by John Benteen
For the first time that Ramsey could remember, there was fear in Concho’s voice. “Fierro!”
The Mexican tipped back his sombrero. He was smiling. It was the smile of a wolf about to take a lamb. “Si. A long time, no es verdad?”
“What are you doing here?” Concho’s Spanish was flawless.
Ramsey, who had only the mongrel border Spanish, was startled.
“On a mission for Francisco,” Fierro said. “The campaign in Coahuila had not been pursued with sufficient aggressiveness. I shall remedy that.” He looked at Ramsey and the woman. “Who are your friends, and how is it that you ride horses of Sanchez?”
“I know nothing of horses of Sanchez,” Concho said.
“Our trackers, who are Yaqui Indians and without compare, recognized the shoes. Two of Sanchez’ men are missing, and last night there was much shooting by Mariscal Mountain, and now we find you and these gringos on Sanchez’ horses. How did this happen?”
“We caused the shooting at Mariscal,” Concho said. “The American bandit, Kelly—”
“Not bandit. Sympathizer with our cause.”
“The American bandit, Kelly, had taken the wife of another man, this woman. We took her back and killed Kelly. We escaped on two horses from his corral—these.”
“Killed Kelly?” Fierro’s brows went up. “The two of you?”
“Yes,” Concho said. “After we took his Lewis gun—”
“I thought I recognized the technique of the firing. Incredible. Still the old Concho, always ready to spit in the devil’s eye.” Fierro’s gaze went to the other horse, standing with raised forefoot. He walked over to it, gripped its pastern, glanced at the hoof. Then he pulled a .38 Smith & Wesson from his sash, put it behind the animal’s ear, and pulled the trigger. The horse crashed to the ground. As if the conversation had not been interrupted, Fierro said, “I am impressed that you wear no guns, Concho. As you grow older, you gather wisdom.” He gestured with his own revolver. “Now, you will each mount ahead of one of my men.”
Ramsey said, “Where are you taking us?”
“Across the Rio Bravo,” Fierro said. “To Boquillas. There to meet General Sanchez, whose territory this is. Together, he and I will hear your story and decide what disposition is to be made of you.” He jerked the revolver again. “Andale! We must ride!”
~*~
Under guard, they rode a long way through the desert, down the dry, winding bed of Tornillo Creek, and thence to the head of Boquillas Canyon. Mounted ahead of a Mexican as silent as if carved from stone, Ramsey felt the constant pressure of a pistol barrel against his body the whole way. As for Concho, he was the center of a whole clot of guards. Nora had been given a horse to herself; at the head, Fierro rode almost thigh to thigh with her. There was never the slightest chance of escape.
It was mid afternoon when they reached the Boquillas ford of the Rio. All about them towered painted cliffs and buttes. On the American side, there was a scatter of empty adobe houses, an abandoned settlement whose only inhabitant was an American whom the Mexicans had not bothered because he was already dying of tuberculosis. A human wraith, he stood outside his hut and watched curiously as the cavalcade filed down to the river.
At the ford, the water was not hock-deep to the horses. On the Mexican side, atop a high plateau, was a village, consisting of a dozen adobe huts scattered around a wide, dusty, un-ornamented plaza. Behind the town loomed the huge, striated wall of the great escarpment of the del Carmens. Half-naked children and a motley assortment of pigs, dogs, and chickens played in the sunshine. When the column entered the plaza, people suddenly filled the doorways of the huts, and the children ran forward, shouting with wonder and excitement.
In the center of the plaza, Fierro raised his hand and the detachment halted. Fierro barked an order that Ramsey did not catch, then swung down. Spurs jingling, he strode through the door of what was apparently the town’s cantina. No one else dismounted. Nor did the pressure of the gun barrel against Ramsey ease.
Then Fierro reappeard. “Bring them in!” he shouted. The man behind Ramsey slid down and gestured with the revolver. Ramsey dismounted. A Mexican was helping Nora from the saddle. The three of them were herded together and marched across the plaza. As they went, Concho said, “Fierro. Dammit, why did he have to be here?”
“Who is he?” Ramsey asked.
“Pancho Villa’s right-hand man. He’s also the damnedest butcher that ever walked in boots.” Concho spat. “And he hates my guts.”
“Good God,” Ramsey said, something clicking in his brain. His heart sank. “Rodolfo Fierro?”
“That’s him,” Concho said.
The newspaper reports came back to Ramsey now. There had been protest in America about Villa’s cold-blooded mass slaughter of captured federal troops and sympathizers in each town he won from the government. Without trial or mercy, they were murdered by the hundred. And Rodolfo Fierro was Villa’s executioner, a bloodthirsty weasel of a man who killed for the love of it. No wonder Concho had been afraid—
Then they were pushed into the dim coolness of the cantina. It had two small rooms, a bar in the front one, a pool table in the other. Behind a table near the bar sat a lanky man with skin the color of coffee with cream. His lean face was like a blade, his eyes hooded and dark. He wore a general’s blue dress-coat with golden epaulets and khaki pants thrust into cavalry boots. A bottle of tequila sat before him; Rodolfo Fierro stood beside him.
“This is General Leon Sanchez, Commander of the Army of Northern Coahuila,” Fierro said. “Your names, please.”
“Concho Piatt,” Concho said. It was the first time Ramsey had heard his last name. Then Concho said, “General, you know me. You know I served with Villa, too—”
Sanchez cut him off with a raised hand. He was looking at Nora. For the first time, light flickered in his eyes. “Senora Stewart.” He shifted his gaze to one of his men. “You will bring the senora a chair!” he snapped. He arose and bowed. “Welcome to our humble headquarters.” His English was good, though heavily accented.
“Hello, General Sanchez,” Nora said.
“And you.” Sanchez looked at Ramsey.
“Sam Ramsey. I’m a rancher from North Wells.”
Sanchez nodded. Fierro said, “With your permission, Don General. May I question these Yanquis?”
Sanchez shrugged and poured a glass of tequila. Fierro said to Ramsey, “You will now tell us your whole story.”
“Well, it’s this way.” Ramsey spoke in a mixture of Spanish and English; the two officers listened closely. “Sheep Kelly stole my herd of Morgans and I came in here to get them.” He related events substantially as they had happened, except that he omitted all mention of Concho’s ambush of the two Mexicans and told the lie they had agreed on. “I opened the corral, took these two horses and their gear. We didn’t know they belonged to your men.”
Fierro’s eyes bored into his. “For a horseman, you did not choose wisely.”
“It was dark,” Ramsey said, returning his gaze steadily. “There was a lot of shooting. No time to pick.”
“And strangely, both horses turned out to be from our band.” Fierro’s mouth twitched wickedly, and he also poured a glass of tequila. Before he drank it, he sprinkled salt on the back of his hand. “Remarkable.”
Sanchez spoke then. “You have done us a serious disservice. You have killed Kelly, and he was valuable to us; he kept our army supplied.”
“He shouldn’t have taken my horses or the woman,” Ramsey said. “If they’d been Mexican horses, a Mexican woman, a Mexican would have killed him. You give us Americans credit for less machismo?”
“Still,” Sanchez said, “you have committed a serious crime against the Revolutionary Army and against General Villa.”
“Listen, Sanchez,” Concho said. “You know I fought with Villa against Diaz in the old days, with Madero.”
Fierro smiled. “Madero’s dead.”
“It makes no difference. I was a colon
el. Villa won’t have forgotten me.”
“Then perhaps he will light a candle for you,” Fierro said.
Concho jerked up his head and looked at Fierro.
Fierro went on, his voice silky. “General Villa now has almost a hundred thousand men under arms, my friend, even a force of flying machines. Do you think he worries about one black ex-colonel? I can assure you he does not. I have shot better friends of Villa than you, Concho, at his command.”
Concho’s temper slipped its leash. “Why, you two-bit—!” he flared in English, but Ramsey’s voice cut him off.
Ramsey looked at Sanchez. “General Sanchez,” he said, “there’s one thing everybody here seems to have forgotten. We’re American citizens. You took us on American soil.”
Sanchez said, “So?”
“I think you’d better forget this talk of shooting.” Ramsey’s voice was full of a confidence he did not feel. “If anything happens to us, you’ll be in damned bad trouble with the United States Government—and so will General Villa.”
Fierro made a contemptuous sound in his throat, but the hoods on Sanchez’ eyes lifted. He leaned back in his chair and looked at Ramsey without expression. “Go on,” he said.
“There’s a lot of sympathy for Villa in the United States,” Ramsey went on desperately, but keeping the desperation out of his voice. “He buys horses, guns, ammunition on our side of the border—hell, Americans even took moving pictures of his campaigns last year. When Americans landed at Vera Cruz, he refused to go down there and fight ’em. And the way I understand it, he’s issued strict orders that all American citizens in Mexico are to be treated with respect and left unharmed. Now, if anything happens to us and it ruins Villa’s relations with the United States, who’s he going to blame for it?”
Suddenly he realized he’d scored a point. Something flickered, shifted in Sanchez’ eyes; he turned to Fierro inquiringly. Fierro spat on the floor of the cantina.
“Listen, Yanqui,” he said. “I’m General Villa’s personal representative here. What I order done is to be done as if he ordered it himself.”
“Nevertheless,” Sanchez said, and now his voice was dubious. “Nevertheless—”
Fierro slammed the table with a clenched fist. The tequila bottle jumped. “I command for Villa here!” He straightened up and he was panting, his eyes actually glowed red. “You will not tell me,” he rasped through clenched teeth, “how I shall command!”
Sanchez shoved back his chair and stood up. “General Fierro, you represent Villa. It is I, Leon Sanchez, who commands.”
Fierro’s chest swelled, but his voice was under control when he spoke again. “I thought you had understood my position, General Sanchez. I am here as Francisco Villa’s personal representative. And as such, you will respond to my orders.” He looked at Ramsey and Concho with mindless hatred. “These Yanquis”—he spat the word—“have disrupted your supply line. They were taken riding the horses of your two missing men. I charge them with murder and interference with the Revolution.” He turned on his heel and gestured toward the other room. “Come, we will confer.”
For a moment, it seemed that Sanchez would refuse. He stood there indecisively. Then, as Fierro led the way, he followed. Moving to the far corner of the other room, they talked in low, intense voices, words indistinguishable. But their hands moved choppily, angrily. They were like two fighting cocks, Ramsey thought, face to face just before the pitting. And he knew now that their lives hung on which one of them won ...
He took a step forward, despite the guards, and put his hand on Nora’s shoulder. There was nothing he could say, and he said nothing. She turned and looked up at him, and the part of her face not bruised was chalk-white. But, incredibly, she managed a faint smile, and she raised her hand and put it on his.
“That damn Fierro,” Concho grunted. “I wish I’d killed the bastard when I had the chance, years ago. We took a town and he shot the mayor. I knocked the little sonofabitch sidewinding before he could shoot the mayor’s wife and three little kids and stomped on him to make sure he was out of action for a while. Pancho backed me up, too, and Fierro ain’t forgot no part of it ... ”
“Silence!” snapped one of the guards. He rammed Concho in the back with a gun muzzle.
Ramsey watched the conversation come to an end in the other room. And his lips thinned as he saw that Sanchez’ hands had fallen to his sides, while Fierro was still gesturing. Then Fierro grinned and clapped Sanchez on the back. The two men turned and came back to where the prisoners stood waiting. Fierro swaggered a little, his gold-toothed smile wide. Sanchez walked stiffly, his face somber, his lips compressed.
Nora’s hand tightened on Ramsey’s. Fierro looked at them and his smile was like a skull’s. “Well, my friends,” he said, “you have been tried and found guilty of interference with the Revolution. The two men will be executed by a firing squad immediately.” His eyes flickered over Nora. “We shall make other disposition of the senora. We do not make war on women.”
~*~
“Oh, no,” Nora whispered. “No, please—”
“You jackal,” Concho said. “When Villa finds out about this—”
“We do not bother our Jefe with small details,” Fierro smirked. “He will not find out.”
“Villa finds out everything,” Concho said, and his eyes swung to Sanchez. “They used to say in the mountains that Pancho Villa could hear the cactus grow.”
“It will grow very thick over your graves,” Fierro said. He gestured. “Take them away.”
A guard wrenched at Concho. Nora sprang to her feet. “No!” she screamed. “No, you can’t shoot them! They’re Americans—We—”
Sanchez lifted an ineffectual hand. Fierro said harshly, advancing to Nora, his eyes boring into hers, “Be quiet, woman.”
Nora’s voice trailed off. Suddenly, quite without warning, she spat full into Fierro’s face. “You pig,” she said, softly and with utter contempt. “You dirty greaser pig. You can’t make me stay with you. I don’t stay with dirty greaser pigs.”
Fierro’s face did not change. He lifted a hand, then let it drop and dragged his sleeve across his spittle-wet face. “Very well,” he said. “I don’t need a filthy Yanqui slut.” He jerked his head. “Take her with the others.”
Nora smiled insolently. “The Yanqui slut spits in your face,” she said, and did it again, and Fierro’s hand dropped toward his .38. Concho started to spring; a guard rammed a rifle barrel into his belly, blocking him; another stepped in front of Ramsey.
Fierro’s deeply indrawn breath was audible, a shuddering sound, in the silent room. Then he said quietly: “I shall command the firing squad myself. General Sanchez, you will accompany me?”
Sanchez made a sound in his throat, then nodded. Hemmed in by guards, Concho, Ramsey and Nora were pushed through the door and out into the blinding three o’clock sun. “Girl,” Concho said despairingly, “why’d you do it? Now they’ll kill you, too.”
“Don’t you think I knew that?” Nora said quietly. Then she said, “I’m tired of running. I’m tired of it all. I only wish—” She looked at Ramsey.
“Silence,” a guard commanded.
“Go to hell,” Ramsey said. They were being marched across the plaza, children capering alongside. Ahead of them were the ruins of a house gutted by fire, only its adobe walls still standing. He said, “Nora, I’m sorry. I should have given you and Concho horses at Double Springs, when we first met, let you ride on.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Nora said. “You can’t outrun what’s going to happen to you. I don’t blame you, Sam.”
“Well, I blame myself,” Ramsey said bitterly, full of impotent rage at his own helplessness to save her. If it would do her any good, he’d break, take on every soldier in this village single-handed ... But that would only hasten her own execution, too.
Now they had reached the side of the burned building. The caporal in charge of the guard detail barked an order. The prisoners
were turned to face the wall, their hands jerked behind them. Ramsey felt ropes pulled tight around his wrist. Then they were jerked around and their backs rammed against the wall, Nora between the two men.
The guards moved away, ten yards, lounging with guns cradled in their arms. The caporal looked toward the cantina, but Sanchez and Fierro had not emerged yet.
“Sam,” Nora said, “I’m afraid. My knees are weak.”
Ramsey moved over. “Lean against me,” he said.
She did, her weight on his flank. He felt the feathery brush of her hair against his cheek. “Sam,” she said, “I don’t know if it will make it any easier for you, but can I tell you something?”
“Yes.”
“I love you,” she said.
Ramsey sucked in a great breath. “I love you, too,” he said. It was the first time he had said those words to any woman. They came with startling ease.
“That does make it better,” Nora said shakily.
Concho made a sound in his throat. Ramsey turned his head. The Negro, standing very erect against the wall, was looking at them. His eyes glared with a hatred every bit equivalent to that he’d displayed for Fierro. His mouth was a hard, set line.
Nora straightened up. “Concho,” she said softly. “Don’t begrudge me this. Not this late in the game ... ”
Concho opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked straight ahead.
The caporal said: “Attention! The generals come!”
Sanchez and Fierro strode toward them across the plaza. Even at this distance, they could hear the jingling of Fierro’s spurs. Ramsey swallowed hard down a dry throat and moved closer to Nora, wishing he could put his arm around her. Now the generals were within earshot; Sanchez was still talking, gesticulating. “I tell you, Fierro, this is more complicated than you think. If Villa hears, I will be the one—”
Fierro halted, lifted a hand. “Be silent,” he rasped. Then he gestured. “There are two hundred and fifty kilometers of chaparral between ourselves and Villa. More than enough in which to hide three gringo corpses. Now, an end to it, the men mustn’t hear—” Frowning, he strode on, Sanchez a pace behind.
