Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (14 page)

 

It was late afternoon when Hector Pasada, Sonora Charlie Ring and Clyde Jilson followed the dun's hoofprints across the rolling flatlands to the ghost town's public well. They had ridden past the sparse remnants of Erin's horse and the bloated bodies of the dead wolves strewn about, roasting in the harsh desert sun.

At the well, the three stepped down and looked at the dried blood and the drag marks of Horn's bootheels in the dirt. The marks led off into the rubble where the little man had taken the body, stripped it and covered it with stones and loose broken planks. At the well, the tin tub leaned against the low stone wall, having been cleaned after Erin had used it. A small puddle of water lay in its lower end.

“A washing tub, out here?” Clyde said, thumping his finger on the tin as if to make sure the tub was real.

“Yes,” said Hector, “I have seen this bathing tub before, and the man who hauls it around with him.”

“You mean
that
man?” Sonora Charlie said, nodding toward the little man who stepped into sight wearing the dead gunman's loose-fitting clothes and oversized boots. He shuffled toward them from the stone and timber rubble.

Seeing the little man clutching Horn's ill-fitting gun belt, keeping a big Colt from falling down around his ankles, Clyde shook his head and chuckled under his breath.

“Think I ought to shoot him before something bad happens to him?” he said.

Sonora Charlie laughed. But then he turned to the little man as he watched him stop and stand beside the tin tub, as if protecting it.

“We trailed a man and woman here,” Sonora said flatly. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Much earlier,” said the little man, “before the sun was straight up. The
señora
bathed. The man watered his horse—and he killed a man.” He gestured a hand down the front of him. “I received these new clothes and boots.”

“The woman bathed in
this
tub?” Clyde asked, staring at the tub with renewed interest.

“
Sí
, and they paid me for filling it,” the little man said. He rubbed his finger and thumb together.

Clyde looked at Sonora Charlie and said in an urgent tone, “I want a bath in it too.”

Sonora gazed off across the rolling flatlands, following the two sets of hoofprints leading along the trail.

“It'll soon be dark,” he said, judging the amount of time left before the sun slid down the western horizon. “I expect this is as good a place as any to make camp.”

“Shall I fill the tub for you,
señor
?” the little man asked, his left hand still clutching the heavy gun belt at his waist.

“Damn right you can, little fellow,” said Clyde, sliding down from his saddle, “and hurry it up.” He looked around at Hector and said, “Help him, Pancho
.
I want in that tub, pronto, while it's still wet.”

This bastardo
. Hector looked at Sonora as he swung down from his saddle.

“You heard him, Pancho,” said Sonora. “Help get that tub filled. I might even want to wash myself a little.”

Hector stood seething, his jaw clamped tightly. But after a moment he realized that he had no choice but to do as he was told. He stepped over, leaned his shotgun against the stone wall, let out a tense breath and hitched his horse to an iron ring. Then he helped the little man turn the tub over and set it on the ground.

Chapter 15

Evening shadows had fallen long across the darkening land while the little well tender walked in a slow circle, turning a large pole connected to a well wheel. Pot after pot of water rose from under the ground and emptied into the stone reservoir.

“Hurry the hell up, little fellow,” said Clyde, standing naked and filthy beside the tin tub that was still only half-f. His clothes lay in a heap in the dirt, his Colt lying atop them. “Why don't you have a donkey to turn the wheel?”

“I ask myself that same question all the time,
señor
,” the little man said, pushing the long pole steadily in a circle. “Perhaps in another life, I myself was a donkey—”

“Don't start some religious craziness,” Clyde said, cutting him off. “This bath is taking too damn long as it is.” He picked a crawling bug from the hair atop his shoulder and flicked it away. Hector turned his head in disgust.

A few yards from the tub, Sonora Charlie had built a small fire and set a pot of coffee on it to boil.

“It's going to be half the night the way this is going,” he said. “I'm getting some shut-eye.” He said to Hector, “Pancho, wake me up when it's my turn.”

Before Hector could even reply, Clyde turned to him, scratching his naked hairy crotch.

“Go to my saddlebags, Pancho,” he said. “There's a rag down in there. Bring it to me.”

Keeping his rage contained, Hector stomped over to the saddlebags lying in the dirt, stooped down and flipped back the leather flap. Reaching inside, he felt a leather bag filled with coins, but quickly pulled his hand away, as if he was worried Clyde might realize what he was doing. In the bottom of the saddlebags, he found a wadded-up cotton rag. He pulled the rag out, shook it loose and carried it to the naked gun man.

Clyde took the rag and stood grinning at him, still scratching his hairy crotch.

“
Gracias, mi amigo muy especial
,” he chuckled in a lewd, joking tone.

His special friend?
What kind of man was this, to say such a thing to him with his scrotum in hand? Hector turned away, his face burning, his jaw clamped tight to keep himself from grabbing the gun at his waist. More importantly, how little did this man think of him to dare make such a remark—to treat him in such a manner?

As Hector stomped away, Clyde stepped into the half-f tub of water.

“I ain't waiting any longer,” he said to the little well tender. He sat down in the water and picked up a chunk of soap the well tender had laid on a rock beside the tub. “Keep bringing water over here,” he said to the little man.

“
Sí
, I will,” the little man replied. He stopped turning the wheel, hurried over with two buckets of water and poured them into the tub.

“Pancho, get over here,” Clyde said. As he spoke, he looked over at Sonora Charlie, grinned and gave him a wink.

Sonora Charlie shook his head and leaned back onto his saddle, which was lying in the dirt behind him.

“Best leave that little squirrel alone,” he warned under his breath.

Hector walked over to the tub and tried hard to keep the anger out of his voice.

“What do you want, for me to help him bring more water?” he said, barely under control.

“No,” Clyde said. He pitched him the wet rag he had lathered with soap. “I want you to scrub my back real good for me.”

At the fire, Sonora Charlie held back a muffled laugh.

“You are loco,” Hector said flatly. “I wash no man's back. What do you think I am?”

“Come on now, Pancho,” Clyde said in a mocking tone. “I'd do it for you.”

“I will
not
do it for you,” Hector said with determination. “I will not do it for any man.”

“Hear that, Sonora?” Clyde called out, letting himself sink down into the tepid water. “Pancho is being plumb unfriendly.”

Sonora Charlie shook his head and sighed under his lowered hat brim. “Pancho
,
scrub his back. Don't make us think you're not going to do as you're told. You don't want to see us upset.”

Hector gritted his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides. Across the well, the little man walked in a slow, steady circle, looking back, watching them over his thin shoulder. He had taken off the heavy gun belt and laid it nearby in the dirt.

“Give me the rag,” Hector said, stepping forward.

“That's a good boy, Pancho,” said Clyde. He handed the rag back to Hector, sat up and leaned slightly forward.

Hector avoided the well tender's eyes as he gritted his teeth and rubbed the soapy rag back and forth on Clyde's broad, hairy shoulders.

“Aw, that's good, Pancho,” Clyde said, grinning to himself at having humiliated Hector. “I just knew you would make a damn fine back-scrubber once I got you started, once you applied yourself.”

Hector swallowed a tight knot in his throat. It was not going to get any better for him with these two, he told himself. Not as long as this man was alive.

“You keep on doing such a good job,” Clyde Jilson said, “I'll soon have you warming my back, these cool nights in the desert.”

In a moment, Clyde noticed Hector had stopped scrubbing back and forth with the cloth.

“Hey, have you quit on me back there?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No, here I am,” Hector said, stepping around in front of him with the cocked shotgun he'd picked up from against the low stone wall, his hands still soapy.

Clyde's eyes widened, staring into the deep black gun barrels only inches from his face.

“Oh,
hell
! Wait, Hector! I'm only jok—”

One shotgun hammer dropped. Clyde's face disappeared in a red bloody mist of fire, meat and bone matter.

“But I am
not joking
! What do you think of that, my
special friend
?” Hector said, leaning in close to the bloody, headless corpse lying slumped back in front of him, gray smoke looming above its chewed-off neck.

“
Jesus, Hector
! What have you done?” shouted Sonora Charlie. He'd sprung to his feet. In his stunned surprise, he'd left his gun in its holster lying on the ground beside his saddle. “Clyde's crazy, but he meant no harm! He was just funning you!”

Only when Sonora saw the shotgun swing toward him did he think about his gun on the ground near his feet.

“Oh, I see,
just funning
,” Hector said. He gave a tight grin that flashed on his face, then vanished. “Did you see me laughing?”

As he spoke, he'd started stepping closer to Sonora Charlie, the second hammer already cocked, aimed and ready on the smoking shotgun.

“No, Hector!” said Sonora Charlie. “It wasn't funny. Clyde took it too far! But you're not going to kill me, are you?” He stood ready to leap toward his gun at any second—but his seconds had run out.

“Yes, I think I am,” Hector said calmly, his hands tightening on the shotgun, his finger starting to squeeze the trigger.

Seeing it coming, Sonora shouted, “Hector!
Hector—!
”

The other hammer fell; the shotgun bucked in Hector's hands. A blue-orange blast streaked across the seven feet of space between them, picked Sonora Charlie up and slung him backward in a spray of blood.

“Now it's
Hector
, eh? You son of a bitch,” Hector said. He stepped forward and looked down at Sonora Charlie's mangled face and chest. “But I am no longer Hector,” he said. “I am Pancho, remember?”

At the water wheel, the little man had stopped turning the pole and stood staring wide-eyed at Hector, the carnage and the looming gun smoke in the still night air.

“What are you looking at?” Hector asked him as he stepped toward Clyde's saddlebags lying on the ground.

Seeing Hector reach inside the bag and pull out the leather coin pouch, the little man looked over at Clyde's bloody, headless body, then back to Hector.

“Are you going to take a bath this night, Señor Pancho?” he asked meekly.

Hector thought about it for a moment as he stepped over and also pulled a coin pouch out of Sonora Charlie's saddlebags. He hefted the weighty pouch in his and smiled at it.

“
Sí
,” he said, at length. “Dump this pig out of the tub and refill it.” He tilted his chin up with pride. “Tonight, I will take a bath.”

He looked off in the direction of Wild Roses and thought of his wife awaiting his return.

Tomorrow, I come home to you, Ana
, he said silently to the black distant hill lines. He gripped the bag of money tightly.
You and my son will not go hungry again.

Chapter 16