Dobbs kicked the nearest burro in its hams until it took the lead and set out on its way toward town. Another followed slowly. The rest continued to nibble at the meager grass growing under the trees. Dobbs rounded them up and tried to get them all started on their way.
The three tramps stood up and, as if they meant to tease a bit, edged in among the burros that still lingered behind. The animals, used to marching with the rest of the pack-train, became restless and tried to break past the men and reach their fellows.
At this the three men endeavored openly to prevent the remaining burros from following the others. They grasped the ropes and held on to the saddles to keep the burros from moving on.
Dobbs, ten feet away, shouted: “Get away from my burros!”
“Who? And just what?” Miguel sneered. “We can sell those burros as well as you can. They won’t be any worse if we sell them. What do you think, muchachos?” he asked his companions.
“Away from those burros I tell you!” Dobbs yelled, his face red with fury. He jumped farther back and drew his gun.
Miguel, seeing this move, failed to show either fear or surprise, as Dobbs had expected.
“With that chingando iron of yours you can’t frighten even a sick louse,” he chuckled sarcastically. “Not us, you dirty funking cabron. You can only shoot one. And whoever you bump off won’t mind much, because the Federals are after him anyway, and if they catch him he won’t live another halfhour. So what with your gat? We take that chance.”
Once more Dobbs yelled at the top of his voice: “Get back there from my burros!” Without waiting for the men to move, he aimed at the one nearest him. It was Miguel. But the gun clicked cold. Twice, three times, five times the gun clicked without making even the pfish of a toy gun.
Dobbs stared at his gun in amazement. So did the three thieves. They were so surprised at the failure of that gun that they forgot to laugh or to sneer or to say a single word or utter an exclamation.
One of them bent slowly down and picked up a heavy stone.
A short second followed, filled with such tension that Dobbs thought the whole world would explode. And in this second Dobbs remembered as clearly as if he were living it over once more why it came about that his gun would not fire. Curtin had disarmed Dobbs to prevent being killed. Curtin had unloaded the gun and put it in his own belt for safe keeping. When Dobbs the following night disarmed Curtin, he had shot him with Curtin’s gun. Then he had taken his own gun back, but in the excitement in which he had lived during the last few days, he had forgotten to reload his gun, and he had thrown Curtin’s gun, after he had shot him for the second time, upon the body to let the discoverer of the body figure out what had happened and how.
Still before this same second came to an end, Dobbs’s mind worked intensely to think of another means of defense. His glance fell upon a machete tied to the saddle of the nearest burro. This weaponlike tool was for use in cutting a new trail when fallen trees blocked the way or the underbrush had grown too dense for the burros to pass. He grasped the haft of this machete, but before he could pull it out of its sheath, the stone one of the thieves had taken up crashed against his forehead. He fell. Before he could rise to his feet, Miguel, who had noted Dobbs’s move toward the machete, jumped close up. With the sure grip of an expert he had the machete out in an instant. Tigerlike he sprang at the fallen Dobbs, and with a short powerful stroke he cut off Dobbs’s head. A mighty gush of blood rushed forth from the body.
More startled than frightened, the three men looked at the body, which was still quivering. The head lay only an inch from the neck. The eyelids blinked two or three times rapidly and then became fixed, but only partly closed. Several times the hands spread wide open and then cramped into fists, finally closing more gently as life fled away and the nerves stiffened.
“You did that, Miguel,” Pablo said in a low voice, coming nearer.
“Aw, shut up, you damned yellow dog! Why didn’t you do it? Afraid of that funking son of a bitch by a stinking gringo, hey? I know who did it and bumped him. And I tell ye, get away from me, both of you chingando cabrones and que chinguen los cabrones a las matriculas. Do I need your stinking advice, you puppies? Out of my way, you make me sick looking at you, you dirty rats.”
He stared at the machete. There was not much blood on it. He wondered why. But the stroke had been that of a master hand. He did not realize how good he was, how great an expert. He stepped to the nearest tree, rubbed the machete clean against the bark, then, wetting his fingers with his tongue, tested the edge and, satisfied with his inspection, pushed the machete back into its scabbard.
Chapter 24
Dogs often show a real interest in what men do, even when the men in question are not their masters. Dogs even like to meddle in the affairs of men. Burros are less interested in men’s personal doings; they mind their own business. That’s the reason why donkeys are thought to have a definite leaning toward philosophy.
So it came about that the burros, paying no heed to what was happening, marched off, taking the way to town.
In their excitement the thieves forgot the burros while they were busily stripping the body of Dobbs and eagerly searching the pockets for money. Without any hesitation, while the clothing was still warm and wet from the dead man’s sweat, they put it on after they had thrown away their own rags. Dobbs’s boots and his other clothes had been in daily use for the last ten months and were badly worn. To these tramps they were still luxuries.
Only the shirt found no claimant, although the shirts they wore were in tatters.
“Why don’t you want to put on the shirt, Nacho?” Miguel asked. “You would look like a dude, like a fine caballero, with such a shirt on your stinking carcass.” He kicked at the body on the ground, naked except for the well-worn khaki shirt. Everything else had found a new owner.
“It isn’t worth very much,” Nacho answered, shrugging his shoulders.
“You’ve got a swell reason to say so, you filthy dog.” Miguel looked at him, drawing one corner of his mouth down almost to the chin. “Compared with yours, it’s a gent’s silk shirt. No decency and no feeling for good things in you, that’s the trouble with a pig like you.”
Nacho turned away. “I’m not hot for it, that’s all. Besides, it’s too close to the neck. Why don’t you take it yourself? Your own isn’t so grand, either.”
“Me?” Miguel frowned as if he had heard an insult. “Me wear a shirt still warm from such a dirty son of a gringo dog! Not me. I still have some pride left.”
The truth was that for Miguel, also, the shirt was too close to the neck of the dead man. It had only a few red spots near the collar, because Dobbs had worn it open, to get all the air he could. While it looked better than any of the shirts the thieves had on, all refused to have it. It was not superstition, it was only an uneasy feeling that made them anxious not to have it on their own body.
“I am sure that cabron has more shirts in the packs,” Pablo remarked.
“You wait until I’ve examined these packs, and then we’ll see,” Miguel replied.
“You mean to tell us that you are the boss here?” Nacho’s eyes narrowed and he stepped nearer to Miguel. He was still furious that he had got only Dobbs’s pants, while Miguel had the boots, which he himself wanted.
“Boss? Who’s asking me? A fly like you?” Miguel roared. “Boss or no boss, I’ll tell what’s what here. What have you done so far, hey?”
“Wasn’t it me that stoned him? Without me stoning him first, you would never have dared to go near him, you yellow skunk. That’s what you are, yellow, and a filthy son of a stinking cabron.”