Sweat was pouring off my face and my ankle throbbed where, at some point in our brawl, I’d driven the muzzle of Selma’s semi-auto toward the bone. Blood soaked both my side and my sleeve, where I discovered another deep cut, although the pain had yet to become debilitating.
Expecting to be rushed, I was a second behind when Felix whirled toward the pinto. I swore and raced after him. I knew what he had in mind, just as I knew Spence and Luis would be too far away and on the wrong side of the shaggy mustang to stop him.
Felix was trying to yank the motorcycle rider’s rifle free when I threw myself into his back. We both went down hard, practically under the pinto’s hoofs, but this time I’d gotten a solid hold, and was able to wrap my manacles around his neck. I was hauling back with everything I had to cut off his wind, but he was bucking and twisting like a catamount, while overhead the pinto was hopping and kicking and trying its best not to step on us. Not out of any consideration for human life, mind you, but because it didn’t want to plant a hoof into something mushy, like a human belly, and lose its footing.
With those flashing hoofs coming way too close for comfort, I began trying to wiggle clear of the panicking horse without giving up my hold on the Indian’s neck. As tight as I was hanging on, Felix was slowly squirming free. I wasn’t sure how much longer I was going to be able to stay on top when a bellow from the front of the livery blasted down the central aisle. Through the sweat and blood stinging my eyes, I saw Del Buchman storming toward us like an enraged bull.
Del grabbed my collar and dragged me backward, but I still had my chain around Felix’s neck, and brought him along.
“Let go, Latham!” Buchman hollered.
I grunted a reply, the top button of my shirt digging into my Adam’s apple. Had I more wind and the opportunity to use it, I would have explained to Del that I didn’t want to let go of Felix until I was sure the wiry little Indian wouldn’t make a dive for either his knife or the rifle. Then something hard and heavy slammed into my head, and my knees buckled.
“Goddamn it, let ’im go or I’ll bash your skull in, you bulheaded son of a bitch.”
Hot white sparks danced before my eyes, and my legs turned to soft rubber. Sensing his chance, Felix twisted free of my manacles and scrambled down the aisle toward the rifle, half canted precariously from its fancily carved scabbard. Before he could yank it free, Del spun me out of the way and palmed his own gun. He had the big Remington revolver leveled on the Indian’s head, the hammer rocked all the way back to full cock, and Felix froze with the rifle still hung up in its scabbard.
“You let go of that gun, or I’ll blow a hole through you big enough to push an anvil through,” Del growled.
Felix hesitated only a moment, then pushed the rifle back into its boot.
Me, I just stood there on the end of Buchman’s arm like the catch of the day, knees wobbling and my head feeling like it might explode if I blinked too hard. Del’s knuckles were digging into the back of my neck where he still gripped my collar, and in my skittery vision I spotted a wad of hair caught in the Remington’s ejector housing that I recognized as my own. That asshole had whacked me a good one.
Then Del shoved me against one of the stalls, and I quickly flopped both arms over the top as he backed away. Moving to the center of the aisle where he could keep an eye on both of us, he said, “What the hell’s going on in here?”
Del asked his question in English, and Felix and Carlos exchanged worried glances. I knew from my own experience that it was never a good sign when someone starts speaking angrily in a foreign language, as if they don’t give a hoot what your position is in the matter.
Luis explained to Del about the motorcycle rider who had pulled out late the day before, and about how Felix had shown up with the rider’s goggles, rifle, and coat. Luis was about halfway through his narrative when Del cut him off.
“What the hell’s that got to do with you, Latham?” he demanded.
I’d let go of the stall by then, but was still leaning against it. “There’s no way he could’ve bought those things in Nogales, like he claims,” I rasped. “That’s over a hundred miles from here.”
My reasoning didn’t cut a very wide swath with Del. “You dumb ox, you were hired as a guide, not a lawman. I don’t give a damn what happens anywhere except along the trail we’re following to Sabana, and you’d better not, either. And you!” He jabbed a finger at Felix like it was the muzzle of a gun. “You keep that knife of yours sheathed, or I’ll ram it …”
Well, I guess you’ve got a fair idea where Del threatened to shove Felix’s belduque. He included a similar threat to me, although more in relation to what he was going to do to my head, rather than my hind end. Returning the Remington to its holster, he squared his shoulders and glanced around at the others.
“You boys had better turn in early. Davenport saw this muchacho ride in without the mules, and has already assumed the worst. We’re pulling out at sunup.” Motioning to Felix, he added, “You come with me, champ. Mister Davenport wants to know why you couldn’t find one damned pack animal to bring back. You’d better have a good reason, too, or that ol’ boy is liable to pin your ears to the wall and leave you hanging there when we ride outta here in the morning.”
Session Six
If Davenport wanted to get an early start the next day, he sure didn’t act like it. Spence and I and Luis and the Perez boys were all up before dawn, packing mules and getting things ready to roll, but there wasn’t a light burning in any of the hotel’s upstairs windows by the time we’d finished.
With the mules packed and dawn creeping in from the east, I dropped a rope over that bay I was telling you about and led her out near the Berkshire to saddle. I did that because the night before, after Del had taken Felix and Carlos with him to see the old man—Carlos tagging along to translate for his cousin—I’d pulled the motorcycle rider’s rifle and scabbard from the pinto’s saddle and hidden it, along with a full cartridge belt I found tucked under the Indian’s bedroll, beneath the canvas Spence had stretched over the automobile.
The Perezes had searched high and low for that rifle after they got back from their ass chewing with Davenport, but they hadn’t approached the Berkshire. Probably because of the old man’s promise to shoot anyone he caught messing around with it.
I took my time saddling the bay, fairly stoved up after my little altercation with Felix. Besides the usual aches and pains you’d expect from a brawl, Spence had taken stitches on both of the cuts I’d received from the wiry Indian’s belduque—five in my side and another three on my arm, the scars from both of them still visible to this day.
With the bay decked out in a worn but sturdy Texas rig, canteen and bedroll already in place, and my gear stowed inside a pair of used saddlebags, I slid the rifle from its hiding place and slipped over behind the bay.
“Ye be playin’ with fire there, laddie,” Spence remarked when he saw me. “The mood Delmar’s been in lately, he’s liable to hang ye from the rafters with ye own cuffs.”
“Del can go to hell,” was my response.
Luis chuckled. “It wouldn’t be a far ride from where we’re going.”
“Just over the next hill,” I agreed, laughing.
I was aware of the dark looks the Perez boys were giving me, but ignored them. They could go to hell, too, as far as I was concerned, although I knew I’d have to watch my back around them from there on.
I slid the scabbard under the off-side fender with the butt sloping forward, along the bay’s shoulder. I’d taken a peek at the gun the night before. It was a Model 99 Savage, a hammerless lever action with a rotary magazine located under the chamber. The headstamp on the ammunition marked it as a .303, which was basically a .30-30 with a little extra punch. It wasn’t a firearm I would have chosen for the journey we had to make, but it was a definite improvement over Selma’s semiauto, still tucked inside my boot.
<
br /> I had the scabbard secured to my saddle and was readjusting the angle of the toe to a more comfortable position when Del came out of the hotel and spotted me. You’d have thought I was threatening to blow up an orphanage, the way he came stomping over, the Remington already drawn and his face about as red as an Arizona sunset.
“There ain’t no way in hell!” he roared, thrusting the revolver in my face with one hand and yanking the Savage from its scabbard with the other. “If you think I’m gonna let you carry a gun, Latham, you’re a bigger fool than I had you pegged for.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do if we get jumped by bandits?” I flared.
“You can go howl at the moon if you’re looking for someone who cares what you can do,” he replied. “I ain’t giving you no rifle. Now shut up about it.”
“Damn it, Del,” I grated.
He cocked the revolver. “I ain’t telling you again, champ.”
My jaws were grinding hot enough to crush rocks, but that was about all I could do with a gun in my face and cuffs on my wrists. But the battle wasn’t over, I swore as I led the bay away. Not by a damned sight, it wasn’t.
With our horses saddled and the mules packed, all we could do was wait. I took a seat on the front steps of the hotel and rolled a cigarette from the cloth sack of Bull Durham I’d bought from Jorge the night before, along with matches and paper—but no .380s for the semi-auto. Moralos’ small general store didn’t carry such oddball ammunition yet, either, just shotgun shells and the more common rounds for revolvers and rifles.
Del had gone back in to see if Davenport was ready. He returned a few minutes later with the look of a man who had just gotten his butt chewed ragged by an ornery wolf. Walking stiffly over to where Spence was holding the reins on a leggy roan, he said, “The old man’s gonna be a while. When he gets here, tell him me and Latham went on ahead to check the trail.”
Spence winced as if he’d swallowed something sour. “Shouldn’t ye be the one tellin’ him that, Delmar?”
“You’ve worked for him longer than I have, you tell him. And goddamn it, do what I say for a change. I’m getting tired of everybody questioning my orders.” He turned a baleful eye on me. “What are you waiting for, Latham? Get on your horse.”
I laughed at Del’s spitfire mood, then turned to my saddle. Del rode over a couple of minutes later astride a powerfully built buckskin. Jutting his chin toward a cart track winding through the ocotillo south of town, he said, “Let’s go. You’re up front.”
Smelling the whiskey on Del’s breath, I wondered if he’d slipped a drink before talking to Davenport, or after.
I’d thought my muscles had given up protesting after we got the mules packed, but I discovered a whole new batch of aches as we rode out of Moralos at an easy jog. My back, especially my neck where that bushwhacking Indian had tried to unscrew my head, was sending spasms up and down my spine, and the base of my skull was throbbing. Yet for all the pains, I couldn’t deny an unexpected thrill to be moving out across the desert, a good horse under me, and a cooling desert breeze buffing my face. I think, for the first time since leaving Yuma, I began to feel like a whole man again. Like maybe there was a future for me, after all.
The trail started climbing soon after leaving town, winding through a maze of dry, broken ridges, hided over in rock, cactus, and sparse clumps of grass that you wouldn’t have thought would have kept a goat alive. The air grew still and warm, and the semi-barren slopes seemed to trap the sun’s rays, reflecting in every direction. It was a desolate country, yet I knew a lot of wildlife not only lived out here, but thrived. Back in my smuggling days, cougars and wolves had always been a concern at night, although there had been an abundance of antelope and desert bighorn to keep the large predators fed.
Jack rabbits, coyotes, and jabalinas ruled the underbrush, along with horned toads, Gila monsters, scorpions, and more snakes than you could count in a lifetime. The flora was as rough and unforgiving as the landscape—spiny cholla and ocotillo, swordlike yuccas thrust into the sky, rabbit brush, prickly pear, and scattered stands of saguaro. Mesquite, catclaw acacia, and an occasional paloverde grew along the dry stream beds, providing what little shade a man was likely to find in that country.
We were still following the cart track we’d picked up outside of Moralos, although it was growing more rutted as the miles passed. I suspect Del thought the road might actually lead some place significant, but it didn’t. There was an old silver mine a half day’s ride to the south that had never amounted to much. According to Jorge, the place had been abandoned for more than twenty years. The only reason the trail still existed was because there was water inside the main adit, and sometimes a few villagers would go up there to hunt for meat, or to graze their sheep or goats. Del was going to be mighty disappointed when he discovered the road we were following ended abruptly at the mouth of a shaft that only went back into the rocky hillside for one hundred feet or so. (Editor’s note: An adit is a horizontal entrance to an underground mine, as opposed to a vertical shaft.)
I had my own reasons for wanting to reach the old mine. It was getting hotter by the hour, and I knew there would be cool shade just inside its mouth, where the hard-rock men had carved out a larger chamber for living quarters. I planned to sit out the worst of the heat there, then, toward evening, fix some coffee and a bite to eat before pushing on into the night.
I was feeling pretty achy by the time we reached the mine, and not just from the thumping I’d taken from Felix. It had been a long time since I’d sat a saddle, and my hind end felt like it had been doused in liniment, then set afire. I was determined not to make any kind of sound when I dismounted, but I had to grit my teeth to keep from it, then hang onto the saddle horn for a couple of minutes afterward while I waited for the circulation to return to my legs. I’ll tell you what, that was a far cry from the man I used to be, pounding a saddle for days on end, dodging Mexican rurales and federal marshals alike. My only consolation—and it was actually a pretty rewarding one—was that Del seemed to be in even more misery. He’d probably put on fifty pounds in the years since my arrest, and was showing his age in other ways, too. Although I’d yet to see him sneak a swig from a bottle, the smell of booze clung to him, and his eyes still had that watery film about them that I’d seen on functioning alcoholics.
Grinning at his hobbling, bowlegged gait, I said, “What’s the matter, champ? You ain’t wearing out already, are you? We’ve still got another four days in the saddle getting there, and five more coming back.”
I don’t know if Del was getting used to my needling ways, or if he was just too worn out to respond. Looking around like a man waking up in a strange bedroom, he said, “Where are we?” I told him, then added that we’d wait there for the others to catch up. “After today,” I added, “the trail’s going to get rough.”
Del gave me a suspicious look, then shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or another.
“There should be water inside,” I said. “Take your horse in with you and pull the saddle. We’ll be here a while.”
Del scowled. “You figure you’re giving orders now?”
“I am if you want to reach Sabana before Chito Soto starts carving on Davenport’s wife and kids.”
Del hesitated, then led his horse toward the gaping maw of the adit. Moving alongside my bay to loosen her cinch, I noticed a faint brush of dust far to the north. My brows furrowed in annoyance, knowing that it was Davenport and the others, and that they were so far behind.
Leading the bay inside, I pulled the saddle from her back and dumped it on a piece of flat, clean ground next to the wall. Del’s buckskin was standing at a wide, shallow pool of cool water about a dozen yards inside the mouth of the adit, its muzzle whiskers dribbling. The horse was still saddled, and Del was flopped on his butt against the opposite wall with his head tipped back against the cool stone, his knees cocked up like a pair of moun
tain peaks. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, like he was already asleep. The smell of booze was so strong in the low-ceilinged chamber I automatically glanced at the floor by his side, looking for the bottle.
“I thought I told you to unsaddle your horse,” I said.
He opened one eye to squint in my direction. “I decided you could do that,” he replied, then tipped his head to the side. “Put it over here where I can reach it.”
“You can unsaddle your own damned horse.”
“I can, but I ain’t gonna.” His grin was like a cat with the combination to the canary’s cage. “I been noticing you acting more important than you really are, Latham, and it strikes me that I’ve maybe been too lenient. So from now on, when I tell you to jump, then, mister, you damned well better jump. Savvy?”
I stared back a moment, weighing my odds. Then I smiled and lifted my wrists, pulling them apart until the chain was stretched tight. “Whatever you say … boss.”
“You’d better remember it, too,” Del said, leaning back and closing his eyes.
I took my bay to the pool first and watered her, then fastened hobbles around her front legs and pulled the bridle over her head. Next I stripped the gear from Del’s buckskin, dropping it where he’d instructed. I stared down at him afterward, thinking how easy it would be to drive the toe of my boot into his belly. He grinned, his eyes slitted. He probably knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Anything else … boss?” I asked. “Maybe some champagne or caviar?”
Leaving Yuma Page 9
