by E. R. Slade
“If it all works out the way I hope, I won’t need the burros either, and you can have them.”
“Oh, señor, it is too much! Muchas Gracias!”
“But I don’t want trouble. Is that clear? I’m paying you that so you will not decide your cousin may want you and ride off. You got that straight?”
“Oh, señor, I have it very straight! I give you my word on my mother’s holy grave.”
“Never mind your mother’s holy grave.”
That night, as the sky turned crimson, with the sun burning in big flames just over the edge of the empty desert, they made camp twenty paces from a broken down Concord coach that was sunk hub deep in sand and had the lettering mostly worn off from the drilling of blowing grit. Clint started the fire while Felipe hobbled the horses and burros. Clint made sourdough biscuits and beans and coffee. When Felipe returned from the chores with the animals, he was still beaming with joy and pleasure, but when he saw the food, the corners of his mouth went down.
“Try some,” Clint invited. “This here is real food.”
But Felipe had a hard time with it. He made a valiant effort and actually got some of it down as Clint had cooked it, but in the end he waited until Clint had had his fill of the beans, and then added some chili and various other herbs. Then he was able to smile again as he ate. He drank tequila, a lot, but it didn’t seem to bother him much.
The red in the sky got lower and lower as the blue turned purple and then black and filled with stars.
“It is very beautiful here, no?” Felipe said softly. And he began to sing. Clint listened and remembered a Jew’s harp his father used to play, many years ago, back in the woods camps in various places in New England.
Soon they turned in and Clint, depending on the lure of money to hold Felipe, and on a lariat to keep away diamondbacks and sidewinders, closed his eyes and went peacefully to sleep ...
He smelled chili. He opened his eyes and bending over him was the stout Mexican.
Chapter Five
What was more, one of Felipe’s pudgy hands was trying to get into Clint’s money-carrying pocket.
Clint came up off the ground as though he’d suddenly discovered he’d been lying on a cactus. Turning his head from the nauseous cloud of Felipe’s chili-heavy breath, Clint pushed the Mexican over onto his back, trying to pin the thick arms.
“Oh, señor,” Felipe gasped, still struggling. “Please, señor ...”
Clint, straddling Felipe’s belly, having failed to get hold of the flailing arms, straightened up, hauled off and belted Felipe across the jaw just so. Felipe’s arms flopped down lifelessly and the struggle was over.
Clint slowly got off Felipe and sat down to one side.
“Damned Mexicans,” he muttered, very irritated. “I should have known.”
When Felipe came around, Clint had finished tying him up and was in his blanket roll, eyes closed, trying to get back to sleep.
“Oh, señor,” Felipe said. “I am sorry. But I think I hear something.”
“I don’t want to hear your lies. I trusted you, but that was not too smart. I should have known better than to trust a Mexican. Now shut up, or I’ll have to crowd your handkerchief down your throat to stopper you off.”
“Please, señor. I am not lying. Suppose somebody wants to kill us? That would be bad, no?”
Clint wondered if he could have been mistaken about where Felipe’s hand had been, decided he was not mistaken, and said, “I won’t give you any more warnings.”
Felipe sighed heavily and aggrievedly, and was silent.
~*~
When the sun came up, the horses were cropping a patch of grass not far off, but the burros were nowhere to be seen.
After the previous night’s disappointment with Felipe, which had caused the further irritation of disturbed sleep, Clint was not in a good mood to begin with. The disappearance of the mules soured him still more.
“Dad blamed burros,” he muttered. “Wish to hell we could have found some pack horses instead. Come on Fats, we’ve got to go looking.”
It took them half the morning to find the burros, pack up and get ready to leave. By that time, Clint had recalled the story of the old miner who’d been fifty years panning gold in the mountains—and spent thirty of them hunting his burros.
Clint was also wondering if there wasn’t some easier way to get to Blake Dixon than this. But he didn’t come up with one.
All day, an argument went on between them.
“But señor, this is the country of the Mescaleros,” Felipe said. “If I am tied up, I am not able to fight.”
“You had your chance. But you damned Mexicans are all alike. Here I was trying to do you a good turn, and what do you do? Why, you try to steal the money and take off. You’re a thief, nothing more, Fats. If I didn’t need you to take me to Dixon, I’d turn you loose and be shut of you.”
“Señor, it is all a misunderstanding, so unfortunate. I was merely trying to wake you ...”
“Aw, put the cork in, will you, Fats? You get on my nerves lying the same lie at me over and over.”
“But señor, it is no lie ...”
That night, Clint had to listen to several more rounds of the same conversation as he bound Felipe’s ankles and wrists. He was still in a bad mood, two of the burros having been obstinate all day, in addition to the way Felipe wore at him like a tight pair of boots. They had cooked separate meals, but the air was perversely still around camp for a change, and the heavy smell of chili and God only knew what else pervaded the atmosphere. Clint went to sleep hoping the tighter hobbles he’d put on the burros would keep them closer by, so that at least tomorrow it would be possible to get off to a reasonably early start.
~*~
Something was moving out there in the night. Something that only just barely stirred the blow sand. Clint sat up and peered around, rifle in one hand, pistol in the other.
He heard nothing. The air was still.
For some time he listened, continuing to hear nothing, and then he decided to take a look around, perhaps check on the horses and burros, before going back to sleep.
The burros were not where he’d left them, nor were they within a radius of two hundred yards of where he’d left them, as far as he could tell. He cursed, but figured that was about all he could do until first light. He was about to get back into his roll, when he heard Felipe’s whisper.
“Señor?”
“What?”
“I am sure I hear something. While you are gone. It is Mescalero, señor, I am sure of it. This is their country, señor. It is very dangerous here.”
“Indians won’t fight at night, at least not Mescaleros. Don’t you know that?”
“Sí, señor. But still I hear something.”
“So’d I, but it’s probably just a night critter. Now shut up and let me sleep.”
“I think you should untie me, señor. If there is someone out there ...”
“There isn’t. I just checked.”
“But señor ...”
“Shut up, Fats, and go to sleep.”
“Señor, please ...”
Clint closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. But it wouldn’t come. He pictured the mesquite bushes full of Apaches, waiting for morning. He remembered numerous stories about Indian raids and the discovery of bones bleaching in the sun. He recalled stories of torture and slow death, and could already hear the wild calls the Mescaleros would make come morning ...
He got up and untied Felipe.
“Oh, señor, I am so grateful. It is much wiser this way. This way we will be ready for them.”
“I’ll be ready for you, too, remember. Don’t get any notions.”
“Please, señor, do not fear. I never wished to harm you.”
“I’m thinking of what you might try to steal and then ride off with.”
“But señor, I would not steal from you. I have told you this so many times. Why do you not believe me?”
They got no more sleep that night, dig
ging a ditch to fight from, burying their supplies, watching for Mescaleros. At the first graying of the eastern sky, they stopped talking—it had not been a very fruitful or enlightening conversation in any case—and became tense, watching and listening. Felipe started to drink tequila, but Clint made him put it away.
Now the wind picked up, rustling dryly in the brush, tickling the blow sand idly this way and that. There were other small sounds, each of which made them both jump.
The sun suddenly lifted its rim over the eastern horizon, throwing fiery light across the desert. Abruptly a terrible scream went up somewhere to the east of them, and the mesquite shook as Indians came plunging through it, brandishing a motley assortment of pistols, rifles and knives.
“Por Dios!” Felipe said.
The end of the well-chewed toothpick in Clint’s mouth tipped up. He slammed the butt of his Winchester against his shoulder and began shooting. Three wild and fierce screaming Indians puffed dust and skidded to a halt. But four more stepped over them without a break in stride and came on.
“Señor, they are behind!” yelled Felipe, and shot at the attackers opening up from the other direction.
With bullets coming at them from both directions, sticking their heads above the edge of the small ditch they’d dug was no more comfortable than sticking them into a hornet’s nest.
After the first few fusillade from behind, the air was full of smoke, which drifted lazily towards them on the breeze. It was a lucky thing, since it helped provide cover.
A couple of Indians got through the wall of bullets Clint was putting up, and knives flashed dimly in the sun-brightened smoke. Clint stood and swung the butt of his Winchester, knocked one Indian into the other. As they stumbled briefly, Clint got the gun turned business end out again and finished them off with a couple of shots.
But by now three more Indians had plunged through the fog of smoke and one had gotten Felipe by the hair and was going for the fat throat with a long, bone-handled knife. Clint at that moment discovered he was out of bullets; he dropped the Winchester and drew and fired his Colt with one smooth motion. Felipe’s attacker jolted sideways, letting go his knife and slumping into the sand. Clint plowed lead into the other two Indians a fraction of a second later, and then there was suddenly only the ringing of his ears.
The smoke cleared. The only Indians in sight were dead.
“Ees all over, señor,” Felipe sighed. “They have given up.”
“They’ll try again, you can bet,” Clint said. “Let’s find those burros, if the Indians haven’t stolen them. We’ll go together and watch each other’s backs.”
They were most of the morning finding the burros, having to track them through aimless wanderings. But though he and Felipe both looked very carefully, they did not see any sign of Indians.
They returned to camp, dug up their packs, loaded the burros and set off. Still they had seen nothing more of the Indians.
“They are out there, señor,” Felipe said softly. “They are waiting and following.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t attack again. Maybe we killed them all.”
“No, señor, I do not think so. They are waiting for a good time. They have places of bad medicine. Perhaps we are crossing such a place now, and when we come out the other side ...”
“Could be right, I guess. Keep your eyes peeled. This is risky, traveling, if they’re going to attack again. I’m counting on them waiting for another early morning. Anyway, we can’t afford to try to wait them out holed up in the middle of nowhere.”
“Sí, señor. My eyes are peeled very much. Señor, I am so very grateful to you. You saved my life, señor. I have much gratitude.”
“I should have let him slit your throat,” Clint muttered.
They saw nothing of Indians or anyone else all day. They made camp in a lone pile of rocks, this time tying up the horses and burros to a spire of stone. There was nothing for the animals to feed on here, but Clint was worried that the Indians might make off with them.
After cooking supper—two suppers actually—Clint was presented with the problem once again of whether to tie up Felipe. If he did, it could be risky. If he did not, Felipe might slip away.
“You won’t live long if you try to take off in the night,” Clint said.
“I know that, señor.”
“I’ll wake up if you try anything.”
“I know that, señor.”
“There are only two reasons I don’t slit your throat myself and be done with it. I need you to find Blake Dixon. And I need you to help me fight Mescaleros.”
“I know that, señor.”
“And there’s only one reason for not tying you up tonight. You know what that is, Fats.”
“I know, señor.”
“It won’t do you any good to try to pull something. If I don’t get you, the Indians will.”
“I am sure, señor.”
“I don’t care a cow flat for your word, Fats. It’s no good. I am not depending on your word. I’m depending on your desire to stay alive. The only way that will happen is if we stay together and work together. Is that clear?”
“It is very clear,” Felipe said patiently. “Señor, I really do have much gratitude to you for saving my life. I will not forget it soon, señor.”
“Save it, Fats.”
“Goodnight, señor.”
“Do you always have to say señor? The handle’s just Clint.”
“If you wish, señor—dispense usted. Cleent.”
“Clint.”
“Sí, señor. Cleent.”
“Oh the hell with it.”
Chapter Six
Well before dawn, Clint was sitting in a handy spot in the rocks watching the desert in all directions. He had heard nothing, seen nothing. The wind was light, just enough to feel cool against his face. At least Felipe had not attempted anything. He was now busy checking the loads in his battered old pistol and Winchester.
As the sky in the east brightened, Felipe took up a position in the rocks facing west, leaving Clint to concentrate on the east. They waited.
The day peered at them over the horizon, then quickly flooded the arid wastes with harsh golden light.
Clint, ever-present toothpick in mouth, watched with squinted hard eyes for the mesquite to start thrashing with Indians.
But the sun lifted full above the horizon, and no Indians. The sun heated the rock so it was hot to the touch, and still no Indians.
“I think we killed them all,” Clint said, standing up and stretching.
“I do not think so, Cleent. They are out there, watching.”
“Well, we can’t wait any longer. Let’s eat something and get moving.”
Breakfast was a nervous affair. For Felipe it was nervous because he remained convinced that the Indians were still about to attack. For Clint it was nervous because Felipe was nervous; he kept getting up and peering from the rocks into the desert, and muttering doubtfully in Spanish.
After breakfast, they saddled the horses, slung the packs on the burros and cleared out. The sun was hot, the wind strong enough to be gritty, and Felipe was still very nervous. Clint felt more relaxed now. He had about convinced himself that they’d either killed all the Indians or had driven them off for good, and he was thinking now about Blake Dixon and about Margaret lying naked and battered in the woods. Dixon was going to pay dearly for his fun. He imagined himself cutting Dixon up with his knife, how Dixon would writhe and holler with pain.
Not having had to round up the burros had gotten them off to a good start, and at first they made good time. Clint was pleased. Felipe, however, still could not forget the Indians. Clint poked fun at Felipe, enjoying himself.
“What’s that, Fats?” he would say suddenly, and Felipe would jerk around and say, “Where, Cleent?” Clint would shrug and say, “You missed it. I thought you might know what kind of bird that was.” Then he would hoot at the sky and slap his knee. It worked three times in a row before Felipe quit jumping.
“Cleent, you are making a joke, but it is no joke,” Felipe said finally. He was sweating heavily. “It is not funny.”
“Ees not funny? Eh? Oh, Señor Felipe Fats López Francisco González Tortilla, I am so sorry you do not enjoy thee joke!”
“Cleent, I have much patience. But I do not like to be made fun off.”
“I don’t like lying thieves either,” Clint said. But he felt lighthearted and had gotten to the point where he didn’t much care what Felipe was or wasn’t. He figured he had it all under control now. He could manage Felipe as long as he had to, and get done with Blake Dixon. Then, well, then he could leave the fat Mexican to his tortillas and tequila.
Sometime before noon, the day’s troubles started. The burros, obstinate and ornery under the best conditions, were working with no night’s grazing in their bellies. After a hot morning they lost interest in moving along when they came on a scrawny patch of grass that was better than the usual run. They halted and began to eat, ignoring tugs on the lead ropes.
“Dad blamed burros,” Clint said. “Keep tugging, Fats. I’m going to cut a switch.”
“Cleent, it will do no good. The burros are hungry. The only thing is to let them eat.”
“Just keep the tension on.”
“Sí, I will do that, Cleent. But it will do no good, I am telling you.”
Clint cut a switch of thorny mesquite and set to work on the rump of the aftermost burro. The animal flinched ahead a few paces and then went back to cropping grass. Clint flailed some more, and the burro repeated the performance, ending up to one side of the next burro. Clint, now sweating wet as standing in a rainstorm, beat first one, then the other of these two burros, moving them up even with the third one. Then he worked on all three. They progressed in this way to the edge of the grass. But here the pattern changed. Instead of jerking ahead, the burros went to one side or just turned around, or sometimes kicked, refusing absolutely to leave the patch of grass, just as though there were a fence around it.
“Cleent, Cleent, heet that one! No no, that one. Watch out behind, Cleent! That one will keek you! No, Cleent, not that one. That one. Por Dios, Cleent, can you not make them go at all?”
