The Vanquished (23 page)

Crabb took the attitude of a man letting pent-up air out of his lungs. “Good. I was half-expecting an argument.”

“Would it have done any good?”

“No.”

Sus smiled vaguely. Crabb came forward leading the horse, his hand outstretched. Sus took it gravely. Afterward Crabb swung up into the saddle, a trifle awkwardly; he was no horseman. Sus stood back and touched his hatbrim. Crabb wheeled away from him and cantered to the head of the column. Sus watched them go, sixty-eight men, including the tall distant shape of Norval Douglas on the horizon, waving them forward into Mexico. Sus wondered when he would see them again.

He stood by the arroyo until the last of the long gray worm of men had crawled out of sight over the distant gentle slope. By then the sun was high enough to warm the earth and make it glitter. He looked over the abandoned campground—the dead signs of campfires, the horse-hollow grazed bare, the confusion of footprints and litter of discarded small articles that marked a camp and said, They passed by here.
Pasaron por aquí
. Perhaps one day someone would put up a monument commemorating their passage.

The dust had all settled; the land was still. Sus looked back on the months behind them and found himself most surprised by one thing: that the trek had not been marked by the kind of easy comradeship that should have been part of it. It was not as if he stood here left behind by a company of friends. He could remember a decade ago when his father had come back from the war, which had really not been much of a war, for California's independence. On a field above the town they had mustered out the troops, and afterward there had been laughing and pushing, men with arms about each other's shoulders, hats thrown in the air, guns wildly discharged. His father had brought home three comrades, fed them and given them shelter. But this expedition had none of that feeling; and he knew now that he had discovered its fault. There were too many resentments, suspicions, fears among these men. He had not recognized it when he had walked among them, but he saw it now in the ashes of the abandoned fires. Intrigues and secret conflicts were the premises here. There was no real common goal. In spite of the artificial bolstering that Crabb's inspiring oratory had given them, there was no strong loyalty in the group. Crabb had been right about them. Private ambitions and greed drove most of the men. Some of them, like McCoun, were full of bluster but at bottom afraid.

It was not an encouraging line of thought. He turned slowly toward Sonoyta and began to walk that way.

By the time he reached the plaza he was hungry. In Redondo's store he ate some cheese and tortillas, spiced with chili peppers and washed down with dark beer. When he went back outside, Redondo was in his customary position on the porch, one boot cocked up on the rail, picking his teeth. Redondo said in Spanish, “Your friends have all departed.”

“Yes.”

“Why do you remain?”

“There are more men coming along. I am to meet them here.”

“More men?” Redondo said musingly, and shrugged absently, as if in the long run it made no difference.

“Some of them may be too ill to travel farther,” Sus said. “I am to take care of them. Where can they be billeted?”

“Not here,” Redondo said promptly.

“Why not here?”

“No one would take them in,” Redondo said in an offhand way.

“Why?”

“The people of this town know what you are. They do not wish to be caught harboring filibusters.”

Sus made a scoffing noise. “These men are sick. They will harm no one.”

“That is what we intend to make sure of. You might put them up at Dunbar's trading post. That is a few miles north and east of here. It is not in Mexico.”

“Are we in Mexico here?”

“In truth,” said the thickset
alcalde
, “it is a matter of opinion. The opinion at Ures is that we are in Mexico. Governor Aguilar will probably have troops here soon enough.”

“What for?”

Redondo made no answer. He studied the damp softened tip of his toothpick. After a moment he threw it away and found another in his pocket. Sus wondered darkly if Redondo was bluffing, but decided there would be little point in that. But what did it mean? He could not make sense out of Pesquiera's sending troops here to Sonoyta. It would be locking the barn after the theft of the horse. He said, “How far is Dunbar's trading post,
Alcalde?
”

“Not far. An hour's ride, perhaps less.”

“Dunbar is a
Norteamericano?
”

“He is Scottish, I think.”

“Perhaps we will go there, then.”

“It would be wise for you to go there.”

“
Gracias
,” Sus said drily.

“
De nada
.” The fat man twisted his neck around to look at the thermometer. “In the shade,” he muttered, “ninety-four degrees.” He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “It is not yet April. What will July be like?”

“Worse.”

“I am sure of that,” said Redondo.

Sus went inside the store and scooped a handful of salt crackers from the open barrel. The afternoon proceeded to drag by. He was to find that it would be two more days before McKinney arrived; during that time Sus amused himself as best he could. The next night he drank alone, and on the second morning he went for a walk in the desert, kicking stones, until it became hot and he returned after a splash in the pool to Redondo's shaded porch. Redondo sat in his usual place; once in a while they exchanged comments. Customers drifted in and out of the place; it must have been Saturday, for a good number of farmers were in town from outlying areas. How they found it possible to grow crops in this country was beyond Sus, but he guessed there must be occasional green canyons in the roundabout hills.

About noon a young, lean rider trotted into the square and stepped down at the well to drink and water his horse, and then came dragging his musical spurs to the store, and said to Redondo, “I wish to speak to you.” After a look at Sus the young man added, “Privately,
por favor
.”

Redondo conferred with the man inside the store, and afterward, when the young man went off to the stable, Redondo said to Sus, “The troops are coming. I hope your men arrive soon, amigo.”

“How soon will the troops come?”

“Tomorrow, probably in the morning.”

“I see.” Sus frowned toward the northwestern desert, from which McKinney must come.

Through the afternoon he began to chafe. Then, at about four o'clock, a rising column of dust to the northwest brought him to his feet. He stood at the edge of the porch, rocking on the balls of his feet, and said to Redondo, “Point out to me the way to Dunbar's store.”

Redondo did not rise. He flung out an arm. “Northeast. You go through that notch between the two round hills. It is one mile beyond that. You will see it from the hills. It is surrounded by trees; there is a spring.”

“Thanks,” Sus said, and stepped off the porch. He walked across the plaza and out of town, going toward the advancing dust cloud. Hot air met him in the face and sultry heat lay close along the ground.

Distances were deceiving along the desert flats. He had walked almost five miles before he was able to separate the men and horses from the dust cloud. He sat down in the near-worthless shadow of a stunted paloverde to wait for them. It took almost an hour; presently he recognized McKinney, and stood up to wave his arm in signal.

McKinney drew rein, halting the column. Sus looked back along the ranks. Four men clung to saddles; the rest, fifteen in number, walked, some of them leading pack animals. McKinney greeted Sus without enthusiasm. Dust caked his dry flesh and his eyes were bloodshot. He climbed wearily off the saddle and said, “How far is it to Sonoyta?”

“A few miles. But I've got instructions for you.”

“Go ahead,” McKinney said. He seemed washed out.

“The Mexicans are making threats against us,” Sus told him. “The general decided to go on to the Concepcion and meet Cosby there before Pesquiera makes up his mind to act against us.”

McKinney looked very tired. He nodded. “I see.” He looked back along the line of men, expectantly waiting. “How long ago did he leave?”

“Two days ago. They were making good time.”

“At the rate we're traveling,” McKinney said, “it will take a week to catch them.”

“How many men do you have who aren't fit to go on?”

McKinney made a gesture with his thumb. “The four on horseback.” He removed his hat and rubbed his bald, pointed head. Sus looked at the four men. They all hung precariously to their saddles.

Sus drew in a long breath and said quietly, “Your instructions are to follow the general and catch up as quickly as you can. I'll take these four men with me to Dunbar's trading post.”

“All right,” McKinney said, showing no surprise. He added absently, “I wonder what happened to the men who went to Tucson for reinforcements.”

“They haven't had time to get here yet.”

“I guess not.” McKinney looked back down the line. “We'll camp here. I'll send somebody in to Sonoyta for water and supplies.”

“They'll find the pickings poor.”

McKinney shrugged. He didn't seem to care. Sus said, “If I were you I'd try to be out of here by morning. Some Mexican troops will be coming here sometime tomorrow.”

“Fine,” McKinney said, “fine and dandy. Do you want to take those four with you now?”

“All right,” Sus said.

In the night, Sus thought he heard gunshots faint in the distance, but he was not sure. It might be a trick of the night winds of the desert. Just the same, he quickened his steps.

In the past fortnight he had watched carefully over the four men at the trading post. Two of them were so ill they were unable to sit up to eat. He had hired two fat Sonoyta women to care for them, and he had brought corn-flour tortillas, eggs, and milk from town for them. But on the second day the troops had come, and the villagers had become afraid. On the fifth day all of them closed their doors to him and no woman would come to Dunbar's to help care for the sick. Redondo remained noncommittal, but said the soldiers would keep to their side of the border. Rumors of battles and massacres came up from the Concepcion valley on the lips of Indians and traveling men; it all sounded unreasonable.

Sus walked across the pale desert on legs that had grown muscular. He carried five precious eggs, stolen. He traveled through the hill notch and saw a lamp burning at Dunbar's; all seemed well. Then horsemen drummed forward in the darkness, a large party, and he knew it was too late to seek concealment; they had seen him silhouetted. He stood still, waiting for them to come up.

The horsemen were shouting: “
Viva México! Mueran los gringos!
” Death to the gringos. What did it mean?

A hoarse voice shot forward from the horsemen: “Sus—Sus Ainsa.”

“
Sí
,” he answered warily. He touched his gun but saw immediately the patent uselessness of that gesture. The riders were all around him. The man who had spoken dismounted and bounded forward, cuffing back his hat. “Sus—you remember me?”

“Jesús Ojeda,” he said, and smiled uncertainly. “Como
está?
”

“
Bien
,” Ojeda said, and clasped his shoulders. Then the grin went away from his cheeks and he said, “I must arrest you, my friend.”

“What?”

“I am ordered to arrest you.”

“What for?”

“I do not know.”

“You can't,” Sus said. “This is not Mexican soil.”

Ojeda shook his head gravely. “I have my orders, amigo. I must obey.”

“But you can't!” Sus found that he was shouting. He resolved to quiet down. He looked up at the others and then realized that they were coming not from the direction of Mexico, but from the trading post. Reluctant understanding seeped into his mind and he said slowly, “Jesús—Jesús, old friend, what have you done to my friends down there?” And held his breath.

Ojeda turned his palms up. “They are dead.”

“All of them?”

“All dead, all four.”

Fury bunched Sus's fists. “What in God's name for?”

Ojeda's reaction was the same shrug, the same palms turned up. “I told you, amigo—I am under orders. I am a soldier.”

“Those men were sick.”

“All right,” Ojeda said mildly. “Now they are sick no more.”

“God,” Sus breathed. “What has turned you into a butcher, Jesús?”

Ojeda said nothing in reply. He stepped forward to lift the gun from Sus's holster, and rammed it into his own belt. “We will go now.”

“Where?”

“To Mexico,” Ojeda said.

CHAPTER 19

Two weeks before the arrest of Sus Ainsa, the column of seventy with Crabb at its head entered the valley of the Rio Concepcion. It was a hot morning, the sky was blue and clear, dust raveled above the column, and Crabb had thrown out guards on either flank to watch the horizons. At the same time in various places a number of incidents took place. At Ures, Acting Governor Pesquiera visited former Governor Aguilar's cell, spoke desultorily to the man, and went back to his office to pace the floor, restively awaiting news from his far-flung outposts. Gabilondo was at El Claro on the Rio de San Ignacio, raising an army in a leisurely way. Giron, also recruiting, was to join Gabilondo later in the week at Pitiquito, where the San Ignacio had its confluence with the Concepcion, not far upstream from Caborca. In San Francisco, fifteen hundred miles away, a prostitute whose name was unknown stopped at the cemetery to put flowers on General Cosby's grave. At San Perfecto, not too far south of Sonoyta on the way to the Concepcion valley, Captain Freeman McKinney was giving his weary men a day's rest in the shade. In Caborca, Captain Lorenzo Rodriguez received from his scouts intelligence of the advance of the party of filibusters toward the town. He acted accordingly. At Sonoyta, on the border, Redondo was sitting on his porch picking his teeth and Sus was down at the pool bathing. At Tucson, Arizona, about two hundred miles northeast of Caborca as the crow might fly, the men who had left Crabb's group at Yuma—Charles Tozer and Bob Wood—had organized a relief party that included such prominent Arizona pioneers as John G. Capron and Granville H. Oury. By now this party, going to the aid of Crabb, numbering twenty-six men, had left Tucson and was in the vicinity of Calabasas. And twenty-five hundred miles east by northeast, the populace was deep in consideration of the recent inaugural address of President James Buchanan and the Supreme Court's decision in the case of one Dred Scott, a Negro slave who had sued for his freedom on the grounds that he resided in a free-soil territory; the Court refused Scott's appeal and held that he was not a citizen of the United States and thus was not entitled to sue in a Federal court. In New York, John Butterfield was busy organizing a transcontinental stagecoach line to be known as the Butterfield Overland Mail. In San Francisco, Filomena Ainsa Crabb reread for the eleventh time the last letter she had received from her husband. It had been written at Fort Yuma. At Sonora, California, a small fire began in the back of the Triple Ace saloon but was brought under control before it did much damage.