Leaving Yuma Page 8

  “Perhaps two hundred, although it is hard to know how loyal a soldier truly is when they are threatened with death if they do not join a cause.”

  There was movement behind me, and the slim guy in the tall sombrero I’d seen earlier stepped up to the bar at my side. “Fifty, I would think.” He looked at me. “Fifty who would blindly follow Chito Soto into the inferno, or so I have heard. The others … maybe a few. Not all of them, but some.”

  “If given the choice,” Jorge added.

  “Sí, if given a choice.” He turned partway around, smiling cautiously. “Hola, J. T. I am Luis Vega, from Nogales.”

  “I remember you,” I said, taking his hand. My cuffs rattled softly, and I noticed Luis’ curious glance, but he didn’t comment on them.

  We made small talk for a while—horses we’d known and country we’d seen, the usual stuff—until Jorge grew bored and moved off. Then Luis lowered his voice and leaned close, so that we wouldn’t be overheard. “Señor Davenport said that even though you were locked behind the walls of Yuma, you would come.” He smiled again, almost shyly. “I see you have consented to his wishes.”

  I had to laugh at that. Although Luis and I had never ridden together, I’d seen him often enough around the saloons and cantinas of Nogales, and I’d always liked him. He was a good-natured man in his early thirties, whipcord lean and quick as a cat. He was good with a gun, but better with a knife. I’d seen him fight, and wouldn’t want to go up against him in close quarters.

  “Leaving Yuma has been a recent goal of mine,” I acknowledged dryly. “I didn’t figure it would be Buchman who sprung me, though.”

  “Life has many twists and turns, my friend, but I am glad you came.” He gave me a sly glance. “Now maybe I will learn the location of that secret water hole you have used to your advantage for so many years.”

  Well, Luis had me there, although you’re probably confused as to what he was talking about. So maybe it’s time I told you why I was serving a twelve-year stretch in the territorial pen at Yuma. I suspect you’ve been wondering.

  Luis and I had been in the same business since the mid-1890s, importing such fine Mexican goods as Sabana mescal, Cerveza Grande beer, those short Aztec Gold cigars that used to be so popular along the border, coils of hemp, pieces of silver—anything that might turn a profit on the American side of the border. It was a fine and sometimes exciting career, but the local politicians—along with the larger merchants who operated their purse strings—had insisted on calling it smuggling. Personally I never saw the harm in it. Just the opposite, in fact. The stores that bought my merchandise through their back doors were then able to pass the savings on to their customers, and they did, too. It was a real boon to the economy, or at least the poorer sections of it.

  But, of course, the law didn’t see it that way. Especially Del Buchman, who had been a deputy sheriff for Pima County at the time of my arrest, although I knew folks who said he generally answered more to a conglomerate of Tucson businessmen called the Brokers than he did the Sheriff’s Office. I guess more than a few of those upstanding Arizona citizens had started to object to my success as an international merchant, and were particularly incensed at my not paying a tariff on the goods I brought back with me from Mexico. I think mostly they were just upset that I was allowing a bunch of smaller shops that couldn’t otherwise compete with the larger operations to scrape off a little profit for themselves.

  No matter the reason, those larger stores didn’t appreciate the competition, and someone made a deal with Buchman to put a stop to it. Not that the law hadn’t been trying to do that for quite a few years by then, but I’d been good at my job—one of the best, in fact—and, although I’d had a few close calls along the way, I’d never been caught. Not until Del slipped south of the border to wait for me in Moralos, breaking more than a few laws himself by doing so.

  My attorney had pointed out these obvious infractions at my trial in Tucson in 1903, but no one seemed to care. Del had caught me right there in Jorge Archuleta’s cantina—Moralos had been my home base south of the border—by slipping up behind me and shoving a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun into my spine.

  That water hole Luis Vega was talking about was what made me so successful as a smuggler. I called it Yaqui Springs, although the Yaquis called it the Cañon Where the Small Lizards Run. My name was shorter, and not as off-putting.

  I’d been introduced to the place while still a captive of the Yaquis. That was in my early teens, the late 1880s, when the tribe was still fairly powerful and far-ranging. Very few Mexicans knew of its location, and I’d never met a white man who’d even heard of the place. The Yaquis guarded its location closely, and would kill anyone they found trespassing on it. Of course in those years, the Yaquis would kill just about anyone not of their own nation that they caught on their land, period.

  I was allowed to use the site because I’d lived among them, and because, while making my escape, I’d managed to save the life of Old Toad’s son, Slayer. I’d been warned, however—with the tip of a slim-bladed dirk pressed firmly against my Adam’s apple—that if I ever revealed the cañon’s location to an outsider, I’d be killed in the slowest, most painful manner they could think of. Having observed their handiwork on past captives, I’d taken the threat seriously.

  Toad didn’t know about Abby Davenport, but I doubted it would have made any difference. That ol’ boy had murdered a lot of white-eyes, and even more Mexicans, over the years, and wouldn’t see a problem with us killing each other. Saved him the bother, I suppose.

  Anyway, that’s why I was in Yuma, and that’s why Del Buchman had recommended me to Davenport. Del knew I had a secret way into the Sabana Valley, a method of slipping across better than two hundred miles of blazing desert without being detected, and that no other white man seemed to know about. I’d planned to take that secret with me to my grave, and that night there in Moralos, I figured I still might.

  Session Five

  I’m glad your machine is still working. The electricity doesn’t go out around here very often, but with the wind as bad as it is, I wouldn’t be surprised at it happening again.

  I don’t recall where I was when the lights went out, but I know where I want to start now. The next day, there in Moralos.

  Buchman had again refused to remove my cuffs that morning, so I was forced to labor alongside Spence, Luis, and Carlos with my wrists still fettered. Looking back on it, I suspect Del’s bullheadedness over my manacles had more to do with his animosity toward Davenport than it did with anything I’d done—that little incident with Selma Metzler’s derringer notwithstanding. Still, it was a growing vexation and a hell of an inconvenience, and it was starting to make me mad. Not to mention those bracelets were beginning to chafe.

  The first thing we did was sort through all the gear Ed Davenport had brought with him from Tucson. Besides the three machine guns and a dozen cases of .30-40 Krag ammunition, he had a pretty extensive collection of camping gear, including a small tent, a half case of wine, good crystal, and a folding canvas chair like those Hollywood directors like to use.

  The more crap we unpacked, the more worried I became. I could tell Spence and Luis were feeling the same way. I couldn’t say what Carlos Perez was thinking; in all the time we spent together, I never was able to read that little half-breed bastard.

  Pausing at one point to wipe the sweat from my brows, I pointed out that it would take a dozen mules to haul all the stuff Davenport wanted to take along.

  “At least,” Spence agreed solemnly. “But we couldn’t do it, even if we had the animals. Not with the kind of ridin’ we’ll be doin’.” He glanced at me. “One of us is goin’ to have to tell the old man he’ll have to do without some of his fineries.”

  “You mean me?”

  Spence shrugged. “He’d never admit it, but he knows he can’t make it without ye, lad. Me? He could cut my pin and not be
hampered in the least.”

  I scratched thoughtfully at my stubbled jaw. “If Felix Perez doesn’t get back soon with some extra stock, it won’t matter what Davenport wants. It’s going to take at least three mules just to carry those potato diggers and all that ammunition.”

  In the end we separated the gear into piles based on order of necessity, and how many mules Felix came back with. One small stack contained just enough blankets and foodstuff to get us to Sabana if he didn’t return at all, which Spence was beginning to believe was a possibility. We added a little more to each succeeding pile, but tossed the tent, chair, and crystal out of sight behind the Berkshire. I don’t know what became of the wine.

  We finished around midafternoon, and, leaving Pedro to watch over the gear with a fresh promise of another bullet in his foot if he failed to keep pilfering fingers away from Davenport’s gear—I imagine Pedro was real happy to see us ride out when we finally got under way—we trooped over to Archuleta’s for some shade and mescal. We were still there, lounging tiredly around a single table and not saying much, when a youngster’s cry from outside announced the arrival of a horseman.

  “Felix,” Carlos declared with unmistakable relief, nearly tipping over his chair in his haste to reach the door.

  After downing our drinks, Spence, Luis, and I followed him outside. Carlos was heading for the livery, his short, thick legs really eating up the ground.

  “No mules,” Luis observed quietly.

  “Aye, and just as well,” Spence replied. “Now the old man’ll have to cut his supplies to the bone.”

  Inside the livery we found Felix unsaddling a short-coupled pinto, jabbering happily with his cousin in a language I didn’t recognize. One of the smaller tribes to the south, was my guess. It sure wasn’t Yaqui, which I spoke moderately well, or Mojave or one of the Western Apache dialects I was familiar with.

  Felix Perez shared the same dark, stocky build as his cousin, although he was quite a bit younger than Carlos. They were dressed similarly, too, the major difference being that Felix was wearing a sombrero made of straw, instead of felt, one of those wide-brimmed monstrosities they coated with cactus juice or goat piss or whatever it was that made them just about indestructible.

  Hearing me talk, you might be asking, Why all this animosity toward the Perezes? Well, I’m going to tell you. The reason I noticed Felix’s sombrero was because of the goggles he had fastened around the crown like a hatband. There was a long leather coat tied behind his saddle, and extra rifle in a scabbard hanging off the horn. The scabbard was elaborately carved and dyed in shades of red and green and golden browns, and my vision narrowed when I saw it, and there was a roaring in my ears like a distant freight train barreling through the night.

  “Easy, lad,” Spence cautioned out of the side of his mouth. “We don’t know how he came about obtainin’ ’em.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  The two Indios must have sensed my mood, for they both backed away from the pinto when I drew near. Carlos’ hand dropped to his revolver, while Felix gently fingered the mesquite grips of a belduque, carried in a sheath on his cartridge belt. Carlos spoke first.

  “You have a problem, señor?”

  “Where’d your cousin get those goggles?”

  “Goggles?”

  I motioned toward the pair clinging to Felix’s sombrero. “The glasses, and the coat and rifle, too.”

  Carlos smiled expansively. “I think he bought them.” He glanced at his cousin, speaking rapidly in Indian. Felix replied, and Carlos nodded solemnly. “Sí, he bought them in Nogales. One hundred pesos for the … what you call them … goggles? And the rifle and coat.”

  At my side, Spence sighed heavily. I was staring hard at Felix, my pulse thundering. “Do you speak Spanish, chico?”

  Felix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Sí, I speak the language of the invaders.”

  “Then you know what I mean when I call you a liar?”

  The Indian’s fingers crept around the scales of his knife. “I think you would be wise to take back those words, gringo.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  He hesitated for only a moment, but it was long enough for me to read the truth in his eyes. Of course he’d killed him. Probably today, coming across the tall rider on the Wagner motorcycle, alone in the desert and likely unaware that anyone was around. But Felix denied it. I figured he would.

  “I bought these items you accuse me of stealing. To say differently is to risk your life.” His gaze dropped to my manacled wrists, and a smile slid across his face.

  “Give me your knife, Luis,” I said.

  “I don’t know, my friend. I think maybe the odds are too much against you with those cuffs on your wrists.”

  “Vega’s right, lad,” Spencer hissed. “’Tis no the time to fight, not hobbled like ye be.”

  “I think perhaps your friends are right,” Carlos added. “My cousin, he is ver’ good with the blade. Ver’ good.”

  Felix slid the belduque from its sheath. It was a simple fighting knife of an old Mexican style, long and slim and wickedly sharp. He turned it razor’s edge up and leaned forward in a slight crouch. Grinning, I went to meet him.

  “Damn it, Latham, ye bloody, pig-headed fool!” Spence roared at my back.

  I circled slowly to the left in the wide aisle of the livery. Felix countered likewise, and the others moved out of our way. The Indio’s knife weaved hypnotically between us. “If you wish to die, gringo, I can easily assist you.”

  I held my manacled wrists chest high in front of me, spread as wide as the twelve inches of chain would allow. Although aware of the knife, I was focusing on Felix’s dark, brooding eyes, counting on reading his decision perhaps a tenth of a second before he could act upon it. That’s not much time, but, in a situation like that, it could well mean the difference between a fatal cut and a near miss.

  Right about now you’re probably thinking that I’m either a damned fool or an outright liar, and I can’t say that I blame you. But you’ve got to understand that things were different back then, and a man didn’t just turn away from what he believed in, or what he thought was right. Not out there on the woolly frontier, where indecisiveness and timidity could get you killed quicker than an Apache’s bullet. The world is full of top dogs and toadies, but the space in between is pretty sparsely populated.

  Felix feinted and I drew up defensively, skipping back a couple of paces. Chuckling, the Indio said, “If you wish to leave now, gringo, I will allow it. As long as you do so on your hands and knees, and after you beg a little. Not even ver’ much, the begging. Just enough to let Felix know you’ve learned your lesson.”

  He was feeling mighty pleased with himself, so his eyes really bugged out in alarm when I charged, bringing my arms up and screaming a Yaqui oath. Instinct drove him backward, slamming him into a stable wall and rapping the back of his head against the top plank. His straw sombrero flipped over the top of the partition and landed in the manure on the other side.

  I stopped at the last second, easily avoiding the clumsy swipe of his belduque. I laughed and backed away, feeling pretty good myself. “Put the knife down, chico,” I mocked, “and I’ll let you crawl out of here on your belly.”

  Felix’s black eyes sparked like flint on steel. I eased to the side, waiting for him to make his move, never doubting that he would. Anger had taken over the stocky Indian’s mind, clouding out all other thoughts save for revenge, a need to erase his shame.

  We began moving faster, although still in our familiar, crude circle, kicking up clouds of stable dust as we darted back and forth. Felix’s attack, when it finally came, didn’t surprise me. He brought the slim belduque forward in a quick, waist-high swipe that I readily parried. There was a clank of metal on metal as the blade tangled briefly with the steel links of chain connecting my cuffs, but he jerked the knife away before I
could tighten the snarl. Dodging quickly, he lashed out with a rattler’s speed, and I sucked in my gut and batted his hand away.

  His lips peeling back in a silent snarl, Felix darted to his right, then immediately came back to his left; he feigned twice, then lunged. I snapped my arms up to block the knife’s deadly arc, but was only partially successful. I felt the blade’s chill kiss just under the ribs on my left side, followed by a wet, creeping warmth. The younger man smiled and glanced at his cousin as if for approval. When he did, I hurtled toward him. A startled squawk erupted from the Indian’s throat as he gracelessly thrust the belduque at my midsection. I slapped it aside, then grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up and back, throwing my weight into him, tripping us both into the wooden planks of an empty stall.

  Felix grunted loudly as my shoulder rammed his chest. His face went momentarily slack. I hooked a leg behind his knee and fell, coiling to the side as I pulled him down with me. His knife wobbled in his hand and his eyes bulged as he sucked desperately for air. I leaned hard on his wrist, bending it back a lot farther than I thought it could go before he finally dropped the blade.

  With my own wrists shackled, I was unable to prevent Felix from snaking his free hand around my neck and grasping my jaw, trying to unscrew my head from my shoulders. I uttered a strangled curse as he attempted to flip me off of him. Although able to resist his efforts, I was also stuck myself. I couldn’t let go of Felix’s right hand for fear he’d grab the belduque again; at the same time I couldn’t reach his other hand with mine in cuffs.

  Finally, with the joints in my neck crackling like autumn leaves, I rolled in the direction Felix had been trying to toss me. The move caught him off guard, and he yelped in surprise as I threw myself astride him, my knees planted solidly in the dirt on either side of his torso. I still had both of my hands grappling with his right one, but at least his knife was now several feet away, out of easy reach.

  I maintained my dominance for about ten seconds. Then a fist plunged into my side as if trying to burrow up under my ribs. I gasped in agony, my fingers involuntarily loosening. Heaving upward with his legs, Felix chucked me almost effortlessly over his head. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I scrabbled for the belduque and almost had it when I felt the Indian’s arms wrap around both my legs. Jerking one leg free, I stomped my heel into his cheek like I was packing dirt around a freshly set fence post. He howled and let go, and we both staggered to our feet, bleeding and gulping air.