by J. Lee Butts
Skinny, frightened dogs dressed in dull brown or mottled yellow fur appeared, showed their stained teeth, barked, and, just as quickly, vanished. Hardly any people out and about that fateful morning save the occasional big-eyed, runny-nosed child. Didn’t matter. Still got the uncomfortable feeling of being constantly watched before I reached the main thoroughfare and headed west.
Turned the corner and spotted Ox as he made his way in from the opposite direction. Within seconds, Boz appeared from the south.
We followed Turnbow’s lead. The three of us converged out front of one of the only free-standing, two-story buildings constructed from cut lumber. Painted in a bright, liquid green, trimmed in vivid pink, a blind man couldn’t have missed it. Even that early in the morning, drunken laughter and ear-piercing trumpet music poured from behind a set of bloodred batwings and into the street.
Boldly lettered sign left no doubt we’d arrived at the right place. The most realistic painted yellow rose I’d ever seen decorated a background that matched the color on the doors. Stepped off our animals and, shoulder to shoulder, headed straight for the entrance. Boz took the center spot. I was on his left, Ox on the right.
Closer we got to the entryway, the louder the music and noisy celebration sounded. Stopped a step or two away from the interior of the combination cantina and whorehouse. Nodded nervous good-byes to each other, just in case that morning’s job didn’t work out in our favor. Pushed the swinging doors back and stepped inside. Ox and I quickly peeled off and we each headed for the closest corner.
Boz raised his big popper, cut loose, and blew a washtubsized hole in the ceiling over the heads of the Yellow Flower’s stunned and bug-eyed patrons. Concussion from the blast blew out the flame of a still-lit lamp that hung behind the bar. Thick puff of spent black powder rolled through the Mexican watering hole like a dark, churning wave on a storm-tossed lake. Entire place went so quiet you could hear your own hair grow.
Noise level, before we entered, belied the number of drunken revelers inside. I stood at the end of a fancy, out-of-place, well-shined bar that fully appeared to belong in a San Francisco saloon. Took a quick head count. Came up with seven men who all looked the part of hardened gunmen. They all sat at rude tables covered with bright, multicolored sarapes.
Bartender threw up his hands and backed as far away from me as he could get. The three-man band—a guitar plucker, fiddle player, and trumpet blower—was located against the far wall. They eased toward safety behind what was left of a battered upright piano.
Boz breeched his smoking weapon, reloaded, snapped it closed, and pitched the spent brass away. Empty hit the floor with a hollow, metallic ring, and rolled toward an overflowing spittoon near the foot rail of the bar.
He threw a hot glance at the cowering drink wrangler and said, “Habla ingles, amigo?”
Terrified man’s eyes darted from Boz to me and back again. “Sí, señor. A little.” Word little came out sounding like leetle.
“Where’s Alfonso Bejarano?”
“Que?”
Boz sounded quite a bit testier the second time around when he said, “Donde está Alfonso Bejarano?”
Man appeared so frightened he couldn’t speak. Several times he attempted to make sounds that never came out. Finally he made the slightest of nervous motions. Lifted his shoulders as if to say, “I’ve got not a single idea on that particular subject.”
Wound up tighter than the strings on a Missouri fiddle, I shook my shotgun at the same feller and demanded, “Donde está la mujer americana?” Must admit it surprised me some when he raised a single, trembling finger and pointed to a spot somewhere above his head.
At the same time, the three of us shot a quick glance toward the stairs. Right quick I realized we’d have to go through every Mexican pistoleer in attendance to get where we had to go.
Took one step. Four of the hard-as-horseshoe-nails-looking carousers shoved ladder-backed chairs away from their tables and swayed to unsteady feet. Fiery, prickling sensation ran up my spine and, like an angry scorpion, found its way to my scalp. Knew in an instant they intended to fight. No backing down in those men.
As though previously agreed upon, they all went for their weapons. Do declare it was the damned stupidest thing I’ve ever seen that many people do at the same unthinking moment. Couldn’t a one of them fellers been much smarter than half his hat size.
Have puzzled over the bloody events that followed for nearly a lifetime. Even after all these years, I could not truthfully testify in any court as to who fired the first shot. Think maybe Ox led the way, but might have been Boz, or maybe one of those chuckleheaded Mexican pistoleros. Didn’t matter then and still don’t. At any rate, Nuevo Laredo’s ill-famed Yellow Flower erupted in a crescendo of general gunfire from both sides of the disagreement. Blasting sent everyone who had managed to live through the first barrage scurrying for cover behind anything at hand.
An invisible blade from six barrels of .10-gauge buckshot sliced through at least three of those Mexican gunmen like a sharpened scythe takes down sun-seared wheat. Tables, chairs, bottles, and men exploded. Flew into a spray of gore-saturated bits right before my eyes.
Quick as possible, I dropped to the floor. Lucked into a much-appreciated degree of safety behind the far end of the bar. Found I could load up, hold the shotgun around my sheltered spot, fire blindly at our adversaries, and repeat the process with little fear of being damaged. No real need to aim. Big, ole .10-gauge mowed down everything in front of its destruction-belching muzzle.
For what seemed like an eternity the continuous, unnerving, soul-shattering thunder from our big poppers, along with all the return fire from the pistols of our outgunned opponents, proved damned near deafening. Noise level led me to feel as though the vengeful hand of the true God had descended on that gaudy border-town booze locker and smacked it so hard the ceiling joists creaked, bent, and almost broke. My ears rang like cathedral bells. Dust from the ceiling, along with burnt black powder and loosened plaster, rained down on everyone.
Guess we’d got about a minute and a half into red-eyed, murderous blasting when the deadly dance started to let up a bit. Of a sudden, I heard Boz yell at me over an unimpressive series of staccato pistol shots fired our direction. Was damn near deaf from all the gunfire that’d been squeezed into the room. Against my overly abused eardrums, he sounded like a man at the bottom of an Arkansas well.
Took a second or so before I spotted him through the thick screen of vaporized blood and hanging filth, filled with death.
“You still livin’, Lucius?” he yelled.
“Not so much as a scratch so far,” I yelled back. “How ’bout Ox?”
Could barely see Boz flash a toothy grin through the haze. Boz yelped, “You couldn’t kill that man with a sledgehammer and forty whacks.”
Random shots from a single remaining opponent eventually petered out. Several minutes of near complete quiet, moans, Spanish entreaties I couldn’t understand, and weeping, led us to gamble some, stand, and survey all the carnage we’d wrought.
God Almighty, but you’d of been sorely pressed to find a single stick of formerly existing furniture still intact. Glanced down and counted the empties at my feet. Appeared I’d ripped off near twenty loads of buckshot. Given that Boz and Ox most likely put an equal amount of hot lead in the air, astonished me that anything in front of our guns had managed to escape total annihilation.
Bartender peeked out at me, motioned upstairs again, and whispered, “La mujer americana es arriba, señor.”
Turned to Boz and said, “You boys take care of this mess. I’ll find Dianna, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Watch my back. Don’t let anyone follow me up.” They nodded, and I headed for the second floor.
Took those stairs two at a time. Landing opened into a dingy, unpainted hallway that ran from the back of the building to the front. Grit and filth from years of use decorated the walls.
Three doors located on either side of the passage faced
each other like silent, hooded sentinels waiting for me to pass. A single portal remained closed—the last one on the left, before you reached a window that overlooked the street below.
As I made my way to the last entry on the left, several frightened, almost naked girls appeared. No older than thirteen or fourteen years of age, they squealed, darted from various hiding places, sprinted past me, and headed down the stairs.
Gingerly stepped up to the edge of my objective and squatted. Heartbeat and a half later, four shots fired from inside the room crashed through the flimsy wall and rough-plank door above my head.
Few seconds of quiet passed and a feller inside said, “You still alive, amigo?”
Stood, said, “Yeah,” and ducked again. More shots punched death-dealing holes above me. Hopped up, squared off, and kicked hell out of the board panel an inch or so right of the latch, and stepped inside. Dreadful sight I beheld damned near made me sick. Thought for a second I might puke my spurs up.
Lanky feller, all dressed in black, stood beside a filthy, broken-down bed and was locked in a single-minded attempt to reload his weapon. Those efforts stopped as soon as I flicked the muzzle of the shotgun his direction. He dropped the pistol, raised his hands, and stepped backward until the wall behind stopped his progress.
Tied to the sagging cot’s iron frame lay the body of a stark naked and unconscious woman I barely recognized. Covered in filth, smeared blood, and God only knows what else, she appeared to have been beaten from the soles of her feet to her hairline. A swollen, bruised face sported blackened, closed eyes, a still-bleeding nose, and cut lips.
The sight of Dianna in such a state caused a rage in me unlike any I’d ever experienced.
16
“. . . THERE’S GONNA BE HELL TO PAY.”
STOOD BY THAT filthy bed, and for nigh on five seconds, I do believe my brain numbed up and went into some kind of seizure. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Nothing left inside me but red-eyed fury. Wanted to storm Hell and bite Satan’s horns off. Then, honest to God, it felt as though something inside my skull snapped like a rotten tree limb.
Snatched a grimy coverlet from a broke-backed chair and threw it over her nude, motionless body. Bent over and whispered in a blood-encrusted ear, “It’s Lucius, Dianna. I’ve come for you. You gotta hold on now, darlin’. Get you out of here quick as I can.”
Took every fiber of my being not to burst into torrents of hot, salty tears. Steadied my nerves, stood, and faced the man in black. Right sure he didn’t have any doubt his life was on the line.
Lifted the shotgun so the muzzle pointed at his crotch. “Your name Bejarano?” I asked.
“No, sir. Oh, hell, no. That gutless son of a bitch skipped out yesterday. Left me and them boys downstairs to deal with any problems.”
“Problems? You mean like me and my friends?”
“Swear ’fore Jesus, mister, we didn’t have no idea gunfightin’ fellers of yore caliber might show up. Alfonso said we could drink all we wanted, eat all we wanted, have some fun, or make use of the woman if ’n we wanted.”
“Make use of her? What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, think everyone here humped her a time or two, but she ain’t been worth much since Alfonso beat the blue-eyed hell out of her. Just kinda lays there. Ain’t a bit of fun. Kinda like screwin’ a dead stump.”
Almost sent him to Satan right when those reckless words fell from his filthy mouth. Couldn’t believe any man living could be that stupid. He’d just heard me speak to Dianna. Watched and listened as I tried to comfort her.
Right testylike I snapped, “You know why I’m here?”
“Ain’t got a single idea, mister. Don’t care, not even one whit. Hell, I’m just a workin’ man tryin’ to make a dollar. Your life’s labor don’t interest me in the least. Sure you understand, don’t you?”
Fished the badge out of my vest pocket and pinned it back on my chest. Gunny’s eyes got big as saucers. “Now wait a minute, Ranger,” he whimpered. “Didn’t have no idea you wuz a full-blown Texas lawdog when I started shootin’. Just doin’ as I’d been told by the jefe.”
“I came for the woman. She’s the only reason you’re still alive and I’m talkin’ to you right now.”
Trembling lips stretched and revealed rotten teeth. Could hear the cracks in his voice when he whined, “Gotta believe me. Swear on my mother’s grave, I got nothin’ to do with the way she looks. Bastard Alfonso done all that. Said he’d been paid a handsome price to ruin her by some feller name of Coffin. Said this Coffin wanted him to make it so no man would ever look at her again.”
My voice must have sounded about as sharp as a well-stropped razor when I said, “You or any of your friends downstairs try to stop ’im? Do anything to keep what I see here from happenin’?”
He blinked like I’d slapped him. “W-w-we had no say a’tall in the matter. Swear to God, Ranger, w-w-we ’uz just carryin’ out orders.”
“That include everyone here takin’ a turn at rapin’ this poor, defenseless girl?”
Dumb bastard tried to make it sound like we were old friends. Got all personal-like. “Well, now, that didn’t amount to any more’n an added benefit, as you might say. Just somethin’ extra to enhance some pretty poor pay.”
Couldn’t believe the nervy son of a bitch. Spoke to me like I should understand, and then grinned real big right in my face.
That’s when I dropped the shotgun’s hammer. Peppered him all the way from knee to crotch. Thunderous blast picked the worthless piece of scum up, threw his flopping body against the wall. Splattered most of his privates all over Hell and yonder. He slid to the floor in a bloody, twitching heap. Didn’t kill him, but sure as hell came close. Knocked the son of a bitch stone-cold unconscious for a bit.
As I worked at wrapping a limp, battered Dianna in the ratty coverlet, he came back around, grabbed at the spot where his missing equipment once resided, and screamed like a panther with a red-hot poker up its butt. Never had heard such a pitiable sound come out of a living man’s mouth. Kind of shrieking screech had the power to pull tears out of a sideshow freak’s glass eye.
Within a matter of seconds, footfalls thundered up the stairway. Boz burst in ready for a fight, and glanced around the room. Motioned for him to give me some help. We worked together, and eventually got Dianna into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. From there, I lifted the shattered girl into my good friend’s arms.
Grabbed his elbow and fixed him in my best hardcase lawdog gaze. “Get her out of this hellhole, Boz. Want you and Ox to head for the river as fast as you can hoof it. Don’t look back. Cross over quick as you can. Take her straight to the nearest doctor. I’ll finish up here, follow, and cover your rear. Find you when I’m done.”
“Damn, Lucius, we ain’t gonna leave you in this place alone. Soon’s word gets around that a bunch of murderin’ gringos just come to town and kilt some local boys, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Should be happenin’ pretty quick.”
“We don’t have time to debate this, Boz. You gotta do as I say. Take Dianna and get to Laredo. She needs professional medical attention in the worst kinda way. Get movin’. Do it now.”
He frowned, and then shook his head. Said, “All right. I’m goin’. Don’t like it much, my friend, but I’m goin’.”
Kissed Dianna on the forehead. Doubt she heard me when I whispered, “Boz’ll take care of you, darlin’. I’ll be comin’ along shortly.” Slapped my amigo on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.
“You watch yourself, Lucius. Anything happens to you, I’ll come back and kill you myself.” He grinned; then they disappeared down the smoke-filled hallway.
With a load of guilt on my shoulders the size of a Mississippi riverboat, I kneeled beside the wounded gunman and rolled a cigarette. Screeching pain had turned into something akin to mute shock. He stared blank-eyed at the ceiling, moaned pitifully, and trembled all over.
Knew beyond any doubt the poor bastard was well on th
e way to bleeding out right where he fell. From the pasty-white appearance of his face, I figured he had but a few agonizing minutes left amongst the living—at the outside.
Leaned over and stuck the burning cigarette between his twitching lips. He took part of a puff. Went on a hacking, coughing rip, and spit the smoking butt onto his wet, sticky, wine-colored lap.
“Well, cowboy, you’ve branded your last calf, had your final glass of liquor, danced your last jig, and abused your very last woman. ’Fore you wake up shoveling coal in Satan’s soul-sizzlin’ furnaces, I want you to tell me where Bejarano lives. Maybe do a little toward redeemin’ yourself for past sins.”
Wild tormented eyes flicked up at me. Barely heard him gasp, “You can go straight to a burnin’ Hell yourself.”
Pulled a pistol and cocked it. “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll help you on over to the other side. Put you out of your misery. Carry on with this stupid act, and you’re gonna keep sufferin’ somethin’ awful. Slap bleed to death right where you sit. That could take several more hours of merciless agony.”
Hell, I knew it was a bald-faced lie. He was already dead. Just hadn’t figured it out yet. Personally, I couldn’t have cared less about his situation. Belly-slinkin’ snake had information I wanted.
Rheumy, bloodshot eyes rubbered around in a lolling head that appeared as though attached to his body with a piece of limp rawhide. Had to slap him back awake at least twice. Never cared for beating on a man so near death, but I began to fear he wouldn’t stay alive long enough to provide me with some much-needed information.
Finally had to smack him real good and hard. All at once, he got clearheaded. In a bloody gasp, he shot back, “Go ahead and end it, you badge-wearin’ bastard. Likes of you been tryin’ to kill me ever since I turned twelve years old. Year I kilt Ma and Pa. Might as well git this dance over with and done.” Then he made a frothy, liquid-saturated, strangling noise, groaned, and passed out again.
Grabbed a pitcher of questionable-looking water from the only table in the room, snatched his hat off, and poured the entire jug over his sweat-saturated head. Shock snapped him away from death’s doorstep one final time.
