April 3
SONNY Wilke sat on his horse silently as it plodded lazily behind the first two horses. Ash never liked to talk while riding so Sonny had accustomed himself to the night silence, letting the hypnotic plop of the horses’ hooves lull him. He looked up only occasionally as if to reorient himself with the territory they were passing through. This New Mexican territory was a wasteland and deserved no more of his attention anyway. As soon as he got his share from this job, he was going back to Denver. Ash could rot in this god-forsaken desert, but Sonny was getting out.
For almost a month, ever since Ash Kennedy picked Sonny out of a poker game with a job offer, the pair had worked alone in the most isolated regions of the territory, spending long, numbing hours in the saddle and sleeping on hard, rocky ground. As much as this job appealed to him originally, Sonny wished it were done already. He was still a kid, being barely twenty, but he already had his sights set on high living and expensive women. This baking in the desert was not for him, and he could earn almost as good money closer to Denver.
Just then a horse’s sharp whistle cut through his thoughts and he looked up, swiping his sandy brown forelock off his forehead. He hadn’t realized they were so close to a farmhouse but the outside fence of a corral was not a hundred yards away. The house was dark but a chunky spotted horse fidgeted at the fence, tossing his head and stomping his feet. The half moon reflected noticeably off his rump.
“Lookit that, Ash,” Sonny said. “He’s damn near better lookin’ than this mare we got.”
“Huh,” Ash grunted, but he was looking. His ugly, weather-beaten face gnarled in agitation as he considered the horse. That Mexican officer—he could never remember the man’s rank—was paying plenty for the mare they towed. She was reported to be the best brood mare in the territory, and the general—or whatever he was—loved flashy color. She had a snowy white blanket on her rump that showed stark against her coppery brown body, and good, large spots. But the kid was right—that one over there looked as good or better.
“I don’t ‘member hearing about no Indian horses like that around here before, do you?” Sonny was saying.
“Huh uh,” Ash said. With an almost imperceptible movement of his hand, he reined his own horse toward the corral.
“We gonna take that one, too?” Sonny asked excitedly. With two horses they could double their asking price and he’d have enough for lots of drinks and even fancier women in Denver. Maybe this job would turn out worth his while after all. “He sure is pretty.”
“Quiet,” Ash commanded. They rode cautiously to the split rail fence and the Appy became even more agitated. Ash watched the mare lift her head curiously and she let out an answering whinny before he could jerk her lead rope and shut her up. The big Appy snorted and stomped.
“I’ll be damned,” Ash said under his breath. “If that don’t beat all for luck.”
“What?” Sonny asked. “What is it?”
Ash grinned. “This here feller’s a stud, and our little lady here is giving him the come-on. Lookit her, already got her tail over sideways.” He laughed soundlessly. “I wonder how the general would like a package deal—mama, papa and a baby on the way.”
Sonny’s face lit up. “By damn!” he said. “Let’s do it!”
“Pipe down. You want to wake the house? See if you can get that rail down and let ol’ Romeo out. We won’t even need a lead on him.”
Sonny jumped down and handed Ash his horse’s rein, then began to fiddle with the rough split rails. The damn fence was made so well the rails were wedged almost too tight to move, and all he gained by his efforts were splinters in his gloves. He pushed his shoulder against the rail, jarring it again and again until it loosened. Finally splinters began to fall out of the post hole.
The stallion was plunging at the fence, tossing his head and calling sharply to the mare. Once his hooves came dangerously close to Sonny’s foot, and Sonny cussed quietly. Closer, the stud looked even better than he thought, a black animal with a striking white blanket halfway up his back. His body was short-coupled and meaty, but he pivoted that rear end around like it was nothing.
“Hurry up, goddamn it!” Ash whispered. “He’s makin’ enough noise to wake the dead.”
It was true. The horse snorted and whinnied, nickered and blew. Pretty soon Ash expected to see lights on in the house.
He looked through the moonlit darkness. No lights yet. But what was that? Something round shining out of a window. Too pale to be a light—maybe a face?
“Shit,” Ash said. “Get that rail down and do it fast. Someone’s comin’.”
The figure ran frantically from the house to the far fence, then flung itself through the rails. It was a small figure, a kid, but Ash saw the glint of metal that had to be a shotgun.
“If you don’t get that rail down in the next two seconds, we’re leaving without him,” Ash said angrily.
“Uh!” Sonny grunted. The rail fell with a splitting sound, almost catching his foot beneath it. He glanced up at the figure closing in and grabbed his rein as Ash tossed it down.
“Okay, big balls, come on,” Ash said to the stud. He gouged his spurs into his own horse’s sides and led the mare off in a plunging canter. The stallion pricked his ears, snorted once and jumped the rail in pursuit.
“Stop, you goddamn horse thieves!” The kid was closing, the shotgun coming up. “You low-down sons of bitches, stop!”
Sonny heard the voice but was still trying to get into his saddle. His own mare was skittish and wide-eyed from all the ruckus and circled every time he tried to get a leg up. The damn thing turned nervously whenever he approached, her ears flicking forward and back.
“Come on, Sonny!” Ash yelled from the back of his galloping horse. “Quit fooling around and get on the damn horse!”
Sonny muttered vile threats as he chased his horse around in another tight circle, one boot in the stirrup so that he had to hop comically to keep up. With his back to the fence, he finally managed to grab one ear and yanked it down so the animal would stand still.
That was the shot the kid was waiting for. The shotgun hard against the shoulder muscle, the barrel exploded and sent a blazing hail of snake shot spraying toward Sonny. The kid was gratified to see the thief jump and twitch painfully, then fling himself up on his horse behind the saddle. The second barrel thundered and the snake shot caught Sonny almost full on the back and rear. Luckily for him, it caught his horse’s rear, too, and the mare bolted wildly after the other three horses. Hanging on to the horn and mane, Sonny tried to pull himself up into the saddle, but it was some time before he could do so. His mare passed Ash’s horse like it was standing still. By the time two other figures joined the kid at the broken fence, the thieves were out of range.
The central northern landscape of Mexico fell away ahead in gentle basins divided by disjointed chains of low mountains. The Mexican patrol had ridden almost endlessly through the same kind of country for over two weeks and Degas was sick of it.
With every step of his horse’s hooves, he had cursed Colonel Sanchez. He railed silently against every pinion pine and stunted juniper they passed, and vehemently wished it were Sanchez in his gun sight instead of the rabbits and quail he had shot along the way. If it weren’t for the fact that he would be committing suicide, he would just as soon turn his horse about and head for home. Unfortunately, it was not his option.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a stained sleeve of his uniform and wished the sun would set faster. He could feel the perspiration plastering his black hair to his scalp, and his mustache itched. It was bad enough that he had to be sent on this inane mission, but the unseasonable early heat made it worse. In all his six years as a soldier, he had never wished so totally that he were something else. And all of this discomfort because the colonel wanted a damn horse!
Sometimes he even wished he could be back at that skirmish east of the city. It was small, quick, but he and his men put down the minor revolt well, and not many rebels got awa
y. It was amazing to him why so many people took the path of revolution against Santa Ana. What good would it do them? The general had so many troops, and the rebels died so painfully. Even if they ever succeeded in throwing Santa Ana over, what would follow? Peace and wealth for all, granted by that Indian exile, Juarez? Even Degas knew an empty seat of power beckoned to all manner of dictators. If the people deposed one, another would be forthcoming soon. It all seemed so useless to him.
Like this mission. A bitter reward for his good work against the rebels. When Colonel Sanchez first sent for him, Degas was sure his superior had already heard a report of the putdown and was so eager to bestow his thanks that he could not even wait for Degas to change out of his filthy uniform. Coming stinking from the stables, Degas reported to Sanchez’s apartments and tried to look as dignified as possible in his battle-dirtied condition. He remembered angrily how he stood, puffed up with pride and expectation, barely controlling a smug smile beneath his mustache.
“Degas,” the colonel began, pacing in front of the soldier. “Do you remember some months ago when you and your men rode to the north border on patrol and I had you deliver a message to a man at a small cantina?”
“Sí, Colonel,” Degas said confusedly. He kept his expression rigid, ignoring the trails of sweat down the side of his face. His thin, attractive frame towered over the shorter colonel, who paced fluidly in front of him.
“It is time for you to go back. I am awaiting a shipment that is essential to the Presidente, and it should be there shortly.” The balding Sanchez stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Degas, tilting his head up so he could stare meaningfully into the taller man’s eyes. “The shipment is to arrive on an Appaloosa mare. That is a pre-arranged signal and I cannot stress to you too much how important this is. If for any reason you do not ride back with that spotted mare, you and your men will be shot on sight by the first city patrol you meet.” Sanchez waited, letting the words sink in. Degas could hear his blood hammering in his head.
“Now,” Sanchez continued, pacing again, “I am sure you will have no problems. The man at the cantina is faithful and thorough and he should have everything in order. All you need to do is bring the horse back. Is that understood?”
“Sí, Colonel,” Degas said woodenly.
“And do I need to tell you that this is not to be discussed with anyone? Not even any of the Presidente’s men?”
“No, Colonel.”
“If they ask about it, they obviously do not need to know or the Presidente would have told them. You are going on a routine patrol. Is that clear?”
“Sí, Colonel.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No, Colonel,” Degas said miserably.
“Good.” Sanchez went to his desk and took a stained leather bag from his top drawer. It clinked heavily as he hefted it, and he held it plainly up for Degas to see. “This is the payment agreed upon. Suarez at the cantina knows how much it should be, and if it is short you will not get the horse. And if you do not get the horse …”
Degas began to sweat again.
“But in the same way, do not give him the gold until you see the horse is ready. We must be careful, no?”
“Sí, Colonel.”
“You will also give a message that there is no further need at this time. It will be understood. The rest will be easy. Bring back the mare with whatever saddlebags will be on her, and you will have done a great service to the Presidente. He is appreciative of great favors, Degas. Perhaps he may even ask you if there is something you would like. Is there something?”
Degas hesitated, wishing for all the world he could turn down this mission.
“Well, speak man!”
“Sí, Colonel. There is something,” he said cautiously. Degas almost smiled at his dream of becoming an officer so he might win the beautiful, rich Mathilda for his wife. Just the thought of her was enough to give him an erection. He took a breath to explain. Then he tensed, fearing the colonel would want him to elaborate, but Sanchez waved him off.
“Good, think about it while you are riding. I want you and your patrol to leave in two hours.”
“But, Colonel, we—the men have only just gotten back from …”
“Degas!” Sanchez roared. “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I would send you back out into the wilderness if it weren’t imperative to the Presidente? This is not a game we are playing with the revolutionaries! This is war! We all have to put our personal wishes aside and do what we can to aid our country. Any other thought or action would be treason, and treason is a firing squad offense, isn’t it, Degas?”
“Sí, Colonel.” Degas swallowed hard.
“You have your orders then,” Sanchez was saying curtly. “Bring me that mare as quickly as you can. That is all you need to worry about.”
“Sí, Colonel,” Degas said, straightening to salute. Sanchez didn’t see it, having already turned away from Degas and dismissing him from his mind. The patrol leader turned smartly and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
How many times since then had Degas wished he had slammed that door in Sanchez’s face and walked away? Or better yet, not even reported to him, but left him pacing his apartment until midnight? Every day Degas played another variation of his fantasy in his mind, each one more humiliating to the colonel than before. Each day his anger hardened in the pit of his stomach until the weight of it drew on him like a loaded bullet. The only respite he got was when his chain of thoughts led him on to a happy reunion with Mathilda. When he could put his hatred aside for a short time, he imagined Mathilda consoling him, her large, plush breasts flattened against his chest and her fragrant black hair falling down around his face. It was times like these that he almost smiled for a bit, until his fantasies progressed so far that his erection clamored for relief. Even when he pushed the thoughts of Mathilda away, his neglected privates suffered painfully, jarred unmercifully against the saddle, and his mind turned full circle back to Colonel Sanchez and hated him all the more for the emasculating position Degas found himself in. He scanned the far horizon, hoping that miserable little cantina would appear to him soon.
A Novel Idea Page 4
