by Ralph Cotton
“He did not tell me who he is,” the old man said, having buried the coin out of sight inside his ragged clothes. He rubbed his bristly chin as if trying to recall what Shaw had told him. “I cannot remember why he said he came here.” He grinned sadly. “My mind does not work as well as it used to. Life is hard.”
Esconza scowled at him, knowing the old man was fishing him for money. “If you think life is hard now, imagine how much harder it will be when I stamp my boot down on your throat.” He took a step closer.
“Por favor, Dario! Please, no,” the old man said, raising his hands as if to protect his face. “I will tell you what he said.”
Esconza stopped and stared at him. The other two gunmen, both Texans on the run from the law, looked on, liking the way Esconza handled things.
The old man said, “He searches for an old bruja who carries a covey of trained sparrows in her bosom.”
“A witch with sparrows in her bosom . . .” Esconza said staring flatly at the old Mexican.
“Sí.” The old man shrugged, knowing how unlikely it sounded.
Esconza and the two gunmen looked at one another. Then Esconza turned back to the old man and took a deep breath, running out of patience.
“That’s real good, old man,” he said, stepping forward again. “Now I’m going to kick you back and forth in the dirt for a while. Then we’ll start over.”
“It is the truth, Dario. I swear it,” the old man said, speaking hurriedly now. “He asked about the bruja, and I told him she does not come here. Then he asked about the two lawmen you told me to look out for, the ones who you said are hunting down the Cut-jaws gang.”
“The two lawmen, eh?” said Esconza. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What did you tell him?”
“I told him they have not been through here.” The old man shrugged his bony shoulders. “Because it is true—they have not.”
Esconza turned up a drink from the bottle of mescal and passed it to one of the other two gunmen. He stared along the rise of dust Shaw’s horse stirred in its wake.
“What else?” Esconza asked. “Is he running from them?”
“He did not say,” the old man replied. “I asked if they hunt him, and he said maybe he is hunting them.”
One of the gunmen, a Texan named Ollie Wilcox, lowered the mescal bottle from his lips and passed it to the other gunman. “That’s no answer,” he said.
The third gunman, a Tex-Mexican named Charlie Ruiz turned up the bottle, swigged from it, then lowered it and said, “Yep, he’s on the run, if you ask me.”
“Yes, I think he is,” said Esconza.
He furrowed his brow in concentration and added, “I know this man . . . I have seen him before somewhere.”
“Yeah . . . ?” said Wilcox. He just stared at him. Esconza nodded his head in contemplation. “It will come to me.”
Ruiz grinned at Wilcox and asked Esconza, “So, what do you want to do? Chase him down and tell him you know him from somewhere?”
“We are looking for good men, eh?” said Esconza. “If he is hiding from the law and he is good with a gun, we will invite him to ride with us, I think.”
Ruiz grinned again. “What if he’s hiding from the law but is not good with a gun?” he said. “What if he has toes missing from being so bad with a gun?”
Esconza shrugged and reached out for the bottle in Charlie Ruiz’s hand. “Then I will kill him, and we will ride away.” He looked at the old Mexican and said, “See how life is not so hard for those of us with a bold nature?”
“Sí, I do,” the old man said. Then he fell silent and stood staring at the drift of dust above the trail.
