Pistolero Read online

  First things first. He went to the door, out, and walked the short distance to the well. He looked out at the desert. The sun was gone but had left some glow in the sky, and it wasn't yet completely dark. It was warm, and under other circumstances, would have been a pleasant nightfall. Out there, somewhere, the cry of a coyote.

  The well was a little stone circle, grapefruit-sized rocks mortared together with adobe, and a crude wooden bucket hung from a post-mounted axle down into water fifteen or twenty feet below. He brought the bucket up – a dozen screechy turns with a hand crank – and locked the crank in place.

  There was a ladle in the bucket. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply and thirstily. Then another. He had somehow managed to overlook how parched, how thirsty he was. One more ladle. The water was warm and a little gritty, but water had never tasted better.

  He dropped the ladle back into the bucket, then rested both hands on the bumpy top of the little stone well and just stood for a few moments, gazing into the beyond, smelling the clean air and savoring the feel of a warm desert breeze on his face.

  He reached up and untied the rope that connected the bucket by its handle to the axle. He turned and walked back to the house, a bucket of water in one hand. The other went gently and tentatively to the back of his head.

  ~

  The scream of a mountain lion pierced the night, but none of them heard it. A little too much tequila. They were all snoring loudly.

  The fat, smelly one called Paco stirred and muttered something whispery and unintelligible. He was dreaming about a woman he had stabbed to death in Guadalajara two years before. He made a fist and threw an airy punch.

  "Puta immunda," he muttered, and rolled over on one side. Filthy whore.

  ~

  Cole Matthews sat naked on the floor by the open front door. There was a yellow cake of lye soap in his hand and a bucket of water at his knee. He was washing himself by candlelight, being that the oil lamp was in shards and pieces.

  The dirt came off his body and out of his hair easily enough, the death smell less so. He scrubbed and rinsed, scrubbed and rinsed, working up the frothiest lather he could with the dense brick of soap and rinsing again. Twice, he went outside and dumped the soapy water onto the ground, walked naked to the well, and came stepping gingerly back with a fresh bucket.

  A towel was not to be found and so when he was finished, he wiped himself dry with the bedsheet on the floor.

  His clothes were a loss. No amount of washing was going to get the stench out, (he knew that much from past experience) so he tossed them. Threw them outside and looked about the place for something else to wear.

  Going through the clothes rummage on the floor, he found a pair of pants once worn, he figured, by Isela's man. Husband, whatever. Funny, Matthews reflected for the first time, she never brought him up or even told me his name. The boy's either. He held the pants up by the waistband and examined them. A pair of threadbare white cotton trousers with a drawstring in front. Looked pretty small. Too big to be the boy's, but small.

  Couldn't find underwear, so he put the pants on without them. He sat down on the bed and pulled them on. Tent-like in the legs, but tight around the waist. He stood to put what knot he could in the drawstring and saw that the bottom of the pant legs came about up to the middle of his shins. A pair of shorts, almost. He sighed. A beggar this day, not a chooser.

  The only shirt he could find was pink, faded almost colorless by the sun and many washings, and the sleeves had been cut at the shoulders. It also was at least two sizes too small, but it was clean, and he wriggled into it and left it open at the front, a little pink cotton vest of sorts.

  No socks either. He walked barefoot to the open door. He put one hand up on the door jamb and ran the fingers of his other hand back through still wet hair. He stood looking out at the night and the little stone well, wanting to rest for just a moment before gathering the things he would need for a night trek into the desert.

  But there would be no desert trek this night. He felt suddenly lightheaded, and his vision blurred. His legs went wobbly, and he fell unconscious to the floor.

  Chapter Nine

  - 1 -

  He awoke to a scorching sun, on his back, half in and half out of the doorway. He stirred, and a tiny desert lizard skittered away from beside his head. Faintly, out there somewhere, a cicada sang. He brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

  He groaned and rolled over, came to a sitting position. He looked about, still feeling lightheaded and confused. Where was he and what the hell had happened?

  He took a deep breath and slowly it came back to him, slowly it rolled in. Isela's little house... Left for dead by bandits... And, standing in the doorway, he had fainted. Concussion and after-effect. Seen that before.

  The headache still pounded, still felt like a railroad spike in the back of his head. He sat in the doorway and turned and looked inside, into the little house. He brought a hand to the back of his head and held it there. He would need one of those khaki soldier caps for a little protection from the sun, one of the Whitneys, and something to carry water in.

  He took hold of the door jamb and groaned as he hoisted himself to his feet.

  ~

  The boots were too small and tight when laced up, so he pulled the laces out and threw them away. He knew the rough Mexican leather inside would rub blisters on his bare feet, but shrugged it off. Not like he had a choice.

  He found an adobe pot of some kind with a long, narrow neck, (for flowers? he wondered, looking at the thing...) filled it with murky water from the well, and stuffed in a wad of cloth as a stopper.

  He took one of the bandoliers of ammunition and slung it over one shoulder and across his chest.

  Then, with a Whitney-Laidley in one hand and a flower pot in the other, he set off into the desert.

  - 2 -

  The Sonoran sand made their tracks easy enough to follow. Probably for the best, he thought, that he had passed out and slept through the night.

  He lost the trail when the dirt went hard, or turned to rock, but picked it up again when it returned to powder and grit, which it was most of the way. It helped that they seemed to be traveling a straight east-southeast path. He counted four horses with riders and three without, which didn't make particular sense to him, but was something that didn't matter much either. He mainly worried that a desert sandstorm would erase the tracks.

  More than anything else, it was the bay that pushed him on. The saddlebags full of gold bars and Mexican pesos meant little or nothing to him, but that big horse was his only friend, and he would have him back. He would take back all his possessions – his saddle, the Schofield, the Sharps, and the Greener – but chiefly as a matter of principle; the bay was his companion and his friend, and he would not see him under the saddle of a Mexican bandit.

  He came to a little knoll and stopped to rest, sat down on a watermelon-sized rock and rested the forestock of the Whitney in a clump of sagebrush. Feeling a little lightheaded again. He took a few deep breaths, then pulled the stopper rag from his flowerpot canteen and swallowed a mouthful of warm, gritty water. He sat holding the little earthenware thing in his hands for a few moments wondering if perhaps Isela had crafted it herself, then plugged it again and set it down on the ground. He took the army cap by the visor, pulled it from his head, and wiped his arm across his forehead.

  He rested the hand that held the cap down on one knee and looked up at the sky. Judging by the sun, it was an hour or two before noon, and he had been on the march for about three hours, which figured to be – what? – seven, maybe eight miles? If he remembered correctly from the brief glance he had given the map he had found in a lieutenant's saddlebag, he should be coming to a river soon. And a little town another seven or eight miles beyond that.

  He looked down at his boots, open at the front for want of laces. Both fel
t a little wet inside, which meant that blisters had broken, or were bleeding, or both. He yearned to put his bare feet in that cool river water.

  He put on the cap and pulled the leather visor down over his eyes. Silly looking damn thing, he thought. He came to his feet with a groan. Had to keep moving. He had lost the night, and they were getting further and further ahead. Could even be in that little town across the river by now.

  He picked up the Whitney and slung it over his shoulder. He ground his teeth. Pain is good, he told himself. Extreme pain is extremely good.

  - 3 -

  A Mexican saddle is a cruel thing. It is formed by laying a leather seat and cantle across a pair of wooden slats ("barros") about three by eight inches in size. These barros lay lengthwise on the horse's back, straddling the animal's spine, and – while there is no particular intent to cause the animal discomfort – the result, when a man climbs on board and the barros dig in, is beyond unpleasant. Over time, the hair in that area turns white.

  The bit is another matter. The so-called Mexican "spade bit" was designed to inflict pain. Inserted deep into the horse's mouth, a metal plate or "spade" lays on the tongue; a pull on the reins brings it painfully against the palate. A sharp tug and the pain is excruciating. The horse becomes very, very responsive, or is ruined, and dies.

  Then, there are the “Mexican spurs” – pitiless, brutal things with three-inch rowels and, typically, six long, needle-like points. It is no pleasant thing to be a horse in Mexico.

  ~

  A fast man with knife and gun they called El Carnicero – the Butcher – took the bay with three deuces in a single hand of Showdown, and his reputation for quick and casual murder was such that no one contested the outcome. The caballo had proven difficult, and he decided it was time the animal learned its place.

  The bay snorted and backed away at his approach, and – irritated – he took hold of the horse's mane and struck him sharply across the nose with the silver handle of a short, plaited leather whip.

  The bay's eyes widened; an angry, grunting sound came from his throat, and he threw his head around and hopped a few steps back.

  El Carnicero lost his grip on the horse's mane. He reached out with one hand and grabbed the reins; with the other he flipped the little whip in the air and caught it by the silver handle. He called out to the one called Paco, who stood nearby. "Ayúdame con este gran hijo de puta!" Help me with this big son of a bitch!

  He began to lash the bay hard on the neck and across the side. "Help me hold him!" he shouted in Spanish, and the big horse rared back and up on its hind legs. Gripping the reins tightly with one hand, he whipped at the bay with the other, and the animal began to scream.

  The one called Paco rushed to help and together they brought the big horse down and held him tightly by the neck.

  The bay whinnied softly and made angry snuffling sounds as he danced around and back and forth and dragged the two men about.

  "Let's get a proper Mexican bit in this bastard's mouth," El Carnicero growled.

  - 4 -

  He saw them coming a half mile away. A dark little comma on the far horizon that became slowly larger and then grew a plume of dust. He knew it was men and horses, but there was nowhere to go, no cover, no safe ground, so he stood and waited and watched them come. He dropped the butt of the Whitney to the ground and held the rifle by the barrel.

  He waited, and watched them come.

  Another army patrol. Five Mexican horse soldiers and a sub-lieutenant, as before, only this bunch had a pair of pack mules in tow, which meant they were carrying provisions and maybe tenting, for an extended stay in the saddle. A long range patrol. They would be more hardened and better trained than the ones he had taken out at Isela's little hacienda.

  They reined in a dozen or so feet in front of him, and he watched as a pair of corporals maneuvered their horses around to flank him. Three others unslung their Whitneys and put them to their shoulders, aiming loosely at his chest. He heard the hammers cock. Yes, better trained.

  The lieutenant showed a toothy grin. He drew his revolver and walked his horse a few steps forward. He pointed airily at Cole Matthews with the weapon and said something about this ridiculous fucking gringo in baggy pants and pink shirt, and they all laughed loudly.

  Matthews tried for an affable smile, but his eyes were on the .37 caliber Nagant the lieutenant was waving about, then at the shiny cavalry saber secured under the left side saddle skirt. He glanced, from one to another, at all of the riders. Not a sidearm among them. Five cavalry grunts with long barreled Whitney-Laidleys, and they would be more than clumsy to deploy in a close-in fight.

  The lieutenant leaned over his saddle, resting an elbow on the broad, flat horn, and pointed with his revolver at Matthews' feet. The grin was gone. "Dónde consigue usted aquel limpiabotas?" he said. Where you get those boots?

  Matthews smiled and shrugged, feigning helplessness and no understanding.

  The lieutenant raised the revolver and gestured higher. " Dónde consigue usted ese sombrero?" Where you get that hat? He pointed to the Whitney. "Y ese rifle?" And that rifle?

  Matthews smiled and shrugged again. No comprender...

  The lieutenant made an unhappy sighing sound and rose up in the saddle. "Llévalo," he said. "Vamos a ver si él entiende mejor después pateamos la mierda fuera de él." Take him. Let's see if he understands better after we kick the shit out of him.

  The two corporals that flanked him moved to get down off their mounts, and Matthews moved his left hand over and took a grip on the barrel of the Whitney with both hands.

  One corporal stepped out of the saddle, then the other, and the lieutenant looked down on him with the return of a broad, toothy grin that seemed to say, We gonna have some fun with you, gringo.

  He swung the Whitney high and hard. The walnut stock hit the officer's head a crushing blow, and Matthews crouched quickly on the swingaround to pose a smaller, moving target to rifle fire he knew would be coming his way. The lieutenant's hat flew from his head, and he was knocked sideways off his horse.

  Three shots came almost as one from the three soldiers still mounted but slammed harmlessly into the dirt behind him as he dove toward the body of the still falling lieutenant. The officer's eyes were glassy and unfocused, the pupils already beginning to blow, but he held his revolver in a death grip as he hit the hard, rocky ground.

  Matthews fell on top of him; he wrested the revolver out of the man's hand and rolled over onto his back.

  Both corporals were scrambling to unsling their rifles. One quickly shouldered his Whitney; the other held his rifle with both hands and was positioning to bring it down and crush Matthews' head with the thick, heavy stock – a vertical butt stroke delivered straight down. He could hear the three mounted soldiers fumbling to reload.

  Matthews got a finger on the Nagant's trigger and brought the revolver to bear on the man who was about to fracture his skull. The other corporal could wait – if he was going to shoot that rifle, it would take a half second to cock.

  He pulled the trigger and the Nagant barked; the soldier with the poised, vertical rifle was punched back a step, a dark, centavo-sized hole in the left side of his chest. The man crumpled and fell onto his back, and the rifle clattered into rocks and cactus beside him.

  Matthews heard the cocking of that other Whitney; he rolled to his opposite side and shot that corporal in the chest, then rose quickly to one knee.

  He took the last three off their horses one by one, left to right. Two-handed, aimed shots. Head shots with an explosion of crimson mist, every one, and he blessed the Nagant for being a fast to fire double action.

  He came to his feet and looked around. The horses were gone. The mules stood stolid and unmoving, but the horses were running like hell in six different directions. He glanced at the bodies. Six more dead soldados Mexicanos, all on their backs, a tangle of arms and
legs and Whitney-Laidley rolling block rifles. He stood with the Nagant in one hand and adjusted the bandolier of ammunition that still lay across his chest with the other, then gazed out at the Sonoran desert, watching one of the horses disappear.

  He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip, lamenting the loss of that saber.

  ~

  He cared nothing for anything the enlisted men might be carrying, but he took the black leather belt and holster from the officer's body and wrapped it around his own waist. There was a leather cartridge box next to the buckle on the left side of the belt containing twenty loose rounds of .37 caliber Nagant; he took five and reloaded the revolver, then stuck it down in the holster and secured the flap.

  He approached the mules. One tossed its head and backed away with a skeptical hawww, and the other turned and looked at him curiously. He went to the friendly one. He knelt down and unfastened the two cinch straps on the pack saddle and let it – and its load – fall to the ground.

  Then, the other. The second mule widened its eyes and nostrils and backed away, but he got close enough to grab the lead rope that hung from an iron ring on the halter. He drew the animal in, held it by the halter, and unfastened the cinch straps one-handed. He gave the load a tug and the pack saddle and load thumped to the ground. When he let go of the halter, the mule lurched around and trotted off into the desert. He stood for a moment, watching it go, then turned back to the first mule.

  It stood munching on a clump of weeds. He went to the animal and took hold of the rope that hung from its halter. He ran a hand down the mule's stubby, brush-like mane. It looked at him with big, interested eyes, then ducked its head and bit off another mouthful of weeds.

  He knelt down and tied the halter rope to the leg of a dead soldier. Damned if this one was going to get away. Be damned if he was going to walk from here.

  ~

  The first pack load he went through contained a small tent for the officer and shelter-halves for the enlisted men; there was also a dozen or more tent and shelter-half poles, a double-bitted axe, two small shovels, and a pair of hatchets. He took the sharpest of the two hatchets and stuck it down inside his belt.