El Paso: A Novel (31 page)

FROM WHAT THEY COULD TELL,
scores of cattle had been killed by the huge hailstones, and many more were stunned; in places where lightning had struck directly, dead cattle were bunched up on the ground. But at least it hadn’t been a disaster. The whole thing had come and gone so swiftly that for some miraculous reason the cattle hadn’t launched a stampede, and a report from drovers down the line indicated that the storm was relatively small in terms of area. Cowboys were moving the cattle north again when the morning dawned bright and clear.

Arthur rode alongside Cowboy Bob, whom he had come to admire. Bob was all the things Arthur wasn’t: tough, terse, and self-assured in the wild and unpredictable outback.

“What’s Villa like?” Arthur asked. His behind was raw with saddle sores, his hands chapped from the reins, and his nose peeling from sunburn.

“That ain’t a easy question to answer,” said Cowboy Bob. “Sometimes he’s polite as can be, but you have to understand he’s a killer.”

Arthur asked about the other the people around Villa, and Bob described such characters as Fierro, Santo, and Tom Mix, the American.

“An American, huh?” Arthur said. “What’s he doing there?”

“Well, I knew Mix back when he first came to El Paso. He’s got him a trick horse, and for a while he did stunts at rodeos and little western shows around town. Used to throw a dime up in the air and shoot a hole in it with his pistol. Stuff like that. Told everybody one day he was going to Hollywood.”

“That’s a pretty good trick,” Arthur offered.

“Yeah, except for one thing,” Cowboy Bob continued. “He don’t use bullets like everybody thinks. He loads his shells with rat-shot, so’s if you aim anywhere within half a foot of the dime you’re likely to hit it.”

Arthur shook his head. “That’s still pretty good shooting, I’d say.”

“Yup,” said Cowboy Bob. He reached in his pocket, pulled out some change, and reined up his horse. “Here,” he said, handing Arthur a dime. “Throw that up. Don’t flip it, just toss it.”

Arthur looked at the dime, then back to Cowboy Bob. “Where?”

“In the air. Anyplace.”

“When?” He noticed Bob hadn’t yet drawn his gun.

“You call it.”

“Okay,” Arthur said. “Now!” He tossed the dime straight up, underhanded.

Before his hand had even dropped, Cowboy Bob snatched his pistol from the holster and fired. Arthur, ears ringing, looked for the dime.

“What’s left of it’s over there, between them rocks,” Bob said.

Arthur rode over and dismounted. “Little bit to your right,” Bob told him. Sure enough, in the sand was a shiny piece of metal. Arthur picked it up. It was half a dime, hot in his hand.

“Tom Mix uses a .22 for his stunt, even if he does load rat-shot,” said Bob, “but with this here .42 you got to hit the dime right on the edge. Otherwise, won’t be nothin’ left of it.”

Arthur shook his head in amazement and brought the piece of dime back to Bob.

“Don’t know what good half a dime’ll do me,” Bob said dryly. “Maybe they’ll take it for half a cup of coffee back in El Paso.”

“You could take that trick to New York City and make a lot of money,” Arthur told him, still astonished. “Join up with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show or something.”

“Then I’d have to use rat-shot,” Bob remarked. “And that makes it fake.”

“Why? You just did it here with real ammunition.”

“’Cause with real ammunition I’d put holes in Buffalo Bill’s circus tent. Rat-shot don’t carry that far, but this here bullet does. After a while his tent’d look like a side of Swiss cheese.”

“Even with rat-shot, it’s a remarkable trick,” Arthur said. “I know some people in the theater business who are friends with Buffalo Bill Cody. If you want, I could put you in touch.”

“Nah,” said Cowboy Bob. “Anyhow, you use it enough, rat-shot’ll ruin the insides of your gun barrel.”

THIRTY-ONE

T
he morning after Colonel Shaughnessy began the grand cattle drive to El Paso, General Fierro arrived at Valle del Sol to rustle his cows. He had taken only Tom Mix and a company of men with him. Not wanting any trouble with the Colonel’s cowhands, the Butcher hurriedly swung wide around the property to do his stealing on the remote ranges miles from the hacienda. At first, Fierro was mystified when all he found were a few old cows and calves and a handful of mangy steers, and the farther they rode onto the Colonel’s spread, the more perplexed Fierro became, until finally his confusion turned to rage.

“
Mierda!
” he spat. “The stinking gringo has moved his animals!”

“Seems so,” said Mix. “Maybe he’s moved them to another part of the ranch.”

“Well, we haven’t got all day,” Fierro said. “We’d better send out some scouting parties. You can’t hide that many beefs.” Mix detailed four groups of five each to fan out in all directions and return by sundown. The rest of the company would wait by the river. Fierro’s mood was becoming fouler by the moment. He was disgusted by being sent on what he considered subordinate duty, though he knew Villa had always been particular about assigning food as one of the army’s highest priorities. But Fierro loved nothing better than battle, and the suspense over whatever was happening up at Chihuahua was eating at him. He hadn’t shared Villa’s notion that the Federales would run away. They outnumbered Villa’s men two- or three-to-one, and if in the old days he wouldn’t have considered these bad odds, these weren’t the old days. In any case, he sat by the river drinking coffee and tequila, and all the while he stewed.

JUST A FEW MILES AWAY, AT THE GONZALES HOME,
Katherine Shaughnessy climbed aboard a beautiful black gelding that wore a saddle festooned in silver and turquoise. This was Señor Gonzales’s favorite mount and for the occasion of the owner’s daughter’s visit he had strapped on the horse his prize possession, the exquisite hand-tooled saddle that was used only for fiesta parades and other distinguished events in Parral, Torreón, and Chihuahua City. Señor Gonzales had to let out the stirrups all the way, but even though she was only twelve years old she almost needed more for her long legs.

The Gonzaleses’ hacienda was located at the head of a small valley on the edge of Shaughnessy’s land, and Xenia, Beatie, Katherine, and Timmy had been accorded the royal treatment—at least so far as the Gonzaleses could bestow it; for the Shaughnessy family, however, it was an adventure more akin to roughing it. They had stayed up late that first night; the children playing Rook by lamplight. Xenia was reading
Of Human Bondage
, while Beatie crocheted a doily and the voice of Caruso rang out from a crank-up music box. Bomba sat in a chair by the fire, whittling toothpicks from a stick.

Next morning, Katherine was excited. She’d asked Timmy if he wanted to go riding but he’d declined, deciding instead to work on a jigsaw puzzle. Four ranch hands were detailed to ride with her for safety. The day was crisp and as they set out, the grass was dewy and the air filled with the smell of mown hay. They rode down the little valley and up a trail across rolling hills that led to the river. Katherine was trying to get used to the fancy Mexican saddle and was even beginning to like it. It was a distinctive ride in a gaudy sort of way, and she thought it even had a certain elegance to it. Katherine had only ridden English-style before and it took a while to get accustomed to the rocking motion, but she could see why such a saddle could be useful out on the plains.

She thought perhaps when they got back to Boston she might acquire one of these Mexican saddles. What a trump it would be on her riding companions! She might come back to Boston as “Cowgirl Kate,” another Annie Oakley. This reverie of acquisitive dreams was quickly interrupted when Katherine saw the lead rider abruptly halt and raise his hand.

They had emerged from the hill trail onto a large open swale where, not a hundred yards away, another group of riders clad in what looked like military uniforms with rifles slung over their shoulders were bearing down straight at them. Katherine saw them at the same time as her guards. The distant men had paused on a knoll, looking, looking—and then they quickly wheeled and headed toward Katherine’s party.

The head of Katherine’s guard had already begun backing his horse into the line of trees but it was too late. A shot rang out from the military men and one of Katherine’s guards dropped wordlessly from his horse. More shots were fired, and by the time Katherine had reached the forest the soldiers had fallen upon them. Her group scattered. She bolted up a hill, but one of the soldiers flew past and grabbed the bridle of her horse. Katherine found herself looking into a wild-eyed but smiling face of a young Mexican—perhaps no older than she—who waved his hand in front of her face.

“
Basta!
” he said.

Among the trees more shots were ringing out but she could see no one else. The Mexican lifted the reins of her horse over its head and began to tow her back down the trail, back across the swale, and then onto a level pasture that led to a river. Katherine was so scared she kept her eyes closed until they slowed and she heard voices. There was some sort of camp by the river. Smoke from a fire hung lazily in the air and scores of men sat or milled around, their horses tethered to cottonwood trees along the banks.

“So, little señorita,” General Fierro said. “Suppose you tell me who you are?”

Katherine gaped at him while her mind raced but got nowhere. These were obviously the people who had attacked Valle del Sol, who hated her grandfather, who had come to steal their cattle. But what was she to do? Tell them—what? Fierro suddenly took hold of her wrist and squeezed it hard, smiling. It hurt. She cried out, “Let go of me!” The general did so but laughed cruelly.

“We want to take you back home,” Fierro said with an ugly smile. “You must show us where.”

“I can find my own way,” Katherine told him.

“Oh, no, señorita, we can’t let you do that. There are dangerous men out here. I want to see no harm comes to you.”

“I want you to let me go,” Katherine said shakily. “My grandfather owns this property. You’ve got no right to be on it.” She knew her lip was quivering but also felt anger and hatred pushing through the fear.

Fierro broke into a big cruel grin. “Ohhh . . .” he intoned. “So you’re one of the big-shot Americano’s family, eh? Well, how about that?” Instantly Katherine regretted making her statement. She tried to control her trembling by closing her eyes for an instant. When she opened them, Fierro was still there with his turned-down sneer.

“And where is your grandfather, then?” Fierro said. “We will take you to him, I promise.”

“He’s away,” she said.

“And his cattle, where are they?”

“I don’t know.”

Just then several riders stormed into the camp. With them they had two of the ranch hands who had been with Katherine. The ranch hands were seated glumly on their horses, hands tied behind their backs.

“These vaqueros were with the little girl,” said one of the Villistas. “They come from a place in a little valley over those ridges there. We killed the other two. But there’s a hacienda there. And there’s a bunch of horses in the corral, but we saw a lot of men so we didn’t go down there. There’s a big fancy automobile there, too, General,” he said.

“Ah,” Fierro said sweetly, turning to Lieutenant Crucia. “So shall we all go visit the hacienda? Maybe they will give us some beans and bread, eh?”

He summoned Tom Mix. “Take this girl and make sure nothing happens to her, huh?” he told him. Mix looked at Katherine. She was gazing out across the river, as though willing herself away from the scene. He took her by the hand, but she jerked it away. Suddenly the young boy from the woods, the one who had captured her, appeared by her side from the group who stood around the fire.

“He’s all right,” the boy told her, almost in a whisper. “He’s a good man. You go along with him, huh?”

Katherine turned to him, dumbfounded. She felt tears beginning to come but fought them back.

“I go along, too, okay? You’ll be all right. Nobody hurts girls,” he said. “We’re not animals.”

Katherine was too stunned to do anything but obey. She was helpless and knew it. If she ran afoot they would catch her; if she tried to jump on a horse and run she wouldn’t stand a chance, either. Nobody had prepared her for this kind of situation. She could only do what she was told. All her life people had taken care of her; she could only pray they would now, too. Her mother always told her the same thing her own mother had told
her
: “Darling, in life, always ask yourself, where is this leading me?” Now she didn’t have a choice.

THIRTY-TWO

B
omba saw the soldiers first. He had been hand-pumping water from a well to wash dust off the big Packard convertible when he noticed riders coming down the road to the hacienda. Bomba rushed inside and gathered the family, herding them toward the car. He immediately thought of Katherine, but there was nothing to do about her for the moment.

He quickly saw the problem: the only way out of the valley by car would take them directly into the path of the riders. The ranch hands were alerted now; rifles and pistols were drawn and ready, and the men took up various positions around the house and outbuildings. Bomba pulled the Packard into the barn, ushered the family into it, started the motor, and left it running. He went outside, quietly closing the big barn doors but not locking them. As the riders drew nearer, his fear was confirmed. They wore military uniforms.