Shorty looked from La Mano Negra, to the Mexican, and then to one another. They sat in silence, afraid to speak.

  "I'd expect," La Mano Negra added, "that you boys have got some work to do back on the ranch. Am I right?"

  "Y-yeah," Lefty stammered.

  "Yessir," Shorty whispered.

  "Well, then," said La Mano Negra. "I expect you best get back to work, don't you?"

  Without another word, Lefty and Shorty turned their horses away, and kicked them into a gallop. In moments, they had disappeared from view. La Mano Negra holstered his jet black pistols, and swung from the saddle. His boots hitting the dusty ground, he strode over to stand beside the Mexican. Jin Ti, dropping his Winchester in a saddle holster, followed suit.

  The Mexican, his gratitude writ in a wide grin across his face, extended his hand to La Mano Negra.

  "Gracias," the Mexican effused. "Gracias. You have saved my life."

  "Don't need to thank me," La Mano Negra answered, taking his hand. "A
nyone would have done the same."

  "No señor, they would not. Only the great La Mano Negra, and his faithful Chinee aid." The Mexican next took Jin Ti's hand, and pumped it with a hearty shake. "I am Alberto Cuellar," he announced, "and I would be honored if you would take your dinner with my family tonight."

  "Well…" La Mano Negra answered, seeming unsure.

  "And you are welcome to stay the night," Cuellar added. "As long as you like."

  "I don't know, Señor Cuellar," La Mano Negra replied. "We usually don't stay too long." "I don't know, Heishou," Jin Ti commented. "It would be nice to eat indoors for a change, and to sleep between sheets instead of rattlesnakes and scorpions."

  "Well, Jin Ti," La Mano Negra joked, "why don't you just put on a dress while you're at it?"

  "Please, Señor Negra," Cuellar pleaded. "I insist."

  La Mano glanced from the entreating Mexican, to his weary companion, and then back again. "Oh, alright," La Mano Negra relented. "But just for tonight."

  2

  Within the hour they had reached Cuellar's home, not five miles from the Rio Grande, and were now seated around a wide table. Cuellar himself was at the head, La Mano and Jin Ti at either elbow, and Cuellar's young children, two daughters and a son, seated beside them. Cuellar's wife, a plump and happy young woman, was at the stove, completing preparations for their meal.

  La Mano, settling back in his straight backed chair, noted to himself that Cuellar's home was much more inviting inside than it had appeared outside. A rough structure, more stone and earth than wood, was held together more by good wishes than by design, but inside before a blazing fire it was as comfortable as any home the vigilante had seen on the range in many a year.

  Jin Ti, sitting across from him, was quietly sipping water from a battered metal cup Cuellar's wife had produced from some unknown corner, but his quiet air told La Mano that his Chinaman friend was at ease.

  Finally, Cuellar's wife ferried the food to the table: tamales, barbacoa, rice and beans, and flour tortillas. She set a plate before each of the guests, and invited them to tuck in.

  With a glance to Jin Ti, who caught his eye, La Mano casually reached up and, with an easy ges ture, removed the mask covering his face. He let it fall, revealing the features hidden behind its rough cloth. All motion ceased around the table, and all eyes turned to him, all except Jin Ti, who looked on with a quiet smile.

  "Can't eat with the damned thing on," La Mano answered to their questioning stares, and then turned to Cuellar's wife. "Excuse my French, ma'am."

  "De nada," Cuellar's wife answered quietly.

  Without another word, La Mano forked a pile of rice and beans onto a tortilla, and fell to eating. Cuellar made a noticeable effort to relax, and motioned his family to eat.

  Cuellar's oldest daughter, all of eight, kept staring at La Mano, her fork held motionless in the air above her plate.

  "Señor," she finally said in a small voice, "if you are La Mano Negra with the mask on, who are you with the mask off?"

  "Terese!" Cuellar barked. "Do not bother our guest!"

  "Ain't no bother, amigo," La Mano calmly answered. "See, little lady, in my line of work it don't pay for everybody to know who you are, cause they might just come gunnin' for your family, or else catch you unawares in your sleep or just walkin' down the street. But when I'm with good folks like y'all, it don't really matter any more. You understand?"

  "Sí," the little girl answered, and then after a moment added, "So who are you without the mask?"

  "My name's Taylor, little lady. John Bunyan Taylor." He grinned at her, putting her at ease. "But you can call me Jack."

  "Alright," she replied. "Jack. I'm Terese."

  "Pleased to know you Terese."

  After everyone had relaxed noticeably, they proceeded to clean the table of food. When the meal was done, La Mano and Jin Ti complimented Cuellar's wife on her cooking, and then as she and the children began to clean up the two of them joined Cuellar in the main room to share a pouch of tobacco.

  Sitting in rude but comfortable chairs, the three passed the pouch around until each had rolled a butt of his own, and then lit them with kindling from the fire. They eased back in their chairs then, La Mano and Jin Ti just enjoying the temporary respite from their travels, Cuellar beaming at having two such notable men in his home.

  After a time, Cuellar rose from his chair, and brought from the corner of the room a wooden chest, which he placed before the two men. He then knelt down beside it, his hand resting reverently on its top.

  "This, señors," he began, "is the treasure of my family. Within are the things handed down by my grandfathers, and their grandfathers before them. We are a poor people, though we work hard, but to us this chest is worth all the cattle and gold in the world."

  Cuellar then slowly lifted the lid of the chest, and began pulling out items for the two men to inspect. First came a muzzle-loading flintlock, a hundred years old if it was a day. It was rusted almost beyond recognition, long past an age when it was of any use, but the two men could see that it was a prized heirloom to Cuellar's family. Cuellar handed it over, and they respectfully passed it back and forth between themselves, commenting on its fine shape and obvious age. Jin Ti handed the thing back to Cuellar, who carefully returned it to the trunk.

  Next came a metal helmet, shaped like a cone, with a metal fin running along the top. The metal was dented and scratched, corroded to an even green shade. Cuellar explained that his manytimes great-grandfather had worn that helmet, when first he came to the New World, and that his sons and their sons after him had kept it to remind them of their origins. Again, La Mano and Jin Ti feigned interest in the relic, and then passed it back to Cuellar.

  Next came a book, of indeterminate age, bound in leather with a round metal shield on the front. Cuellar explained that this had belonged to his forefather who had worn the helmet, and though he couldn't read a word, of Spanish or English, he knew that it must contain some great wisdom. La Mano took it in his hands, and gave it the same cursory inspection as the previous two items. The shield on the front of the book was of a silvery metal, which for the book's obvious age seemed hardly weathered at all. At Cuellar's prompting, he flipped through the first few pages. La Mano took it for a bible, though the pages he skimmed through weren't written in any language he could read. It looked something like the Hebrew he'd seen in New York [During the events recounted in "La Mano Negra in the Big City"—ED.], but it could have been hen scratching for all he knew. He handed the book back to Jin Ti, who then passed it back to Cuellar.

  Cuellar went through a few other odds and ends, a few Indian arrowheads, a silver necklace, a few scraps of clothing, and when he was assured his guests were suitably impressed closed up the chest and put it away.

  La Mano then motioned to Jin Ti, and the two men rose.

  "We sure do appreciate your hospitality, amigo," he told Cuellar, "but we've been ridin' a long few weeks here, and we sure could use some rest. If you just point us out to your barn…"

  At that Cuellar interrupted, cutting him off with a wave of his hand.

  "No, you will sleep in our bed, my wife and mine," he demanded.

  "Now, wait a minute," La Mano answered. "We appreciate your feedin' us and all, but we can't just kick you out of your own…"

  Cuellar, his face set, refused to hear anymore. They had saved his life from Pierce's men, and he would consider it an insult if the two heroes would not allow him to show his gratitude. Not brooking any dissent, Cuellar led the two men to the bedroom, and practically ordered the two men to climb in under the quilts.

  "My wife and I will sleep with the children," Cuellar concluded. "And I will not argue it."

  With that he turned, and stomped back into the main room.

  La Mano turned to Jin Ti, who shrugged.

  "Well, Heishou," Jin Ti offered. "You heard the man. We are to be forced to sleep on a comfortable mattress, under fine sheets."

  "Yep," La Mano answered.<
br />
  "The next time we are to be tortured by some bandit villain, could you arrange it so that this man Cuellar is in control of the proceedings?" "Jin," La Mano replied, "I'll see what I can do."

  3

  Late that night, as they lay sleeping side by side on the wide bed, La Mano and Jin Ti were startled awake by the sharp crack of gun fire. They leapt to their feet, stepping into their boots before even coming fully awake. They listened, tensed, and when the sound came again risked the time it took to shoot a look between them.

  "Outside," La Mano barked, pulling his twin Colts from the holster lying draped over a chair back and checking the chambers.

  Jin Ti snatched up his Winchester, and without another word the two bolted from the room and through the small house, coming at last to the front door. Cuellar and his family, huddled in the corner of the room, looked on them with wide eyes from the darkness. Only the youngest child, the boy, made any noise, whimpering slightly as his mother held him close to her breast.