Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  Three times, he heard Hector cry out in an anguished voice. With each wail, he saw the horses stirring about nervously in the dusty yard. On the third cry, the little man nodded to himself, as if knowing that some terrible pain had now been overcome. He picked up the tub and continued walking on toward the adobe, following the horses’ tracks as he had for the past three days, since they had left the public well at El Pueblo Fantasma.

  As he approached the adobe, he saw Hector standing with the letter gripped tight in his fist through an open window. Hector stared out at the little man with reddened eyes and a sick, bitter expression on his face.

  The old man stopped beneath the widow and rolled the tin tub from his back like some strange desert beetle shedding its shell. He stared at Hector without offering a word.

  “My wife has left me,” Hector said in a tight voice, struggling to keep his emotions from showing.

  “Oh . . . How can this be?” the well tender whispered. “A man’s wife cannot leave him. It is forbidden. It is an act against the law of God’s divine province.”

  “Do not tell me about God’s law, Bent One,” Hector said venomously. “My Ana has left me. She has taken my son. She goes far away to live with another man.”

  The well tender raised a gnarled finger and shook his head.

  “Then you must exercise your right to hunt her down and kill her—not only her, but the man as well. No woman can take a man’s son away from him and live.”

  Hector stared off across the sandy, rolling flatlands and watched a dust devil stand up as if arising from sleep and spin away in flurry of dust.

  “My son is not the blood of my blood, Bent One,” he said as if confessing himself to the well tender. “He is the blood of the man my wife goes to live with. When I married my Ana, the boy was still waiting to be born. When he was born, I welcomed him and vowed to raise him as my own—”

  “Stop,” the little man said with a wince. “I must hear no more.” He held up a hand toward Hector, as if to keep any more information from leaving his lips. “Why do you tell me these things?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hector. He looked away, out across the empty, desolate land. “Why do you follow me here, all the way from the Ghost Town well?”

  The little man shrugged his crooked shoulders.

  “It was time for me to pick up my tub and leave Pueblo Fantasma,” he said. “It is not good for a man to live only among the dead. I only stayed because of the tub. It is not easy to carry a tub in this land.”

  “Oh?” Hector stared back down at the little man. “Yet, when I offered you one of the horses to pull your tub, you turned me down. Instead you have walked behind me all this way.”

  “Sí, and I have made it here without the horse’s help,” he said proudly. “I have carried my tub to this spot, on my own, from the town of the dead with help from neither man nor beast.”

  “Good for you,” Hector said dismissively. He spit and stared off in the direction he knew his wife and the boy had taken.

  “You will go after her?” the little man asked.

  Hector didn’t reply.

  “To kill her, or the boy’s father, or to bring her back with you?” he asked, staring up at Hector’s troubled face.

  “She was a good wife,” Hector said. Then, as if talking to himself he said, “She could not bear this life that was forced upon her. How could I kill her for being weak when it is I who brought the weakness out of her?”

  “So, you kill the man?” the well tender asked quietly.

  “I cannot kill the man without hurting Ana. I cannot kill Ana without hurting the boy. I cannot destroy one without destroying all three, and I cannot destroy all three without destroying myself.”

  A silence set in beneath a whir of hot wind. After a moment of contemplation, the little man scratched his head and looked back up at Hector.

  “So, you do nothing?” he said. “You do not seek vengeance for what has been done to you?”

  “What has been done to me has been done by everyone in this world I live in,” Hector said. “I cannot blame one without blaming all.”

  “Ah . . . I see,” the little well tender said, almost in relief. He gave a crooked grin. “And one cannot destroy the entire world in which one lives, eh?” He gave a short chuckle.

  But Hector didn’t share in either the sense of relief or the humor of what the little man offered. Instead, he stared down at him, the shotgun still in his hand.

  “Don’t sound so sure of yourself, little man,” he said.

  Inside the Perros Malos Cantina, Three-Hand Defoe stood with a cigar in his right hand, cigar smoke curling up the lapel of his swallow-tailed suit coat. His artificial right hand lay inside his coat pocket. His left hand lay wrapped around a shot glass atop the bar.

  “Here comes your Mexican squirrel,” Hopper Truit said across the bar as she wiped a damp bar towel in a circle.

  Defoe looked toward the open doorway as Hector walked inside and crossed the floor toward him, a look of determination in his dark eyes.

  “Well, well, my boy, Hector,” Defoe said with a superior grin. “I wasn’t expecting you fellows back so soon.”

  “I am alone,” Hector said in a clipped tone. He stood in front of Defoe, noting the cigar in his right hand, seeing him adjust the cigar in the fork of his fingers.

  “Oh?” said Defoe. “Then where is Sonora Charlie and Clyde Jilson?”

  “They are both dead,” Hector said flatly.

  Defoe looked stunned for a second.

  “The lawman killed them both?” he said.

  “No,” Hector said, “I killed them both.” He stared at Defoe as he rapped his knuckles on the bar for Hopper Pruitt to pour him a drink.

  Along the bar, several drinkers stopped talking among themselves and turned their attention toward the two.

  Defoe gave Hopper a nod; she set up a shot glass. Hector wrapped his fingers around the glass as she filled it with rye.

  Defoe grinned. He watched Hector raise the glass to his lips and empty it. He chuckled under his breath and gave a glance at the faces lined along the bar.

  “For a second there I almost took you serious, Hector,” he said. “Where are they?”

  Hector set the empty glass down hard on the bar top, his shotgun in his right hand tipped slightly up.

  “They are both in hell,” he said. He raised his left boot and raked the butt of his shotgun across the rowel of Sonora Charlie’s Mexican spur, spinning it.

  “Whoa . . . ,” the Frenchman whispered, realizing no one would be wearing those spurs if Sonora Charlie were alive. He reached his right hand out to lay his cigar in an ashtray atop the bar.

  But Hector raised the tip of the shotgun barrel toward him, stopping him. Drinkers along the bar backed away, seeing a fight in the making.

  “Keep all of your hands out where I can see them,” Hector said to Defoe. “I have a question for you.”

  Defoe stopped, keeping his cigar in his fingers. “I can see that you have something stuck in your craw, Hector. What can I tell you?”

  “You had Sonora Charlie give me three twenty-dollar gold pieces to help him kill the lawman from Nogales. How much did you give him and Clyde Jilson?”

  “All right, I gave them a little more, Hector,” Defoe admitted.

  “You gave them much more,” Hector corrected.

  “That’s true,” Defoe admitted. “But they were more experienced. They’re the best two—”

  “They are dead. . . . I killed them,” said Hector cutting him off.

  “All right, I paid them more than you,” said Defoe. He offered a tight smile; a bead of sweat glistened on his forehead. “But the fact is, a Mexican just does not need as much money as an—”

  “Bad answer,” said Hector, cutting him off. The shotgun bucked and exploded in his hand.

  Defoe’s body flew backward in a spray of blood. His fake arm flew up out from his coat pocket and spun like a pinwheel until he hit the floor. Half of
his face and skull splattered on the far wall and stuck there.

  No sooner had Hector pulled the trigger than Hopper Truitt made a move for a large pistol lying beneath the bar—but Hector swung the cooked shotgun around an inch from the tip of her nose.

  Raising her hands chest high, she shouted, “Don’t shoot, Squirrel—I mean, Hector—I mean Señor Pasada!” Her face turned ashen in fear. “I mean, whatever you want me to call you.”

  “Call me Pancho,” Hector said. He stretched over the bar top, reached down and raised the big Colt from beneath it.

  “I—I was scared, Pancho!” Hopper said. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I swear it!”

  “Don’t worry, Hopper,” said Hector. “I am not going to kill you.” He stuck the Colt down into his belt. “If I killed you, I would be without a bartender.”

  One of the onlookers stepped forward and said warily, “Are you taking over the Bad Dogs Cantina?”

  Hector turned facing the drinkers.

  “That’s right, I am taking the cantina for my own.” He looked back and forth, his shotgun poised and ready. “Everything that belonged to Three-Hand Defoe now belongs to me—unless there is one among you who steps forward and kills me and takes it for himself.” He looked all around searching for such a person who might try to defy him. “Is there such a man among you?”

  The drinkers milled nervously in place. In a far corner, a quiet outlaw named Bud Lowry sat nursing a glass of rye whiskey, having watched everything that went on. But he only looked down at his rye and kept his mouth shut as the young Mexican’s dark eyes passed over him.

  Hector gave a hard smile to all the drinkers and waited for a moment while his challenge hung in the smoky air.

  “No takers, eh?” he said at length. “In that case, I invite all of you to join me at the bar.” He raised the shot glass from the bar top as if in a toast. “Drinks are on the house.”

  The drinkers trampled toward the bar whooping and cheering loudly. From the side door, Glory Embers, Sidel Tereze and a plump young dove named Lynette squealed and laughed and pushed their way to the suddenly crowded bar.

  But as they passed, Hector snatched Tereze by the forearm and pulled her to his side.

  “You, come with me,” Hector commanded. “Show me around my new property.”

  Tereze looked repulsed at first, but she caught herself quickly and presented a warm smile as she hooked her arm in Hector’s.

  “I was hoping you’d ask, Hector,” she said. “Why don’t I take you to Defoe’s sleeping quarters?”

  “Call me Pancho from now on,” he said. He waved a hand at Hopper Truit, who stood busily tending bar.

  “Two bottles of tequila for us,” Tereze called out when Hopper looked up from slinging mugs of beer along the bar. “It’s about time you and I got to know each other, Pancho,” she whispered close to his ear.

  Chapter 18

  The midmorning sun had climbed high in the east when the Ranger and Erin Donovan followed Big Chili Hedden’s trail into the settlement alongside the Rio Verde. The hoofprints of Hedden’s dark bay still showed clearly in the dirt from the night before.

  As the pair rode onto the dusty street, they saw two mounted rurales riding their horses toward them at a walk, dragging Hedden’s dead horse on ropes behind them. On the street behind the two rurales, the rest of the armed men stood watching, standing among their horses at the hitch rails.

  Spotting Hedden’s horse as the pair of horsemen dragged the animal past him, Sam raised a gloved hand.

  “Hola,” he called out in Spanish. “Where’s the owner of that horse?”

  “Hola yourself,” said one of the armed rurales, neither of them stopping now that they had the dead animal’s weight scooting along behind them.

  “He is back there,” said the other man, gesturing a nod over his shoulder toward the hitch rails. “He is the one without a horse.”

  Sam stared ahead, seeing one of the men standing in an empty space at the rails, his hands on his hips. A saddle and bridle lay at his feet. He stared out at Sam. A wide dragline in the dirt reached from the hitch rail to the dead horse being pulled along the street.

  “That’s not Big Chili Hedden,” Erin said quietly to Sam, staring ahead at the man by the hitch rails.

  “No, but I’m betting this is his horse,” Sam replied as the dead horse scraped along in a low stir of dust. He nudged his bay forward.

  The two rode on and stopped at the hitch rails. As they approached, the armed men spread out a little. The horse’s owner stood glaring at the Ranger.

  “Hola, señor,” Sam said, bringing his horse to a halt. Erin stopped beside him. “Are you the horse’s owner?”

  “Sí, do you wish to buy him?” the man said with a sarcastic snap. Fire smoldered in his dark eyes.

  Sam ignored the question. He returned the man’s stare.

  “Did you look him over good, señor?” Sam asked.

  “I did not check his fucking pulse, if this is what you ask,” the man snapped. “But, sí, I look him over. Why do you ask me this?” His intense stare turned more suspicious than malevolent.

  “Watch your language,” Sam said without hesitation. He gave a slight nod toward the woman beside him.

  The Mexican looked Erin up and down, as if determining whether or not she was indeed a lady. Then he gave her a curt nod as a form of apology.

  “I ask because I’ve got a notion it’s not your horse,” Sam said.

  “No shit,” the Mexican said, the contempt returning to his voice. “Do I look like some yanqui imbecile to you? Like a man who cannot see when a horse has been ridden to death?”

  “Ninguna ofensa,” Sam said respectfully. He touched the brim of his dusty sombrero. “But I’m not going to mention the language again,” he said quietly, but in a tone that held a warning.

  “Excuse me, señorita, por favor,” the Mexican said to Erin. He drew a breath, settled himself a little and said to Sam, “No offense taken. I have had a hard night. . . .” His words trailed. “Mi amigos and I have a few drinks last night,” he said to Sam. He gestured a hand toward the other men, who stood nodding in agreement.

  “Sí, a few drinks . . . ,” one of them confirmed.

  “We come out and all of the horses are fine, except for mine!” The Mexican pounded himself on the chest. “Which is dead—”

  He stopped himself short, realizing he was telling his misfortune to a stranger. “Who are you?”

  “Territory Ranger Samuel Burrack, from Nogales. I’m trailing the Gun Killer who swapped horses with you.”

  “The lawman from Nogales . . . ,” said the Mexican. “I have heard of you. I am Ernesto Merino.” He gave another gesture toward the armed men. “I lead this tropa—this volunteer posse of local citizens. We also hunt the Gun Killers—we hunt all desperados who ride across our border to rob and kill and take what is ours.” He looked around proudly for support from the other rurales.

  “I understand,” said Sam. He’d already started to back his black-point bay and turn the dusty animal. There was nothing for him to learn here about Arthur “Big Chili” Hedden. The fleeing gunman had ridden through during the night, stolen a horse and kept riding.

  But the posse leader wasn’t through talking.

  “My country does not need more Americanos sticking their noses into our business.” He raised his voice to make sure the other men heard him. “We will take care of our side of the border. You take care of yours.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” Sam murmured to himself. He touched the brim of his dusty sombrero. “Adios,” he said, he and Erin turning their horses onto the street.

  “Wait! I did not mean for you to turn your back and leave!” the posse leader called out, seeing the Ranger wasn’t going to sit still while he put on a show for his men. “I want this man who stole my horse. We will ride with you!”

  “You don’t have a horse,” Sam called back over his shoulder, not wanting to waste time with this man or his posse.
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  “I have one coming,” the leader called out. “As soon as it arrives, we will ride together,” he called out as the Ranger and Erin moved away on the empty street. “Together we will stick this man’s head on a pole, you and me! His blood will flow like water in the streets and gutters, eh, Ranger?”

  “Follow my trail,” the Ranger said under his breath. “You’ll see all the blood you want.”

  When the two had ridden out of the small settlement town and on toward Caminos, Erin turned to the Ranger.

  “Thank you for considering me,” she said. “But you really didn’t need to correct his language on my account.”

  Sam only nodded and offered no reply.

  Erin said with a forced smile, “I mean, look at me, a woman living in the outlaw world . . . an outlaw’s child growing inside me. You hardly need consider my values or defend my virtue.”

  Sam looked at her.

  “Virtue needs no defending,” he said. “What values I consider are my own.”

  “Then why did you say anything?” Erin asked.

  “He was too upset for his own good,” the Ranger said with a trace of a smile. “I saw he needed boundaries—I helped him set them.”

  They rode on in silence for a few moments as Erin thought about it.

  “What about me?” she said finally. “Is that what you’re doing with me—helping me set boundaries for myself?”

  Sam looked at her.

  “I’m hoping you do,” he said. “But it’s your business. You have to decide for yourself what to do, what not to do.”

  “I’m still free to go my own way?” she asked.

  “Nothing’s changed,” Sam said. “You’re still free to go.” He paused, then added, “Just be careful of the wolves.”

  He nudged the bay forward, picking up its pace. Erin stared ahead at him for a moment; then she touched her heels to her horse’s sides and rode up beside him.

  From the overstuffed chair sitting out in front of the adobe building in Caminos, Art Hedden squinted through the wavering heat and saw the Ranger and Erin appear out of the dust on the horizon. Noting the two were no longer riding double, he grinned to himself, his hand tightening around the stock of a repeating rifle in his lap.