Katie studied the men. Jim, the oldest, was about her age. The other three were younger, much closer to the age of her two daughters. Though she believed that she and her daughters might have been better off had they avoided any contact with men at all, she didn’t think that this bunch represented any danger to her. And they were American. That helped. Finally she came to a decision.
“Me and my girls will just tag along with you, if you don’t mind,” she said.
“I told you, ma’am, we aren’t going back to Texas. Leastwise, not till we get them horses,” Jim replied.
“What’s so all-fired important about getting those horses?”
“We’ve been paid half the money for a job,” Jim said. “We won’t get the other half until we deliver the horses. I want that money.”
“Yes, I can understand that. But I am willing to pay you an amount equal to what you would get if you delivered the horses.”
“I appreciate that, ma’am, but I don’t hold with takin’ pay for something I don’t do. We’ve already drawn the first half of our pay on the promise that we would deliver the horses, and that’s what I aim to do.”
Katie nodded. “I admire you for that, Mr. Robison,” she said. “Where are the horses?”
“In Durango.”
“You say you just lost three of your men?”
“Yes, ma’am. Like I said, we got involved in a shootout back in Escalon. Tennessee, Ken, and Chad were killed.”
“Then I reckon that makes you short by three wranglers,” Katie said. “If I can’t pay you one way, I’ll pay you another. We’ll be your extra wranglers.”
“You’re women,” Frank said with a sniggering laugh.
“Wrangling is hard work,” Jim replied in a nicer tone.
“We may be women but we are ranchin’ women,” Katie replied. “Believe me, we are no strangers to hard work.”
“Why would you even want to do such a thing?” he asked.
“Because I’m not sure I can I can get us back to Texas without help. Also, there is safety in numbers. Not only against Shardeen, but against anyone else who might try something.”
“Mama,” Brenda said, apprehensively, “how do you know these men are safe?”
“Honey, anyone who intends to wrangle a herd of horses all the way back to Texas is too dumb to be dangerous,” Katie said matter-of- factly.
Jim laughed. “All right, ma’am,” he finally said after he finished laughing. “You and your two daughters are welcome to come along.”
Chapter 13
When Hector Ortega returned to the little town of Escalon, it was abuzz with excitement. There were seven bodies lying in the square. Four of the bodies were Mexican, including Gonzales’s diputado, Juan Reyna. The slain deputy and villagers were being mourned by Reyna’s wife, the widows of the other slain villagers, as well as several black-shawled women.
The other three bodies, separated from the Mexicans by some twenty yards, were Americans. Two of the Americans had been killed during the battle in town. The third was found about five miles away. He had been badly wounded as he rode away and had apparently died on the trail. No one was weeping for the Americans, though several dozen of the villagers were gathered around them, drawn by a gruesome curiosity.
The village padre had been comforting the widows of the slain. Now he left them and walked over to the three American bodies. He stood looking down at them for a moment, then he raised his hand with the thumb extended, the forefinger and middle finger raised, and the ring finger and little finger folded. It was the traditional sign of the cross, preparatory to the bestowing of the blessing.
“No!” Gonzales shouted to the priest. “You will not bless these gringos.”
“They are God’s children,” the priest replied. “I cannot, in good conscience, let any of God’s children enter the hereafter without proper rites.”
“Why bother? They are probably not even Catholic,” Gonzales said.
“They are still God’s children.”
“They killed Juan Reyna. They are murderers. Let them go to hell.”
“I cannot do that. I will bless them,” the padre said.
Gonzales pulled his pistol and pointed it at the priest. When he pulled the hammer back, it made a deadly double-click as the sear engaged the cylinder. “If you bless them, I will kill you where you stand,” he said in a cold flat voice.
Upon hearing the deadly words, the assembled villagers gasped in surprise.
The padre stared at Gonzales for a long moment. Gonzales continued to hold the gun on him, the barrel unwavering. The villagers were absolutely quiet. Then, resolutely making the sing of the cross, the priest made his blessing.
Gonzales’s face grew almost purple-red and the vein in his temple began to throb. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a snarl.
“Hijo de puta!” he shouted, enraged by the priest’s actions. Still, he put the pistol away, shoving it back into his holster.
Again the villagers gasped, this time over the audacity of their police chief calling a priest the son of a whore. Many of them prayed silently for the soul of Gonzales, who surely had damned himself by such a rash act. Others made the sign of the cross for the prayer that was answered, in that Gonzales did not kill the priest as he had threatened.
Ortega watched it all. Then he walked over and looked down at the bodies of Ken, Tennessee, and Chad. Even though he had ridden the trail with them, had camped out with them, shared food and canteen with them, he felt absolutely no sense of sorrow.
“So, Senor Tennessee,” Ortega said quietly, “you are not so full of fight now, are you?” Ortega looked over toward Gonzales, who, after being showed up by the priest, was walking away, mumbling to himself.
“Sargento,” Ortega called to him.
Gonzales stopped and turned toward Ortega. “Sí?”
Ortega waved his hand toward the bodies. “Who are these gringos? What happened here?”
Gonzales stared at Ortega for a moment. “Do I know you, senor?”
“No. I am from Mexico City,” Ortega lied.
“I believe I have seen you.”
“Impossible. I’ve never been here before,” Ortega said. “These men, what happened?”
“They are very bad men,” Gonzales said. “In Texas, they killed a father and son. Then they stole the wife and daughters. I believe they are going to sell the women to the bandidos in the hills.”
“They made the mistake of coming to your village,” Ortega suggested.
A large smile spread across Gonzales’s face, and he nodded enthusiastically over the unexpected endorsement.
With his pride somewhat restored, Gonzales walked back toward the three American bodies. The priest was just finishing his blessing.
“They made a mistake,” Gonzales said loudly, pointing to the three bodies. “They came to Escalon.” He tapped his breast with the ends of his fingers. “They came to my village,” he added. “And you can see what happens to outlaws who come to my village.”
One of the black-shawled women who had been weeping over the bodies of the Mexicans now looked over toward Gonzales. She was surprised to see that the man who was standing behind Gonzales was the same man she had encountered at the well. That man had identified himself as the chief of the gringos. Could this possibly be the same person?
Her eyes were old and not as good as they once were, and she could not be sure until she got a closer look. So she started walking toward him.
Ortega saw the old woman almost as quickly as she saw him. He saw, too, that she was moving closer for a better look. That meant that she wasn’t yet sure of his identity, but she had a strong suspicion. And as soon as she recognized him, she would make the connection between him and the three dead Americans.