The Damned (6 page)

The ferry seemed to be stuck so that it couldn’t get close enough to shore. They were propping long heavy planks from the end of the ferry to the shore, blocking them up.

He stood in the road and stared at the ferry. Suddenly he heard a loud frightening roar behind him. He looked quickly back over his shoulder, and then made a wild sprawling leap for the side of the road. The front left fender of the big black sedan didn’t miss him by more than six inches as the horn blared insolently.

Phil sprawled in the dust. A sharp rock cut his scrawny bare knee. He got up, grunting with anger. He inspected the knee, and then marched down to where the black sedan had stopped. There were two identical sedans.

Phil marched to the driver of the first one. He didn’t stop to notice that the man was Mexican or that he was in uniform. Phil planted his feet and yelled, “You tryn a kill me, hah? You nuts or something?”

The driver didn’t even turn his head to look at Phil. Two men got out of the other side of the car and came around to him. Phil turned on them and said, “Tell your pointy-headed driver that I got a notion to…” His voice dwindled off as he noticed that both these men were Mexican, that they both had broad faces, broad shoulders, annoyed expressions, and guns on their hips.

“All I’m trying to say,” Phil said more gently, “is that it looked to me as though that jerk behind the wheel was…”

A big hand was placed flat against Phil’s chest. He went sharply backward and sat on the seat of his pants some six feet away. It was not only an indignity. It hurt like hell. He felt as though he had hit hard enough to fracture something. The hefty men turned their backs on him. Others got out—of the same type. He was ignored. They chatted. In the back seat of the lead sedan sat a massive man, white hat brim exactly level above sleepy eyes, ponderous belly resting on his thighs.

Riki and Niki helped him up, one on each side.

“Darling, he hurt you!”

“I don’t exactly feel kissed. What the hell’s going on?”

He saw some of them turn and stare at him, supported on either side by a tall blonde. They looked amused. His restless mind started to twist the situation into a possible visual gag. If anything could amuse those gorillas, it must have a slant.

He felt tenderly of his poorly padded posterior and arched his back. “Unhand me, gals. Those kids don’t play, do they? Hey, look at all those Mexicans coming around to goop at the big boy in the back seat. Who is he, anyhow? The Mexican Gary Cooper?”

The boards had been blocked and the first car of the two aboard the ferry began to inch its way gingerly down.

Phil noticed that all of the men seemed to be armed. He noticed the low numbers of the licenses on the black sedans. Light dawned.

“Gals,” he said firmly, “that guy is a politician. Remember the one who came into the club? Yessir. A local Mr. Big.”

BILL DANTON, the lanky Texan, saw the two black sedans come roaring down the road, saw the horn blast the sparrowy little man in the red pants into the ditch, he had a sinking feeling that seemed to be centered around his heart.

He saw the little man object, saw him knocked down, saw the flamboyant twins pick him up. Then Bill moved to where he could look into the lead car, see the face of the man on the back seat. And he knew that there had been nothing wrong with his hunch. The fat sleepy man would no more wait a turn in line than he would try to fly like a
zopilote,
one of the big circling buzzards.

Bill drew back into the natural manner of any Mexican when confronted with a powerful and unscrupulous fellow citizen. He gave all of his attention to the cigarette he was smoking.

John Gerrold jumped down and came around to the front of the truck. His eyes looked a little wild. “What’s all this about? Why didn’t they stop at the end of the line? What are they doing down here?” His pale-haired wife appeared beside him. She too was looking anxiously at Bill.

“I think they get the next ride across, Gerrold. I don’t think there’s anything anybody can do about it.”

“What gives him the right? Who does he think he is?”

“He’s the head of a new political party in the northern provinces. His name is Atahualpa. That’s not his real name, of course. It’s the name of the last Inca king. He claims to have some Inca blood, though I never heard of any Incas in Mexico before. His party is based on some pretty rugged racial ideas. He’s nearly pure
India,
and ruthless as they come.”

“Are you trying to say we won’t get my mother across to the doctor on this trip?”

“I’ve been watching the river. It isn’t dropping so fast now. Maybe this round trip will only take fifteen minutes.”

John Gerrold turned on his heel and walked toward the group of men. Bill called to him sharply.

John Gerrold had to stop so that the first car that had come off the ferry could pass. The people in the car grinned and waved and shouted as it sped up the hill.

John Gerrold tried to edge by the circle of men, tried to get close to the lead sedan. He was grabbed and spun back. He poised and leaped at them, swinging his fists blindly.

Bill saw it happening, and he was powerless to stop it. He saw the short vicious chop of the barrel of a revolver. He heard the crisp sound as it met bone. John Gerrold stood quite still for a moment, turned half away, and went down onto his face. The bent glasses skittered a few feet in the dust. One lens was shattered.

His young wife ran to him, knelt beside him. The men moved away as though a bit embarrassed. She gently rolled John Gerrold over onto his back. Bill saw that Atahualpa had not even turned his head.

The girl looked toward Bill and cried out, “Can’t you do something?”

Bill was conscious that all the spectators had moved back. He felt that he was very much alone. There was the very real chance that Atahualpa would continue to gain power in the government, and he would make a very bad enemy of the Danton family. Obscure rules could be applied. It was even possible that, should Atahualpa achieve real power, the citizenship of Bill’s father could be canceled on some technicality, that the wide rich lands of the Rancho Danton could be handed over, almost for nothing, to Atahualpa.

Logic said to lay low, make but the smallest of sounds. Bill was not the least naive about Mexican politics. Both he and his father were conscious, always, of the threat hanging over them—threat of a change of regime, a change of viewpoint toward
norteamericanos
that would make their life impossible.

But the girl’s fine eyes were on his, in helplessness and in appeal. And his father had said, many times, “When you have to do something right, boy, don’t stop to count how much money you got in your pants.”

Bill walked forward, conscious of Pepe, behind him, saying softly, “No,
hombre!
No.”

Atahualpa’s guard watched Bill’s approach with that mild curiosity of a pack of village dogs seeing a strange car coming down the village street. They shifted a little.

Bill stopped, raised his voice, and said, “Was Atahualpa responsible for that stupidity?”

Three of the guards moved lightly toward him, converging. Bill stood tense. When, from the corner of his eye, he caught the flick of the descending blow, he snapped his head away, felt the stir of the heated air against his cheek. The force of the blow spun the man off balance, and as he took a lurching awkward step, Bill struck down at him with a sweeping backhand blow of a big right fist. It hit the guard behind the ear, driving him down into the dust.

The nearest man gave a grunt of anger and the sun gleamed blue on barrel steel. To Bill all movement became stickily slow, as though the low sun and the blue shadows formed some underwater scene. It was incredible that these guards should have such colossal indifference to the law that they would shoot him, kill him here in the dusty sunlight. And he knew at once that it would be written off as a fanatic’s attempt against the life and person of Atahualpa, prevented by his brave guards.

He moved in, ducking low, striking upward at the gun arm, feeling that the portion of a second was stretched out like rotten rubber, would break with the impact of the slug against his face. And the gun hammered the air beside his face, blasting his eardrum, leaving a ringing, frozen silence.

He stood on his toes, feeling the aim of another gun close to the small of his back, wanting to cry out that had he known how bold the guards of Atahualpa had become, he would never have bothered them, never.

And a deep voice with a bullfrog thrum in it commanded the guards. They grasped Bill’s arms and ran him up to the car, ran him there with such energy that he craned his head back as his chest struck the top of the doorframe. They pulled him back a bit, so that he could see into the car. Atahualpa sat in the precise middle of the back seat. His belly bulged against the white cotton outfit, the pajama suit worn by workers in the fields. Underneath the level brim of the spotless white sombrero, the eyes, imbedded in dark pockets of flesh, showed nothing, neither anger nor curiosity nor amusement. They were merely eyes. Organs for sight. As the eyes of any creature in the brush. Hands and wrists, heavily haired, rested on the blocky knees, made childish by the weight of the belly, carried like a sack against the thighs. A bright serape, neatly folded, lay on the seat beside him.

“You know Atahualpa and yet you dared speak in that fashion,” the voice rumbled.

Bill began to understand how this illiterate
indio
had achieved so much power so quickly. There was a brutal, elemental thrust to his personality.

“Because I thought Atahualpa was not a fool, I spoke in that fashion.” Bill did not use the slurring idioms of the fields, but the crisp precise Spanish of the cities.

The guard on his left twisted his wrist cruelly, bending it back. Bill felt the grasp build up in his throat, but shut his teeth hard against any such fatal show of weakness.

“Perhaps it can be explained why it is foolish to fend off the attack of a stupid young
turista.”

“It was not an attack. The mother of the foolish young man is unconscious in the back of that truck. He is desperate to take her across to the doctor in San Fernando. He saw you usurping his rightful turn to cross the river. The ill woman and her son are rich important citizens of the Estados Unidos.”

“I do not wish the good wishes of that imperialist nation, or of the
turistas.
The
turistas
have made our money cheap. My people suffer.”

“This is not a talk of politics, Atahualpa. This is a talk of mercy. But as you wish to speak of politics, I must ask if Atahualpa wishes to be known as the man who let an elderly señora die because he pushed ahead of her in line? Or as the man who caused an official protest to be made to the
presidente?
I had thought you were not yet strong enough to attract so much attention, señor.”

Atahualpa looked at him steadily for long seconds. He gave an order to one of the guards. The man trotted over, stared into the back of the truck, trotted back, and said, “It is the truth.”

“Who are you?” Atahualpa asked gently. It was the question Bill had dreaded.

“The younger Señor Danton, of Mante.”

For the first time there was a flicker of expression in the man’s eyes. “Indeed? The Rancho Danton is a rich place. You dress poorly. But I see you have a gringo arrogance.”

“Matched by the arrogance of your guards, who would kill without question.”

There was another quick order. The men released Bill’s arms. He carefully tested his left wrist. It was painful, but apparently not sprained.

Atahualpa leaned over, grunting, and fumbled with something at his feet. He came up with a cheap plastic mechanical pencil. It was the sort given away by the tens of thousands by United States firms. In an imperious manner he handed it through the window. Bill took it, curiously. He looked at it. On the pencil was printed, “A Friend of Atahualpa.” He wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh so hard that he would drop in the dust, hugging his sides and gasping. He knew his face was reddening.

“Do not say that Atahualpa cannot recognize a service, Señor Danton. You will keep the pencil in a safe place. Atahualpa never forgets a service.”

Bill managed to bow and say grave words of thanks and appreciation.

Atahualpa gave a quick order. The man who had fired the shot turned and tried to run. The others caught him. It was very quick, merciless, brutal. Bill turned his eyes from it and saw the young Mrs. Gerrold do the same. Pepe watched with a look of horrified fascination. When the thick wet sounds of blows had ceased, the gun and gun belt were placed in the second car. The unconscious guard’s pockets were slashed and his few pesos removed. He was dragged diagonally across the road, across the gray mud, and pulled out of sight behind the brush.

“There are many others who are eager to serve,” Atahualpa murmured to Bill. “Who will accompany the sick señora?”

“Her son, of course, and the wife of the son, the girl with the
pelo blanco.”

John Gerrold had regained his senses. He got weakly to his feet, wiping at the thin line of blood that ran down behind his ear into his shirt collar. He leaned quite heavily against his wife, and his eyes were dazed.

When the guards took the stretcher from the truck, John Gerrold made a hoarse protest. Bill grabbed his arm and said in a low tone, “Look, this is O.K. You and your wife are going along. He’ll see that you get to the doctor. Just keep your mouth shut.”

The unconscious woman was placed, with great tenderness and many sounds of sympathy, in the back of the second car. The displaced guards got into the lead car. The young couple was ushered politely into the second car.

Atahualpa leaned toward the window. “Señor Danton, the doctor will be advised that it will be unlucky for him if he is not able to make the señora well.”

“I am deeply grateful.”

“I am grateful to you, señor.”

The big cars crawled up the blocked planks onto the ferry. The crew removed the planks with astounding dispatch. Grossing the narrow river, the men pulled so energetically on the tow cable that the heavy craft made a perceptible bow wave.

Bill watched closely as it reached the far shore. This time when it stopped, it seemed closer than on the last trip. Shovels flashed in the sun. Men worked like maniacs. The black sedans were like beetles that glittered.

“Boy, you got more guts than sense,” a voice said.

Bill turned and looked down into the tough face of the man called Benson. Benson seemed genuinely awed. Bill said, “I had a little luck, too. I didn’t know I’d get shot at. I thought the worst I could get would be a good beating.”

“What the hell did he give you?”

Bill showed him the pencil. “This.”

“I’ll be plain damned! A two-bit pencil. Friend of Atahualpa, eh? Just like a big greaser. Brother, you seem to know this country pretty well. I’d think you’d know that these gooks would just as soon kill you as look at you once they get big enough to wear guns.”

Bill looked at the man and looked away. He knew the hopelessness of ever trying to reach the closed mind, of ever trying to explain that there are no people in the world more innately decent and courteous than the Mexicans. True, it was a country of poverty, of great hardship. But out of that poverty were coming men who were truly great, as well as social cancers like the
indio
calling himself Atahualpa, teaching his policy of hate, of blind racial nationalism.

You could almost see the roots of men like Atahualpa being nurtured in the Mexican ghettos of the towns of the Río Grande Valley. Men like Atahualpa would gain their strength in the northern provinces, where the border tension was a thing that could be felt as easily as the hot weight of the sun.

No, you couldn’t take a man like Benson down the main street of the village near Mante, just when the dusk was royal blue, and have him see anything but filth. The huts were small, with packed-dirt floors. Women’s hands slapped in endless rhythm at the tortillas, and in the dusk there was love and contentment, a quiet peace of the soul.

Men like Benson would think Mexico was ageless, static, sitting forever wrapped in dreams of
mañana.
But Bill knew well the truly enormous strides that had been made in the last decade. Education, reclamation, industrialization. Truly, it was a race against time. The
comunistas
bred in discontent, like flies in offal.
Turista
arrogance created no love for the powerful neighbor to the north. But if the great men of the nation could move fast enough, could do enough good in the limited time left, then Mexico, a giant awakening, could take a true and strong place in the ranks of the democracies.

Bill shivered with reaction. There was still a shrill whining whistle in the ear that had been too close to the muzzle blast. He could take no pride in having done what was, basically, a foolish thing. It could have destroyed in a few minutes what Dad had taken twenty years to build. And yet, with an incredible luck, he had come out of it labeled Friend of Atahualpa. Something in a girl’s grave eyes…