by Jory Sherman
“Looks like one of them’s waving a shirt at us,” Peebo said.
“Hola … Anson Baron?” The voice carried from across the road.
“Sounds like he’s hollerin’ at you,” Peebo said.
“Yeah. Wonder what he wants.”
“Hell, answer him, son.”
“I’m Anson. What do you want?”
“I want to talk.”
“Walk over here,” Anson said.
“You will not shoot me?”
“No. You come by yourself.”
“I will come,” the Mexican said.
There was a gabble of voices from across the road, men speaking in Spanish. Then, a man carrying a white shirt tied to a mesquite branch emerged out of the shadows and began walking toward Anson and Peebo.
“Looks like he wants a truce,” Peebo said. “The way he’s a-wavin’ that there shirt on a stick.”
“Shut up, Peebo.”
Anson rubbed the edge of the frizzen with his thumb as he watched the man carrying the shirt wave it back and forth above his head. The man did not carry a rifle, but Anson could not tell if he had a pistol stuck in his belt or his waistband. One thing he did know. The shirt he was waving was not his own. This man was fully clothed in white cotton shirt and trousers. Anson could hear the scuff of his sandals on the road.
“Watch him,” Peebo said.
“You keep an eye on those still over there across the road. This could be a trick.”
“Yeah,” Peebo said.
“I am called Nuncio,” the man said, as he drew near. “I wish only to talk with you, Anson Baron.”
“You come on,” Anson said. “You carrying a pistol?”
“No,” Nuncio said. “I leave the pistol and the rifle. I have no weapon.”
Nuncio left the road and waded through the grass. When he was three yards away, he halted.
“Put down that stick,” Anson said, “and walk over here with your hands over your head.”
“I understand,” Nuncio said. He threw down the stick with the shirt tied to it and then walked over to Anson, his arms outstretched, hands in the air.
“You speak good English,” Anson said.
“I went to school. I am from El Paso.”
“Peebo, see if he has any weapons on him.”
“Hell, you can see he don’t.”
“All right, Nuncio,” Anson said. “What do you want to talk about?”
“We wish to surrender,” Nuncio said.
“Why?”
“We do not want to fight for Matteo anymore. My friends are tired and they have hunger and they have no sleep.”
“Do they all want to give up?” Anson asked.
Nuncio nodded. “We are vaqueros. Don Matteo, he makes us march and he wants us to shoot and to kill. We do not want this no more.”
“Do you have horses?”
“No. The horses, they are dead.”
“What will I do with you if you surrender, then?”
“We will go with you, Don Anson.”
“Do you have families?”
“No. Don Matteo, he do not want men to fight who have families.”
“We are going to fight Matteo. Is he coming?”
“He is coming,” Nuncio said. “He will attack the rancho of your father before the sun does the rising.”
“You will have to come with us,” Anson said. “We are going to walk to the Box B.”
“We will come.”
“I can’t offer you any work. Not right away.”
“We just do not want to fight for Don Matteo.”
“Will you fight for me?”
“If you wish.”
“Well, if you come with me, I will have to take away all your ammunition and we will carry your rifles and pistols with us.”
“That is good. We will come.”
“Call the others over here,” Anson said. “Tell them to come one by one and each man count to ten before he walks over here.”
“I will do this,” Nuncio said.
“Anson, this doesn’t sound like a good idea,” Peebo said.
“Well, we can’t leave these men here. They’d be at our rear. And when Matteo comes along, he’ll probably shoot them.”
“Better them than us,” Peebo said.
“Nuncio,” Anson said, “call out your men. How many are there?”
“We are only four left. The others, they are all dead, I think.”
There was sadness in Nuncio’s voice and Anson was touched. “I am sorry,” he said.
“They were good men. Brave men. They were friends.”
“I hope you will not try to pull a trick on us,” Anson said.
“No, we do not play the trick. We will come with you.”
“If you do, if you try anything, if you run, or if you slow us down, I will kill you, Nuncio. I will kill you and every one of your friends.”
“I understand,” Nuncio said.
“Jesus, Anson,” Peebo said.
“Just shut up, Peebo. Nuncio, call out your men. You wait here.”
“I will have Eladio bring my rifle and pistol.”
“Tell them to unload their weapons and hold them over their heads—with both hands.”
“I will do this.”
Anson let out a sigh. He was taking a chance, he knew. But he believed Nuncio. He believed that Nuncio wanted to surrender and wanted to get as far away from Matteo Aguilar as he could.
Anson turned to say something to Peebo, when Timo came up behind them.
“You heard?” Anson asked Timo in Spanish.
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you do the right thing,” Timo said.
“We’re going to have to walk eight or ten miles. Timo, you take Peebo’s horse and ride back to the Box B. Tell my father we are coming. On foot.”
“That’s my horse,” Peebo said.
“Well, you ride the son of a bitch back, then. I don’t have time to argue with you.”
“Hey, hold on, son. I’ll walk back with you. I just want to establish ownership of that there steed.”
“Timo, get going,” Anson said.
“I go,” Timo said.
Nuncio called to the men across the road. Anson and Peebo waited, listening. Peebo cocked his pistol and Anson scowled at him.
Peebo could not see the expression on Anson’s face, but he saw the movement.
“First law of Peebo Elves,” Peebo said, “is ‘Don’t trust nobody.’”
“Fuck you, Peebo,” Anson said, and turned to watch as the first man emerged from the shadows, his rifle uplifted over his head. In the pale light of the moon, in his white clothing, he looked like a wraith, a ghost lifting his arms in supplication.
36
THE SCOUT, A man named Pedro Castillo, one of two Matteo had sent ahead of his expedition, rode up on a galloping horse. Both horse and man were short on breath and it took Castillo a moment to compose himself enough to speak.
“What passes?” Matteo asked.
“We have found some dead men, Don Matteo. And we have found dead horses, as well. They are of the group you sent out with the Frenchman.”
“All dead? Reynaud, as well?”
“I did not see Reynaud. That Tomaso, he is still looking for him.”
“Nuncio?”
“I did not see his corpse.”
“What of Obispo?”
Castillo shook his head. “I did not see the face of Obispo. Tomaso is still looking. There are many dead.”
“Did you see the corpse of Anson Baron or any of his vaqueros?”
“No, Don Matteo. I did not see these men.”
“What a pity. After you have rested a little, ride back and help Tomaso. Then you and Tomaso will wait for me.”
“Yes. I will do that, Don Matteo.”
“Did it look like a bad fight?”
“Yes. It looked like there was much fighting. You can still smell the burnt powder. The smell lingers in the grasses and in th
e trees. There are many trees there.”
“I know.”
“I will go back now to help Tomaso.”
“Yes. Go.”
Matteo watched Castillo ride off and disappear in the darkness. The moon made everything on the road ghostly, and every shape appeared to him as an enemy. He turned to the men following him. They were resting their horses and smoking their cigarillos. He had told them they could smoke when they stopped to rest and they were doing that. They were not talking because he had told them not to talk, even when they stopped. It was of no matter now. Anson Baron was not dead. He had not asked about Bone, but Castillo would have mentioned him if he had been among the dead.
But where was Reynaud? And Obispo? Had they gone after Anson Baron? Were they even now fighting, or had they all run off like dogs with their tails tucked between their hind legs? Or had Obispo betrayed him? He would not put it past Reynaud to make allies of both Bone and Obispo. That man had a tongue made of silk, a tongue that was double-forked, like that of a snake.
Matteo fished a cigarillo from his vest pocket, from the little tin he carried there which held the tobacco he bought in Mexico. He tapped the end of the cigarillo on the tin to tamp the tobacco tightly, and then he put the tin away and took a wooden fosforo and struck it on the brass of his saddlehorn. The match exploded in flame and he lit the end of the cigarillo and pulled the air through it until the end was glowing. The smoke bit at his throat and filled his lungs with a satisfying warmth.
“Oye, Don Matteo.”
It was the voice of Dagoberto Santos, who rode behind him as his segundo on the march.
“Come,” Matteo said.
“What passes?”
“Did you not hear what Castillo told me?”
“I heard some of what he said.”
“Then you know there was fighting on the road ahead of us.”
“Do you want to turn back?”
“No. I am going to fight Martin Baron and burn his house to the ground. I am going to kill him when the sun rises in the morning sky.”
“Yes. You will do that, Don Matteo.”
Matteo smoked and the two men were silent for some moments.
Santos wiped sweat from his forehead. “It makes warm, this night,” he said.
Matteo did not answer. He was still mulling over in his mind what might have happened to Reynaud and Obispo, who were together and in charge of the men with Nuncio.
Santos tried another tack. “The Baron rancho is still far. We have much riding to do. It is good to rest here for some few moments.”
“Dagoberto, I tell you this: I will not rest until all of the Barons are dead and my land is returned to me.”
“Claro.”
“You will not rest, either, my friend.”
“No, I rest only now that we are here. We wait to ride on with you, Don Matteo.”
“Where is Reynaud?”
“Eh? Reynaud? I do not know where he is, Don Matteo.”
“I do not know, either. And Obispo. Where is he this night?”
“I do not know. Maybe he is with Reynaud.”
“Maybe they are both in hell.”
“Eh? In hell? I do not know. Are they dead?”
Matteo laughed, a dry, mirthless laugh. “Maybe they are dead. Maybe they are running like the rabbit, into the brush.”
“Obispo is a man very strong. He would not run like the rabbit.”
“No, he would not, Dagoberto. He would do what I told him to do, would he not?”
“I think he would eat shit if you told him to, Don Matteo.”
“Yes, I think Obispo would eat shit if I told him to. But not Reynaud.”
“No, not the Frenchman. He is shit.”
Matteo laughed again, this time with enjoyment. “Maybe Obispo will eat him, then.”
“Yes, maybe Obispo will do that.”
“I am going to kill Bone, too, if I ever see him again.”
“Bone? You would kill him? I thought he was your friend.”
“I do not think Bone is my friend anymore. I do not trust him. He should have killed the young Baron and come back to tell me that the young man was dead.” Matteo drew on the cigarillo. He held the smoke in his lungs and it made him feel good for a moment.
“Maybe Bone will come and tell you that he has killed the young Baron.”
Matteo exhaled the tasteless smoke and saw it shimmer in the pale light of the moom. “No, Bone will not come.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because he would have been here already. No, he will not come, Dagoberto. I know he will not come.”
“I do not know what to say, Don Matteo.”
“Where do you come from, Dagoberto?”
“I am from Sonora.”
“It is very dry and hot there.”
“Yes,” Castillo said.
“Did you ever fight in a war?”
“No. I have never known war.”
“I, myself, have always admired the men who fight in war. I am interested in their thoughts. I am interested in their deeds.”
“Yes, Patrón.”
“What do they think when they go into battle? Do they think of killing the enemy or do they think of being killed?”
“I do not know.”
“I wonder. I think there is something in man’s soul that makes him unafraid to go into battle. I think the fighting man, the brave man, is not afraid to die. Do you not think that, Dagoberto?”
“I do not think of it.”
“But what do you think about fighting with Martin Baron? Do you not wonder if you will be killed?”
“I think I will try not to be killed.”
Matteo chuckled and drew another puff from his cigarillo. He blew the smoke back out quickly, through his nostrils and his mouth. He watched the gauzy smoke change shape and wave itself to nothingness in the slight puff of breeze that sprang up.
“How do you feel about killing another man?”
“If the man is an enemy, I will kill him. Then, I will not think of it.”
“You are a good man, Dagoberto. Perhaps you are a warrior. That is the way a warrior thinks. He thinks only of killing his enemy. He does not worry if he himself might be killed. Do you not think this is true?”
“Yes, Don Matteo, I think that is true. I do not wish to fight all the time, but there is a certain excitement to fighting, I think.”
“Yes, there is a big excitement to go into battle. To know you are about to kill, to become master over another’s life—I find that very satisfying.”
“Yes. Such a thing would bring pleasure.”
“Much pleasure. And life should be full of pleasure. I am most happy when I am fighting someone, or something. I am happy when I fight with the land to make it grow grass and food. I am happy when I fight the cows and put my mark on their hides. I am happy when I fight with my wife because I know she will lose and that I will win.”
Castillo did not say anything. He drew a last puff of smoke from his cigarillo and threw its stub to the ground. Matteo chuckled to himself and finished his own smoke and tossed it into the air. It left a trail of sparking embers as it fell to the road.
“Do you know why I left some men back at the rancho—Perez and Domingo and Caudillo?”
“To guard your woman?”
“My woman does not need guards, Dagoberto. No, I left them there because I do not trust Bone and because I do not trust Reynaud.”
“I do not trust them, either.”
“Do you know what I told these men, Dago?”
“No, I do not know what you told them, Don Matteo.”
Matteo smiled in the darkness and he was close enough so that Castillo could see the smile as Matteo intended. The smile was like that of a cat which has finally cornered its prey and is about to pounce. That was the kind of smile Matteo wanted to smile and if he’d had a tail, like a cat, it would be twitching.
“I told them to kill Bone if he returned to the rancho alone.”
“Bone will not expect that, Dagoberto. They will kill him, yes, and I will feed his blood and his meat to the hogs.”
Dagoberto shivered in the heat.
“Vamanos,” Matteo said. “I am ready to be happy.”
“What?”
“I am ready to battle. Let us go now, and the dawn will find us battling Baron as the warriors we are.”
Matteo turned his horse before Castillo could speak and rode out ahead, lifting one hand to signal his men to follow him. Castillo barked an order and the column of men fell into double ranks, all silent, all with thoughts about what might await them at the dawning of the day.
Castillo felt a tightness in his stomach, for, after listening to Don Matteo, he, too, was thinking about the sunrise and wondering if the coming one would be his last.
37
DAVID WILHOIT WALKED out onto the road and stared up at the stars peppering the night sky like flung diamonds. They sparkled and blinked as if they were sentient, and the planets he could recognize pulsed with a glow of energy that seemed cold but palpable. He had become gripped with a stifling, smothering feeling of confinement while sitting hidden in the trees with Roy Killian and Al Oltman and now he began to breathe more evenly and naturally as he gazed at the limitless sky, his vision unobstructed by branches or leaves or tree trunks.
“Dave, get your ass back here,” Roy called. “If somebody rides up that road, they’ll spot you, sure as shit’s brown.”
“I need to get some air,” David said.
“Air? There’s plenty of air over thisaway.”
“Give me a minute, will you?”
David heard Roy snort and he felt himself bristle. He knew that Roy didn’t like him, but sometimes Roy truly got on David’s nerves. Like now. And all evening, for that matter. David had stayed out of it, but Roy’s constant needling of him over little, inconsequential things had begun to grate on his nerves. If Roy wasn’t his wife’s son, he might have told Roy to roll up his sleeves and prepare to defend himself. But Ursula doted on her unruly and often sullen son, and David dared not risk drawing her ire by openly criticizing Roy or calling him out to settle this ugly contention between them. So he had swallowed hard and kept his mouth shut, and endured Roy’s not-so-subtle taunting as they waited out the night, listening for hoofbeats on the road, the familiar sound that never came.
