"I don't want to drink," Morita said wearily. "It s time to sleep."
"First, we drink." Vargas insisted. He could feel the overtired village losing consciousness all around him. But he did not yet feel ready to lie down. There was still something chewing at him. Something he could not quite explain. He hammered the bar again. "Hey, you fucking dog of a bartender." Then he repeated himself to Morita. "First, we drink. Like two great big pricks. The biggest pricks in Mexico. Then maybe we go to sleep.
A ripple of explosions rattled the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Before the glass had finished chiming, a new low-pitched rumble filled the morning. Vargas imagined that he felt the earth moving under his knees.
"What the fuck?" he said, in English, to Morita.
The Japanese looked blank.
A few weapons began to sound. Seconds later the morning had filled with the sounds of a pitched battle. The big rumbling sound grew louder with each instant, approaching the village, a tide of noise, as unrecognizable as it was powerful,
At first Vargas thought it was an earthquake. Then another series of explosions reawoke him to the immediacy of combat.
He ran for the doorway, drawing his pistol as he went. The thundering sound, utterly unfamiliar, seemed to engulf the entire mountaintop now.
He shoved the blanket aside to the sound of shots and shouts and wild howling. Stepping down into the street, he stared off toward the long meadow that began just past the last shacks of the village. And he stopped in amazement.
Cavalry. The gringo sonsofbitches were on horses. Ghosts from another century, galloping down from the western ridge where the trail came up from the valley. He just had time to see the full spectacle of the charge, as eerie as it was violent, before the first section of horsemen burst into the main street of the village, blocking his view' of the rest of the action, The riders screamed like lunatics, firing their automatic weapons from the saddle.
"Machine guns," Vargas shouted. "Use the fucking machine guns. "
But he knew it was already too late. He fired twice in the general direction of the horsemen, while beside him one of his men fell to a sniper's bullet.
The fucking gringos had used the noise of the helicopters to cover the approach of their goddamned horses. Right up the damned trail. And they had infiltrated snipers into the village. The machine guns had never had a chance to speak.
A fucking horse cavalry charge. Who would ever have thought of such a crazy idea?
Down the street, men in U.S. Army uniforms began to swing from their saddles, smashing and shooting their way into the buildings. Others rode onward, shrieking at the top of their lungs and laying down suppressive fire in their path.
Suddenly, Vargas knew exactly who had thought of such a crazy idea. He felt his shooting hand waver. The one of whom the scout had spoken. This fucking El Diablo.
Vargas could see the details of the riders' helmets and flak jackets in the pure mountain light. He could see their jouncing hand grenades and the drab cloth bandoliers. He could see their faces. And the flaring nostrils and huge eyes of the horses.
He ran back for the cover of the cantina, careening off Morita in his haste. Instantly, the Japanese threw up his hands at the morning and tumbled back through the blanketed doorway, exploding with blood.
The bullet had been intended for Vargas.
There were times when you were beaten. All you could do was survive to take your revenge another day.
With the enemy's horses pounding in the street behind him, Vargas raced through the front room of the cantina, sweeping chairs out of his way with a crazy hand. He pushed through the living quarters of the bartender and his family. A woman screamed in the body-scented dusk, and Vargas banged his knee against a jut of furniture.
Cursing, he ripped open the flimsy back door and was about to dash for the nearest animal shed when he saw that the gringos had already beaten him to it.
They were everywhere.
He jerked inside the cantina building just as a splash of bullets struck the nearby wall.
Behind his back, the bartender's wife shrieked and prayed, while her man cursed her and told her to shut up. Annoyed at his helplessness, Vargas turned around and shot them both.
Back in the barroom, he hurriedly smashed out the storm lantern with the butt of his pistol. But it was already light enough for him to see Morita's wondering stare. The man's corpse continued to discharge blood over the splintering planks.
Outside the shooting dwindled. Vargas heard Anglo voices calling out commands in elementary Spanish. Officers to prisoners.
He crouched behind the bar. There was a broken-out the window across the room, but he knew instinctively that it offered no safety. He considered surrendering. But his fear of punishment held him back. He had done things that he did not believe the gringos were ready to forgive.
With shaking fingers, he stripped off the precious gunbelt he had taken from the American general and stuffed it into a cabinet, hiding it behind dusty bottles of beer.
He was very much afraid. And he was aware of his fear. He had not believed that he, of all men, could ever be this afraid.
Now there was only the occasional snort of a horse, a resting hoof. The world had become an astonishingly quiet place. The silence was bigger in his ears than the sound of the helicopters had been.
He heard the faint jangle of spurs.
His shooting hand felt as wet as if he had dipped it in a bucket. He checked the slippery pistol, making sure that he had a round chambered.
The music of the spurs grew louder. He could hear booted footsteps.
Someone began to whistle.
It was morbid. Terrible. The melody was far too light and joyful. The notes cascaded through the morning, swooping like a small bird in flight. The tune was almost something to make a man dance.
The boots approached the cantina. Then everything stopped. No more metal tangle of spurs. No footsteps. The whistling, too, ceased abruptly.
Vargas hunkered lower. Unwilling to look, unwilling to risk being seen. He felt himself shaking. It was unthinkable that he might die here, in such dusty unimportance. He was not ready.
He realized that he was weeping. And praying. It had begun automatically, and he could not stop himself. Mother of God…
He heard the soft rustle of cloth, and he knew it was the blanket being drawn away from the doorframe. It was the perfect time to rise and fire. But he could not will himself to move.
The melody of the spurs began again. But the tempo was slower now, like the music at a funeral. Vargas followed each next footfall across the room. There was a heavier note as the intruder stepped over Morita's body. The spurs became unbelievably, unbearably loud.
Somewhere in the middle of the room, his opponent stopped.
Silence.
Vargas made himself ready. Hurriedly he crossed himself with the pistol in his hand. He seemed unable to fill his lungs with the breath he needed.
"Don't move, gringo," he shouted. But he could not move himself. He remained crouched in his hiding place, staring up from the canyon behind the bar, able to see only the blistered paint on the ceiling.
He clutched his gun, tightening his bowels. Imagining the other man somewhere out in the vast freedom of the room.
"I know your fucking rules, man," Vargas called out. "You can't kill me. I'm a prisoner of war, man."
Silence. It went on so long that dust seemed to settle and stale on a man's ears. Then a slow voice spoke in perfect Spanish.
"Throw your weapons over the bar. Then raise your hands. Keep the palms open and turned toward me. Get up slowly."