by John Horst
The clown man rejoiced, his face flushed red with excitement. “Not any harm, maestro, not any harm.”
Rebecca was oblivious to this scheming. Ever since she’d taught Marta to tat, the two were inseparable. Marta pulled out a nice small pony from the remuda and found her captive a saddle that fit properly. They rode along, back from the maestro’s caravan. The transformation was remarkable. Marta acted, like, a little girl. She chatted with Rebecca about little girl things. She did not smoke. They played with their hair and Rebecca patiently pulled the knots out of Marta’s tatting when she’d blundered. Rebecca momentarily forgot about her predicament as they rode along.
When they finally stopped for the evening, the girls eventually caught up and they waited near a campfire for the marquee tent to be erected. The new captives busily worked with the others. Rebecca looked on at them and asked Marta about them, who they were and when had they arrived. She simply shrugged and worked at her tatting.
The nuns were a strange addition to the company of miscreants. The old one was stout and worked quickly and efficiently. The young one was more sullen. She looked about often and Rebecca could now and again catch her looking her way. Something about her, her eyes, were familiar. Something about the way she stood and walked, and moved, reminded her of her mother, but this was preposterous. The nun was worn, haggard, she could see the ugly scarring around her eyes. There was nothing tangible about her to suggest any relationship or connection to her mother.
In a little while, the nuns were serving the maestro and the clown man and the little girls. A special drink was given to Rebecca. She did not like it and it burned her throat. She put it aside and the clown man ordered the haggard nun to make Rebecca drink it. She complied.
The little sandy haired boy had been watching from a distance. He’d escaped and now he waited on the periphery of the camp. He did not know what else to do. The desert was huge all around him. He had no provisions or good shoes or a good hat to keep the sun off. He found some water along the way and drank as much as his stomach would hold, but he had no canteen or way to save it. He was hungry and thought half a dozen times about surrendering, coming into the camp. At least maybe he’d get a little food, and he’d be with his mother. The fat man wearing the dress was motivation enough for him to not do this, however. He’d rather lie out there all alone with the snakes than be near that man again.
He saw the nuns before they were captured. They were an odd sight, out there, in their dark clothes, like two little bears in the bright red brown of the desert. He thought about asking them for help, but he was afraid, and after a while resolved to approach them, just as they’d been captured by the bandits. He was sorry now, he could have, should have warned them. It was almost as if they’d wanted to be captured.
He remembered the small thin one. She changed the way she acted once she’d been caught. Up until then, she walked boldly, like his mother, head high. When she was captured, she sort of deflated, as if her neck became fused at a downward angle. He remembered glimpsing her terrible face, around the eyes. She was hideously disfigured, and he could only image what the rest of her face looked like behind the veil.
Now they were captured and he was completely without hope. He’d wait for nightfall and slip in, eat the bits left in the tin plates of the many bandits. They ate sloppily. Few ever finished their plates. Some even left meat on the bones that they’d discard onto the sandy desert floor. He’d chew them clean and the sand would grind against his teeth and make his gums bleed, but it was at least something and he was glad for it.
All the time he thought of his mother. She looked worse every day. She was cross with him almost all the time, but he still loved her and cared very much for her. He knew that the bad men did the things to her that the fat man in the dress did to him, except many times over. He wished he could go find her, but the corral where the captives were kept was on the other side of the camp and the ground was uneven. It was very dark and he suddenly became afraid. He finished quickly and was suddenly overtaken with terrible cramps. He lay in a crouch for a while and they passed.
After his meal he crawled back away, away from the light of the fires and outside of the perimeter of the guards’ posts. The bad men didn’t wander after dark and he was safe, hunkered down among some brush. He’d sleep there until morning.
Chica was becoming nervous. She had so much to do, and so little time left. Now she had to worry about getting back to Rebecca’s little room before the clown man would make his move. He would not touch her child. The traps she buried were not far away, as the bandit gang made little progress due to the maestro’s wound and the uneven terrain, but it would be impossible to ride, find them, dig them up and be back in enough time. She disappeared as the old bandits returned to the campfire.
The night was cooling off and it felt good for the old man to sit by the fire for a while. The maestro did not want to be in the tent when the clown man had his way with the girl. He still expected to breed her in a few years and the thought of the old fool with her made him feel bad.
The nuns didn’t help either. This all was too much for his addled brain to bear. The eclipse, and now the story by the old nun about the statue crying blood made the hair stand up on his neck again. He hated the hold his old faith had on him. He’d done his best to blot it out, knew he was evil, didn’t care much, but the idea of the second coming of Christ gave him significant anxiety. He feared going to sleep, feared the kind of nightmares he was sure to have, and now his leg and buttocks were hurting badly. He swilled down great gulps of mescal. Soon he would have to sleep, but the mescal would hopefully blot out the dreams.
Chica wandered about the camp, oblivious to the gang, as they were settling in for the night, most of them already drunk. She found all the items that she needed along with a couple of feed bags and headed into the desert.
XII Gentle Will Panks
Will Panks crushed out a cigarette and moved from the veranda to the bedroom of the hotel he and the other Americans were occupying. The town was abuzz, excited about the gallant Americanos and the Rurales and the Mexican Cossack preparing to finally put an end to the infamous Sombrero del Oro.
There was a certain promise now that the gringos were there, as if someone was finally going to actually do something. Kosterlitzky was an effective enforcer, but oftentimes uneven. Uneven in the consistency of his enforcement, uneven in meting out punishment, uneven in how and in whom he brought to justice. Everyone feared him, many liked him, many hated him, but now, with the Americanos and the refined white lady and the famous Arizona Rangers and Alejandro del Toro’s fine vaqueros, it seemed that the end of the evil was near.
They prepared a feast, every person in town and from miles around would be there. It would likely be at least as grand as the Day of the Dead commemoration.
The Americanos accepted it, but were in no mood to celebrate. The anxiety over little Rebecca and Chica still out there in the unknown, still with the despicable Sombrero del Oro, kept them from partaking of the celebration.
Alice Walsh could not begrudge the town people the happiness they were sharing. They could not be concerned about one captive, they only knew that the beast was to be slain, soon, and it was cause for celebration.
She conferred with the mayor of the town and offered funds to cover the costs of the celebration. He and the elders would have none of it, so she offered the money to the town church, enough to pay for the bell they’d been saving to replace, they still did not have enough after more than twenty years. She’d given them sufficient funds to buy ten.
She also had taken it upon herself to hire men to prepare fireworks and she asked for five times the number used in the greatest celebration in the town’s history.
Will Panks was just drifting off for a midday siesta when he heard the little war party in the next room. It renewed his anxiety and he could not sleep. He got up, didn’t really know why, but he wanted to be with the men.
Kosterlitzky, Dick a
nd Arvel where planning their strategy. Billy stood over Arvel, pulling at his arms, continuing to help him along his road to recovery. Arvel had been gaining strength every day and could manage a pretty good shuffle. He would no longer need to be tied onto Tammy. He could now open and close his right fist. He felt good.
Dan George motioned for Will to join them in the smoky war room. They had a map laid out before them and had just finished up their plan of attack. They settled down and began to work on a bottle of cognac. Arvel smiled at the old prospector as he walked in and sat down.
“Will, you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.” He poured a big glass for Will who upended it and finished it in one gulp. He’d been unnerved at the shooting of the Dutchman, and as they got closer to making their attack on the fort, his anxiety was beginning to overwhelm him.
“Just not used to all this, Arvel. I’m not a warrior.”
Arvel grinned, not so crookedly as when he’d first seen Will on the trail. Or was it just the way Will saw Arvel now, after what he’d done to the Dutchman? Will had heard all the stories about Arvel, but thought more than half fabricated, more myth than legend. No one so nice, and kind, and gentle could ever have done one fifth of what the stories claimed. He sat back in his chair and worked on another cognac. It seemed like being drunk was the only thing that helped him cope these past couple of days. He studied the men around the table and found himself suddenly talking without really thinking about what he was saying.
“What makes you fellows so sure we can do all this?”
Arvel sensed the tension in his old friend’s voice. “What’s eating you, Will?” He leaned forward, pressed his hand against Billy’s chest as the aborigine leaned against Arvel’s hand, stretching the tendons.
“Nothing, Arvel,…how do you fellows do it?” He looked at Arvel, then to Dick and Kosterlitzky.
“Do what, old friend, do what?”
“Kill.”
Arvel smiled a sly smile. “Well, it ain’t like we go around killing for the fun of it, Will.”
“You do.” Dick interjected as he blew smoke in Arvel’s direction.
“Do not.” His tone made him sound like a squabbling brother as he messaged his wrist after Billy had finished stretching him. “I never enjoyed killing anyone.”
“Except the Dunstable brothers.”
“Yeah, well, I really only, actually we, really only killed one of them, the other was killed by old Ben Johnson, remember, when the kid wouldn’t surrender.”
“You enjoyed killing that one.”
“Okay, well, yes.” Arvel grinned.
“And the killers of the Knudsens. You enjoyed shootin’ all them.”
“Yeah, well,” Arvel looked for a cigarette and handed one to Billy, lit them both off of one match. “You’ve got to admit, they were some pretty bad hombres, and anyway, I didn’t kill all of them. The boys in the posse got a least two of ‘em.”
“And that gimpy deputy.”
Arvel sat up straight in the chair, “now, I never did kill him, I just winged him, in the toe. Chica was the one who killed him, Dick, don’t be putting the blood of folks on my hands that weren’t mine.”
“And that rapist down in Bisbee and that fellow who’d shot all those Apaches on the reservation, and then there was that whole group…”
Arvel cut him off, “all right, all right, Dick. Jesus, you make me out a regular U.S. Grant, or old William Tecumseh Sherman, my God, never killed anyone who didn’t need it. And,” he waved his finger at Dick, “you can’t count rapists, they don’t count. They always get it, no matter what. That’s a matter of principle. Whether I enjoy killing a rapist or not is inconsequential.”
Dan George spoke through his teeth, automatically, "Neca eos omnes. Deus suos agnoscet."
Kosterlitzky laughed and Will looked on, not understanding what the Indian had said.
Arvel translated for him. "Kill them all. God will know his own." Dick and Dan got to him, and he grinned broadly. It wasn’t easy to get Arvel, but they got him. Arvel smiled sheepishly.
Will was a little agitated. “How do you square it?”
“Square what?”
“Judge, jury, executioner, all rolled into one. And then you sit there and laugh about it.”
“Well, Will, we all are out alone quite a bit,” he nodded to Kosterlitzky who was thoroughly enjoying the conversation now. “The colonel will tell you, these are some pretty bad hombres, and we don’t have the luxury of gallivanting all over hell’s half acre, trying to get them to a proper jail.”
“Anyway,” Dick leaned forward and grabbed one of Arvel’s cigarettes from its pack, “We aren’t judges or juries or executioners. Those folks are looking to punish the guilty. We don’t kill to punish.”
“Oh, really?” Will was incredulous at the men’s cavalier attitude for their actions. “Then why do you kill ‘em?”
“We kill ‘em so they can’t do what they’ve done to poor folks ever again.”
“Yep, Dick’s right, absolutely right. Like that one, remember, that case in Texas? The rangers brought the bastard in and he ended up killing two of the deputies guarding him. They ended up shooting him anyway, before he could even be tried. So, why not just go ahead and shoot him or hang him on the spot, save everyone a lot of trouble, save the cost to the government, ensure that they don’t kill or rape or torture or whatever black hearted nonsense they’ve got on their minds.”
Kosterlitzky added his two cents, “Mr. Panks, there is also the issue of a kind of sentinel effect.” Will looked at the Russian, questioningly. The colonel continued. “It is a great demotivator, when you have people like us, he waved his hand across the room, “the bad men will think twice about moving around a land that is being watched by us.”
“And, what of the mistakes?”
“What mistakes, Will?” Arvel looked at Dan George who’d dozed off. This philosophical discussion bored him. He knew what motivated Arvel and Dick, and just as likely Kosterlitzky.
“When you go on and shoot a fellow who’s the wrong man.”
“Never have done that,” Arvel smiled at Will. “It doesn’t exactly take a genius to identify a man who abused a woman, or killed, or molested a child. I never killed anyone for stealin’ a steer or robbing a bank.
“Except that fellow over in Yuma county, remember him?” Dick interjected again, “You put a ball right between his eyes,” he pointed to, then tapped the bridge of his own nose.
“Goddamn it, Dick,” Arvel glared at his ranger partner, “You know I killed him ‘cause he shot the clerk, not because he robbed the damned bank, and, he was fixing to shoot your scrawny ass.” He looked back at the miner, “Will, tell me, tell us, what’s eating at you?”
The old prospector stood up abruptly, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, it’s been a long journey and I’m just tired, talking nonsense. I’m in way over my head here. I think I’ll go have a lie down for a while.”
He walked out and left a pregnant pause in the room. Too quiet for Arvel to bear.
“Hey, you boys ever hear the story of Kit Carson?”
“Jesus, man!” Dick smiled at his friend. “Not the Kit Carson story.” He stood up and excused himself as well, “Colonel, If I were you, I’d break up this party before he gets started on his old worn-out Kit Carson yarn.
Arvel watched the town prepare for the evening while having a beer and a smoke on the hotel’s veranda. Will showed up and sat down next to him. He slept well but was no less distracted than before his conversation with the party of men.
Arvel offered him a smoke and poured him a beer from a bottle he’d just opened. “My friend, tell me, what’s on your mind?”
Will knew Arvel well enough to speak freely. “I’m no killer, Arvel. And that son of a bitch Dutchman, he just, what you did back at that place, to him, that just,” he looked into his glass, as if to find the words he could not conjure to express himself. He looked into Arvel’s eyes, “God damn, Arvel, I d
on’t know. I’ve heard stories about you, but back there, it was like you were another man, like you’re two different people.”
Arvel grinned, “Hah, just two. That’s pretty good; Chica says I’m at least six different men.” He crushed out a smoke and lit another. This was a two cigarette type of conversation. “I’m a killer, Will, you’re not. It’s like you being good at finding strikes; I’m good at killing men who need it.” He looked at Will to get his reaction and laughed. “Good God, man, you think I’m something, Chica makes me look like a piker.”
“Seriously?” Will was aghast. He’d heard stories of Chica, but thought most were exaggerated as well.
“It’s why I’ve left her alone, to get our little girl.” He suppressed an urge to cry, breathed in deeply and felt his throat quiver. “She’ll get her, and leave a whole passel of dead men in her wake, I will bet my ranch on that.”
Will sat silently for a few moments, gulped his beer and poured another. “I don’t have any business in all this, Arvel. I thought I did. I’m no coward…”
“No, you’re not, you are definitely not a coward, old friend.”
“I feel a fool, swaggering around toting that dynamite, like I’m some kind of Wild Bill Hickok. I just feel the fool. And I got no business questioning you or your methods. I know you and I know Dick, and the Colonel seems a moral fellow. I’m mighty sorry running off at the mouth like that. I’m just, I don’t know…”
“Well, I tell you what. You stick with me and my uncles, Bob and del Toro, and my mother and Kosterlitzky. I have a feeling we’ll be kind of directing the attack anyway, and I’ll need your expert’s eye, as a miner, to help direct the artillery, and when the time comes for your dynamite, and I’m certain it will, you help me with the strategy, can you do that?”
“Sure, Arvel, sure.”
“I know you can, Will. And you know, some killing’s going to come of your work, but it won’t be close in…it won’t be”
