Leaving Yuma Read online

  Anyway, the memories keep coming back, and not just what happened or what was said, but the sensation of it all, you know? Like with the sun being so hot I could feel it even through the fabric of my vest, and how heavy Sabana’s humidity felt settling in my lungs while I waited at Dos Puentes for Soto to show up.

  He was on time, which kind of surprised me, but he also brought along a lot of men. I’d counted on that, too, which is why I didn’t have the Colt-Browning with me. Earlier that afternoon, after Guille got back, I had him and Luis take the big gun out west of town and set it up on a little grassy flat where I used to graze my burros. There was a tall cutbank on the south side of the river they could put their backs to if the major tried anything underhanded, and plenty of open space on every side in case it came to a fight.

  Luis and I had put the gun together in the stable that afternoon, then filled the sturdy cloth ammunition belts with cartridges that we fed experimentally into the receiver. Luis actually chambered a round, but didn’t squeeze the trigger. Later on, when I saw what the Colt-Browning was capable of, I was glad he hadn’t. We’d have likely blasted out the side of Ramón’s stable.

  Satisfied that we had the gun figured out, we tore it down and repacked it. We were just lashing it to the mule when Guille returned. Feeling uneasy about the look on his face, I asked him what the problem was.

  “Felipe says Soto refuses to bring the woman. He says you can have the boy in trade, or he’ll keep all three hostages and take the gun you have. He is afraid you only have the one, you see?” After a pause, he added, “I told you Soto wouldn’t like it.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, relieved that he’d taken the bait. I glanced at Luis. “There’s a chance Soto had some of his men follow Guille, so you’d better start riding. Get that gun ready to fire. I’ll be along as soon as Soto shows up.” Switching to English, I added, “I don’t have any reason not to trust this kid, but stay sharp, and if he looks like he’s trying to double-cross us, shoot him.”

  “Sí, I will,” Luis agreed.

  Turning to Guille, I switched back to Spanish. “Do you know that little flat where I used to set up camp?”

  “Sí, the Smuggler’s Glade.”

  That took me aback for a moment, then I laughed softly. “All right. Take Luis there, then stay with him. Help out where you can. He’s in charge, so you do what he says.”

  Guille’s gaze drifted to the pack mule. “Are you going to fight Soto for the woman and children?”

  “You just do what Luis says, and don’t give him any grief. I’ll meet Soto at Dos Puentes, and, if I like what he has to say, I’ll take him out to the glade.”

  The kid shrugged but nodded, and after they were gone, I led my mare outside and tightened the cinch. I didn’t see Ramón, and I didn’t go looking for him. Swinging a leg over the cantle, I reined onto a narrow cart track behind the stable and made my way back to Little Sabana, across the river.

  Holed up inside the abandoned Loro Azul cantina, I waited tensely for the evening shade to creep across the valley floor. As the time of my meeting with Soto drew near, I left my perch at a boarded-up window and led my horse outside. Dos Puentes was less than two hundred yards away, and it took only a few minutes to reach the low hump of rocky soil between the two ancient bridges. My gaze swept the southern shore. Sabana’s streets were deserted. Apparently word of my rendezvous with Chito Soto had already spread throughout the community, and the townspeople were staying inside, out of the line of fire.

  I was there only a few minutes when a band of horsemen trotted out from behind a low-roofed adobe house behind me, cutting off escape to the north. Moments later a second group of horsemen appeared on the opposite bank. As the two parties converged, my mare shifted restlessly, sensing my apprehension.

  From all the talk I’d heard since leaving Yuma, I was expecting a greasy, oxlike bandit in ragged clothing, loaded down with revolvers and machetes, but the man I saw riding at the head of the second column didn’t come close to that description. Major Francisco “Chito” Soto, of the Army of Liberation, was certainly a big man, but he wasn’t sloppy fat. He was short and beefy and wore a red-trimmed khaki uniform with a tall, military-style kepi held in place with a slim chin strap. A single handgun rode in a flapped holster at his side, carried butt forward in a military manner, along with a saber on his other hip, its decorative hilt highly gilded. Soto’s boots, like those of his men, were polished beneath a normal haze of dust, and his hair was recently trimmed.

  As far as his men, well, they wouldn’t have been mistaken for a troop of US cavalry in parade dress, but there was a semblance of order in their movement, a sense of conformity in their uniforms, mostly of the same khaki twill as Soto’s attire, although without the crimson piping. There were blue chevrons on a couple of sleeves, and a lieutenant’s bars on the shoulders of a ramrod-stiff man riding at the major’s side. A quick count netted twenty soldiers, plus half a dozen others to my rear, led by a corporal with a thin mustache. Behind the lieutenant was a stocky sergeant in a battered sombrero. I remember that sombrero well because it was so out of character with the rest of the soldados, and because of a bullet hole in its crown.

  The two squads reined up at the outer abutments of the twin bridges, and, after a moment’s pause, Soto motioned the lieutenant and five others forward. I stayed where I was, keeping both hands in plain sight. The lieutenant’s gaze shifted suspiciously to either side as he crossed the larger bridge, and my guts kind of shriveled up as I took in his bearing, the hard authority of his eyes. It was like watching the Grim Reaper enter the room carrying a card with your name on it, and knowing you’d waited too long to make a run for it.

  Halting a few yards away, the lieutenant said, “You are alone?”

  “I am.”

  “And the gun, this creation of the famous John Browning?”

  “It’s safe.”

  My reply didn’t set well with the hard-shelled Mexican, but I went on before he could reply.

  “I came here to speak with Chito Soto,” I said, deliberately leaving off the man’s rank. “Not his errand boy.”

  The tall man’s expression never changed. “I am Lieutenant José Alvarez, and, for the moment, you will deal with me. Where is the gun?”

  “Where is the woman?”

  A smile curled lazily at the corner of the lieutenant’s mouth. He raised a hand, and from an alley about a block away, a third squad of horsemen appeared. It took only a moment to pick out the sandy-haired youth of about nine, riding behind a soldier on a bay shaded similarly to my own.

  “The boy first,” Alvarez said. “Not the woman. Your man, Guillermo Calderón, has already explained this to you, no?”

  I nodded that he had. “I’ll take Soto and five men with me to where the gun is waiting. The boy comes with us, but I want to talk to him first, make sure he is who you say he is. You and the rest of Soto’s men will wait here for the major’s return.”

  A look of disdain burned across the lieutenant’s face. “Señor Latham, do you take me for a fool? I already know where the gun is located. I maintain this façade of civility only because Major Soto wishes to assure you of his sincerity in our dealings. But do not think that I can be toyed with like a ball of yarn under a kitten’s paws. We will go to this place you have chosen for our trade and examine the gun that Edward Davenport has sent to us. If it is satisfactory, the child will be turned over to you, and you will be allowed to leave Sabana to retrieve the other guns and the ammunition. But be assured, hombre, that if you do not wish to complete this initial exchange in a timely manner, if you attempt to needlessly delay our transaction, I can have you shot here, and deal with Vega personally. Perhaps he will not be as difficult if I brought him your head as proof of my determination in this matter.”

  Although I managed to preserve an air of indifference, I swear it felt as if my heart had momentarily seized
up. If Soto knew our names, then Alvarez probably wasn’t bluffing when he said they also knew the location of the machine gun. Someone had betrayed us, and I didn’t believe the traitor was Guille. My thoughts turned to Ramón Gutiérrez, who likely figured he was covering his own behind by going to the major.

  You might think I’m going to say something like, Well, I couldn’t blame Ramón for looking out for himself, or, I might’ve done the same, but I’m not. I’d given that old thief a silver eagle—ten dollars—to keep his damned mouth shut, and then he turned around and double-crossed us before the afternoon was out. I was just thankful we’d left those other two Colt-Brownings behind; otherwise you might be interviewing my ghost tonight, instead of blood and bone.

  Alvarez’s icy demeanor never changed. “Your decision, señor?”

  Leaning forward in my saddle to speak past gritted teeth, I said, “Well, hell, champ, let’s ride.”

  With Alvarez at my side and his men, including the corporal’s small bunch from north of the river, falling in behind, we rode over to where Soto calmly waited. The child had been brought up while the lieutenant and I did our haggling, and I didn’t need to question the youth to know he was Edward Davenport’s son. The old man’s features were stamped all over him, but especially in that slightly thrusting jaw that was so intimidating on the father.

  Soto eyed me with quiet curiosity as I hauled up in front of him, my mare’s nose nearly touching the muzzle of his sorrel gelding. I nodded a howdy, not quite sure how to proceed.

  Returning the nod courteously, Soto said, “It is my pleasure, Señor Latham, to finally make the acquaintance of the famous Zorro Yanqui.” (Editor’s note: Spanish for Yankee Fox; it probably refers to Latham’s reputation as a smuggler.)

  My puzzled expression seemed to amuse him. “Were you not aware of your fame among the citizens of Sabana, señor?”

  “I am afraid I wasn’t, especially after being away for so many years.”

  “The legend of el Zorro Yanqui is well-known among my people,” he informed me in surprisingly gentle tones. “They speak also of the cove along the river where you used to pasture your burros. The Smuggler’s Glade, I believe it is called.” He smiled amiably. “It is also told that you have been detained for several years within the gringo prison at Yuma. Is that true?”

  “It’s true.”

  The major nodded solemnly. “Let us hope that these crimes that caused you to be imprisoned for so long are not crimes that can lead to your execution in Sonora.”

  I didn’t respond to that. Soto didn’t intend for me to. Nor was he making idle conversation. He was telling me he knew all about me, a warning of sorts that I figured I’d better heed if I didn’t want to end up in front of a firing squad.

  Glancing toward the Sierra Verdes, their rocky flanks purpling with twilight, the major said, “Perhaps we should be on our way to this glade where Davenport’s machine gun awaits our inspection. Darkness approaches, and I know you wish to return for the other guns as soon as possible.”

  Well, that wasn’t any secret. I’d purposely set up a sundown meeting just so I’d have the element of nightfall to count on if something went wrong. And to help throw off pursuit, or at least delay it, if Soto sent trackers after us on our return to Yaqui Springs.

  It was a thirty-minute ride at a short lope to the little meadow the locals called Smuggler’s Glade. No one spoke because of the pace, but I snuck more than a few glances at young Davenport, wondering what was going on with him. Although dirty, as you’d expect from someone in his predicament, he didn’t appear to be physically injured, yet there was a look in his eyes that troubled me. A kind of a vacant stare, like I’d seen on some of the men I’d done time with at Yuma, lost and alone and not quite all the way there. I hoped for young Charles’ sake that it was only a temporary problem, brought on by the anxiety of his captivity and his concern for his mother and sister, but it was worrisome.

  We were still several hundred yards short of the glade when Alvarez called a halt, likely out of respect for the Colt-Browning’s range. He glanced at Soto, who merely nodded, and Alvarez hooked a finger at me.

  “You will ride at my side, señor, while six of my best marksmen follow close behind with their carbines trained on your heart. Should any attempt at treachery be made toward me or my men, your death will be instantaneous.”

  “We came here to make a trade,” I replied curtly. “Let’s get at it.”

  Alvarez nodded and we rode forward at a walk, leaving young Davenport with Soto and the main body of troopers.

  Luis and Guille had the Colt-Browning set up and ready to fire, although thankfully its muzzle was pointed toward the cutbank, and neither man was standing overly close to the trigger. Dismounting some distance away, we left our horses with one of Alvarez’s men and went the rest of the way on foot. Luis and Guille were watching me attentively, as if searching for any sign of trouble, but so far, with the exception of Ramón’s little knife in my back, it was all going about as smooth as something like this ever did.

  “So this is what all the fuss is about, eh?” Alvarez said when we came to a halt at the gun’s side.

  I gave him a searching glance, wondering if he was aware of what the Colt-Browning was capable of, or that there were armies throughout the world that would have given up an entire troop of cavalrymen for just one of these weapons.

  Alvarez dropped to one knee behind the machine gun. An ammunition belt was already threaded into place, and with brisk efficiency that convinced me he’d handled similar weapons before, he threw the under lever, grasped the pistol grip lightly with one hand and the top of the gun with the other, and squeezed off a burst of fire with spectacular results. At least two score of .30-caliber rounds raked the side of the cutbank within a matter of seconds, punching fist-sized cavities several inches into the damp sod. Guille leaped back with a squawk silenced by the roar of the machine gun, and the frightened pack mule nearly threw itself in its hobbles. I think even my own head might have rocked back a little in awe of the weapon’s capabilities. I’d seen a Gatling gun fired up at Fort Lowell many years before, but it was nothing compared to John Browning’s masterpiece of precision.

  Rising smoothly, Alvarez took a handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped a trace of gun oil from his fingers. “It would appear to be adequate,” he stated casually.

  “I’d say that’s a little more than adequate,” I replied.

  “It would depend on the situation,” Alvarez countered. “A jammed or disabled firearm is of little value during a desperate struggle.” Then he turned to me with a faint smile, the first I’d seen from him. “But do not become alarmed, señor. I am satisfied with the gun’s performance.” He raised a hand toward the main body of soldados, and I guess I was expecting him to motion the major in. I think that’s what Luis and Guille were expecting, too, so it caught all of us by surprise when the men who had accompanied Alvarez and me to the glade suddenly leveled their carbines at our bellies. The stocky sergeant with the gun-shot sombrero barked a command for us to raise our hands, drawing his revolver as he did and jabbing its muzzle against my spine.

  “I would suggest, Señor Latham, that you do as Sergeant Marcos instructs,” Alvarez stated coolly. “He has been ordered to fire if he suspects noncompliance.”

  With my jaw clenched in anger, I grudgingly lifted both hands to the height of my shoulders. Stepping back, the sergeant motioned for Luis to join me, while a couple of troopers quickly bound Guille’s wrists behind his back. Realizing what was happening, I said, “He’s with me, Lieutenant.”

  “No,” Alvarez corrected mildly. “Guillermo Calderón is under the jurisdiction of the Army of Liberation, and is charged with the theft of a revolver. He was ordered to be executed by firing squad upon the authority of Major Francisco Soto.”

  Even as the lieutenant was speaking, the troopers who had secured Guille’s wrists s
tarted shoving him toward the cutbank. I think we all realized at the same time what was about to happen.

  “Goddamn it, Lieutenant!” I shouted. “Calderón is with me. Either he rides back with …”

  That was as far as I got when a rifle butt slammed into my kidneys. My insides seemed to explode with a pain that shredded me from top to bottom. I cried out and my legs buckled, dropping me to my knees in the soft spring grass. I would have tumbled onto on my face if the sergeant hadn’t grabbed my collar and pulled me back. A couple of soldiers grabbed me under my arms and hoisted me to my feet.

  I might have been standing, but my brain was skidding back and forth like a California seismograph. The world spun dizzily—violet sky and dark green pasture, the sounds of the river and wind and barked commands, the taste of my own bile like acid at the back of my throat—all of it fusing into an abstract reality that I finally had to close my eyes against to escape. Focusing on my breathing, the surge of my pulse gradually leveled out, but it was several minutes before I felt confident that I wasn’t going to lose the eggs and side pork Ramón had fixed for breakfast that morning.

  “You must remain silent and respectful, señor,” the sergeant whispered in my ear. “This is a very sad occasion for many of us. I myself know this man you call Poco Guille, and consider him a friend.”

  I opened my eyes. Guille was standing braced against the side of the cutbank, his arms bound in front, twin bayonets pinning him to the dirt wall. They weren’t piercing the flesh, but had been driven into the dirt under his armpits to keep him from collapsing, while the troopers who had placed him there were moving hurriedly out of the line of fire. Jutting my chin toward the macabre scene, I said, “Is this the way you treat your friends, Sergeant?”