Jornado (An E.R. Slade Western

by E. R. Slade

  This was just what stuck in his craw about this business. He looked at Felipe and saw what a monster revenge had made out him, and he saw that he himself had been just as bad for having been so bloodthirsty for Dixon all these years. It was true that he had daydreamed many times about making Dixon hurt plenty before he died. But watching Felipe had set Clint to doing some thinking.

  “If Felipe had been about to tear Dixon apart little piece by little piece, would you not have wished him to do so? Or wished to take the knife from him and do it yourself?”

  Clint glanced at Pepita. She was gazing at him unblinkingly.

  He looked into the fire.

  “Probably,” he said. “But I’m glad it wasn’t Dixon.”

  “Señor, revenge is a pleasure. You agree that evil doers should be destroyed. Why should not those who have been wronged enjoy the destruction?”

  “All right. Suppose you do. What about that fellow’s friends and relatives? They will then feel as you have, and will come after you and enjoy torturing you. And then one of your relatives will become outraged and do the same thing, and it goes on and on. Everybody outraged at the lowdown honorless way the other side is acting, but saying treating them the same way is nothing more than they deserve. Think of all the pain and suffering that is caused this way. It might not stop until both sides are wiped out, and everybody ends up writhing under the knife one time or another. Revenge is a bad thing, far as I can see. It isn’t justice, it’s just anger and feeling you’re always right and the other fellow is wrong. It’s all in how you go at it. If I’m going to kill Dixon, I shouldn’t do it for pleasure or because I’m angry, but to stop him from doing any more terrible crimes. It’s a sad thing to have to kill a man.”

  She shook her head in perplexity.

  “I do not understand you norteamericanos. You deny your own joys when it is your right, and take your joy in ways that are not right and hide it. It is a big difference.”

  “I guess there’s some truth in that. But it’s not the point.”

  ~*~

  The next day they rode down the stream under the oaks and then turned into the desert. Clint was deep in thought about what he would do once he’d brought Pepita safely home. On the one hand he had no desire to have anything to do with Valenzuela or Felipe or Griego or Dixon or anything connected with this business. He was thoroughly soured on them all and on his own desire for revenge.

  On the other hand, in spite of himself he was seething like a boiling pot of lead at Dixon. The way Clint saw it, Dixon was the cause of all the trouble. If not for Dixon, Valenzuela wouldn’t have gotten where he had, and if Valenzuela hadn’t gotten rich and arrogant as a bandit, he probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to try kidnapping Pepita. And if Dixon hadn’t touched Margaret, Clint wouldn’t have ever come to these parts and gotten mixed up with Mexicans at all, and wouldn’t have cared what they did to each other anyway. The idea of Dixon getting away with that irritated Clint no end.

  “Señor Evans,” Pepita said, “you do not look happy. You appear disgusted.”

  “I am disgusted,” Clint said, and startled his horse into a short bound ahead by digging in his spurs unconsciously. Clint got more disgusted, because there was no good reason to treat a horse that way.

  A week and half later, not too much the worse for their long trip across the desert—still no Indians—they pulled up in the yard of the Griego hacienda. Crossing the range they had collected an excited bunch of vaqueros. A few had ridden on ahead to bring the news that Pepita was safe and so that a welcome could be prepared for her. She had, for the first time Clint had seen, begun to smile. It was quite a smile, and almost enough to make him glad he’d gone through everything.

  The old man’s bed had been carried outside and an awning set over it. He was sitting up, and his eyes were moist as he watched them come to him through the beds of flowers.

  “Hola,” Clint said, feeling awkward. “Brought your daughter back.”

  “Pepita ...”

  “Papa ...”

  Clint watched them hugging each other and crying on each other’s shoulders and felt even more uncomfortable. But he was glad for them.

  “Señor Evans!” Griego’s voice, much stronger now, rang out. “You have succeeded! You have made me the happiest man who exists! You have given rest to my soul. Please, come here, señor, let me begin to thank you by shaking your hand.” Clint shook. “Now, señor, we must celebrate, and then we must discuss what will give you happiness, eh?” The old man’s eyes shone. Clint had a strong notion that it wouldn’t be long now before Griego got out of bed.

  To do what? Would he send more men out after Valenzuela and torture him to death the way Felipe wanted to? Or was Griego different? Would he be satisfied to merely shoot Valenzuela? Or what?

  Clint was sure Valenzuela deserved to die, but the thought of how Griego might be apt to do it tasted sour. The next thing would be some friend or relative of Valenzuela would go after Griego, and so on and so on as he had explained it to Pepita. But then, he hadn’t any right to get high and mighty, not with the anger he felt at Dixon, and the overpowering desire that came over him off and on to see Dixon squirm for his crimes.

  Griego clapped his hands and a servant came up. Griego had him bring fruit and tequila and told him to bring on the musicians. Clint hung around drinking and dancing and listening to the songs and joyous yelling of Griego’s hands. Everything became a blur and he got to feeling that he didn’t really have any problems after all. He had a chance to dance with Pepita and with some other pretty señoritas and to drink tequila and he was having a good time, and the world looked just fine and everything seemed where it ought to be, so what could be wrong?

  He stayed around for three days, while the festivities went on, and was drunk most of the time. But then he woke up early in the morning of some day he couldn’t place, and it felt like he had awakened under a rock slide, his head was being pounded so hard.

  It took him four hours to recover enough to get out of bed, and another two to get up enough nerve to leave the room. Things were quiet around the place, everybody sleeping it off. Clint wished he could have slept longer and wondered vaguely why he hadn’t.

  He hunted up his horse and saddle with considerable effort and packed some supplies aboard a burro, and then, gingerly, got into the saddle and set off north, leaving the whole hacienda still sleeping, though it was nearly noon by now.

  He had decided to leave the hacienda, but he had not decided what he would do next. He wanted to go take care of Dixon, but the whole business of killing and treachery had left him with such a confused mixture of fury and disgust at his own uncontrolled anger that he didn’t trust himself to walk into a showdown. He was afraid he’d go nuts and cut Dixon up with his knife and make him hurt for what he’d done, and then regret it afterwards and have to live with it for the rest of his life.

  He decided he wouldn’t do anything for a while, but just drift along. He knew where to look for Dixon now, if he wanted him. He patted his pocket with the sketch of how to get there, and then his mind drifted off onto other things.

  What had happened to the war that gone on? Who was left alive, and did anybody figure one side or the other had won? And had Felipe caught up with Valenzuela?

  Clint was curious, and like a moth flying into a candle, he rode north for Oak Creek.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  He was aiming to hit Crooked Creek and then go on north from there across the Mescaleros’ hunting desert, but he missed and fetched Dead Flats instead.

  It was just at dusk when he sighted the broken bunch of buildings, and he decided he might as well spend the night there as out in the open. So he pushed on as darkness fell and rode in under the stars.

  He wished he hadn’t come. The place made him uneasy. It wasn’t just him, either. The horse and the burro both felt it, for they shied and were reluctant to move forward.

  Clint was about to turn around and ride back out into the desert ag
ain, when there arose over the empty silent town a piercing scream. It was loud and like nothing he’d heard before.

  Clint tugged rein, getting his jittery horse under control, and sat listening hard. He was not sure if the scream had really been human or if it had been some animal.

  At first thin and icy as mountain air, then reaching up to a full pitch of piercing strength, the scream rose again, and stopped, spent.

  It came from somewhere at the far end of town. Clint wrestled his shying horse around and set his spurs. The burro leaned back against the tug on the lead rope with determination, and Clint didn’t waste time with it but just dropped the rope and urged his mount on down the street.

  The screaming was coming all the time now, and Clint suddenly recognized the voice—Valenzuela.

  The hairs stood up on the back Clint’s neck. Sweat prickled him all over. He felt sick. He wanted to swing his horse around and let him run clear of town, as the animal wanted to do. But there was just no way he could excuse doing that.

  He pulled to a halt and dropped down when he saw the dim forms of the horses tied to the hitch rail in front of a rickety saloon. Inside there was the glow of a lantern.

  Clint moved along to the gaping hole in the wall in which batwings had once flapped. They were now lying smashed on the ground just outside. Clint peered in as another scream rose.

  There were three men inside. Two of them were leaning over a third. The lantern sputtered at its poorly adjusted wick, sooting the glass. It sat on the floor just beyond the three and shone on the fierce faces of the two leaning over, on the blood pooled around the man on his back on the floor, who was arched up with his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as he screamed. One of the other two men pulled his bloody knife from somewhere Clint couldn’t see and the man’s scream dissipated into a moan.

  The man being tortured was Valenzuela all right. And the man with the knife was Blake Dixon.

  Clint couldn’t figure it, unless Valenzuela had tried to cheat Dixon. Was that what that letter had been about? In any case he plainly wanted revenge.

  Dixon said something softly to his companion, like a doctor conferring with a colleague on an operation, and then the helper took hold of Valenzuela’s hands and held them firmly in place on the floor. Dixon bent over Valenzuela with his knife.

  Clint stepped in.

  “Dixon!” he bellowed, raging.

  The knife whizzed, and if Clint hadn’t ducked it would have pinned his neck to the doorpost. The helper went for his gun, and Clint shot him dead.

  Dixon now went for his gun, and Clint shot it out of hand. Then, looking at the blood on Dixon’s hands, thinking of Margaret thrashing her life out with those hands around her neck, Clint hesitated.

  Dixon’s right hand dove into his clothes and out came a derringer. Clint shot Dixon through the heart, killing him cleanly and instantly.

  He stepped over to look at Valenzuela.

  “Please, Señor Evans,” Valenzuela said weakly. “Shoot me. I am dying, but it is very ... painful ... slow.” The words clearly cost him a great deal.

  Clint hesitated, and then made his decision and blew a hole in Valenzuela’s head with a forty-five slug.

  Then he walked away.

  Outside, he retched, leaning against the doorpost.

  A few minutes later, ears ringing, he climbed weakly aboard his horse and rode out of town. Through the ringing he could hear the lonely clop of his horse’s hooves in the silent empty town. He could smell burnt powder and scorched flesh.

  The Presence watched him as he rode the length of the street and located his burro and then drifted out of town.

  Out in the open desert, he noticed a gentle wind against his face, cool and fresh. He could smell jasmine for a moment, he thought, then it was gone and he figured it had to be his imagination.

  He bedded down and decided he would do the burying in the morning. He was asleep in five minutes.

  ~*~

  He rode into Oak Creek with only one purpose in mind: to find a job, most likely guarding a gold shipment north to the rails. In any case, a job that would get him away from here. If he landed at a railhead, he’d buy a ticket to somewhere, anywhere. He didn’t care to see another Mexican or another desert again. Or another Dixon.

  The warm air from the desert was sweeping through town, blowing up into the mountains. It was hot in the street, even in the shade. Clint rode down the street slowly, hoping the peace of the town was real and the war between Valenzuela’s men and Griego’s was long over, or at least confined to the mountains. He’d delayed coming here for weeks, wanting to sort out his thoughts.

  There was a rattling sound from a doorway to the left, and Clint saw a sombreroed Mexican shaking his tin begging cup full of change. Clint was about to ride on when the man spoke.

  “Please, señor, a few pennies for a poor blind man.”

  Clint started: it was Felipe. Clint swung to the rail and hauled rein. He stepped over to Felipe and sat next to him on the doorstep in the sun.

  “Felipe?”

  Startled, Felipe turned as though to look at him, but his eyes were wrapped with a dirty cloth bandage.

  “Señor Cleent?” Felipe said.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Oh, Señor Cleent, I am so glad to see you!” Felipe said happily, apparently unaware of the irony of his words. He put down the tin cup and reached out with his hands. Clint took one and shook it. Felipe’s mouth smiled with delight. “It is a long time, señor,” he said. “I did not think I would see you again. Did you bring Pepita home safely?”

  “Sure.”

  “That is good, Señor Cleent. I am glad to hear it.”

  “What happened?” Clint asked again.

  “Thees?” Felipe said, pointing to his bandaged eyes. “It is Valenzuela. I have him tied up and am about to have my revenge upon him, you know? But he is the tricky one, and the next thing he has me tied up. He uses a branding iron on my eyes. It is very painful, señor.”

  Clint didn’t think Felipe sounded upset enough to be talking about real events, and he yanked the bandage back.

  It was like getting hit in the gut with a sack of flower. He gingerly replaced the bandage.

  “Sorry, Felipe,” he said. “You’ve told me so many lies.”

  “I understand, Señor Cleent,” Felipe said, not sounding either offended or in pain. “It is some time now. It does not hurt so much anymore. But I cannot see. I am a useless person now, am I not?”

  “Valenzuela got his, Felipe. I found Dixon torturing him. I shot them both, along with a man siding Dixon.”

  “That is good news, señor. Everything is finished then. The fight went on for three days, and myself, and Valenzuela and Dixon and one of Dixon’s men are all that is left from this. It was a very bloody battle.”

  “Want something to eat, Felipe?”

  “I have just had something, Señor Cleent. But I have much gratitude that you ask me. What do you do now?”

  “I don’t know.” Clint pictured Felipe spending the rest of his life begging on this front step. “Don’t you wish Valenzuela had killed you?”

  Felipe hunched his shoulders. “I am grateful to be alive, señor. It is the señor Dixon who saves me by attacking Valenzuela, so that I have a chance to escape. Cleent, it is not so awful. It is the way the world passes, no?”

  “Hell of a jornado,” Clint muttered.

  “Señor?”

  “That’s what somebody called it when we started out on this business. A day’s ride. Hell of a long hard day’s ride, seems to me.”

  “Sí, it is true. But it is over, Cleent.”

  Clint was not sure, but it seemed to him a change had come over Felipe. Maybe it was for the better.

  “Want to ride with me?” he asked, before he thought.

  “Señor! Señor Cleent, you do not know how happy this makes me! I cannot see, but I still have my wits, no? And you have your gun, no? We will go far, señor, I assure you.”
>
  Clint was already having misgivings. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea after all. It had been pity for Felipe that had made him offer. Felipe had paid for his part in the thing, and Clint was still plenty aware how angry he’d been when he killed Dixon, and how uncertain a thing it was what he would have done had not Dixon pulled that derringer. Looking at Felipe, he realized how little difference there really was between them on the matter of revenge. But for all this, Felipe was still Felipe, and next thing you knew he’d be up to something ...

  ~*~

  Two riders lifted a rise of dust on the desert as the sun sunk flaming towards the horizon.

  “One thing,” the tall lanky one in the sweaty Stetson said.

  “Sí?” replied the short fat sombreroed one.

  “There won’t be any more doing favors for relatives.”

  “No, señor.”

  “Or telling me one thing and then doing something else.”

  “Of course not, señor.”

  “And no more of this señoring business. The handle’s Clint.”

  “Sí, Cleent. You have told me this before. It is not necessary to repeat.”

  “The name is Clint. It has an ‘i’ in it.”

  “I do not know what the good is of learning to spell, Cleent, since I cannot see, but I will try nevertheless to learn.”

  “C-l-i-n-t. Clint.”

  “C-l-i-n-t. Cleent.”

  The tall man’s jaw clamped shut and the toothpick between his lips pointed at the violent sky.

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