The Alamosa Trail

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.

Slowly but deliberately, Ortega remounted. With a small click of his tongue, he turned his horse away from the plaza.

“It is him,” the old woman said. Raising a shaking hand, she pointed a long, bony finger toward Ortega. “He was with them.”

No one paid any attention to her.

“He was with them,” the old woman said again, loudly this time, and she got Gonzales’s attention.

“What are you talking about old woman?” Gonzales said.

“‘When the gringos came into the village, that man was riding with them,” the old woman said. “I gave him water to drink. He told me he was their chief.”

Ortega immediately slapped his feet against the sides of his horse. The animal bolted forward like a ball from a cannon.

“I knew I had seen him before!” Gonzales said. He turned toward Ortega just in time to see the horse bolt forwards. “Alto!” he shouted.

Ortega bent low over the horse’s neck. Gonzales drew his pistol, and this time he didn’t hesitate to use it. He fired, but missed.

“Shoot him!” Gonzales shouted. “Someone shoot him!”

Angrily, Gonzales looked around at the others. “Pull your weapons, you idiots! Shoot him! He is one of the murderers!”

Bullets now whistled by Ortega’s head as he pounded his heels into the animal’s back. Not one bullet hit him.

“After him! After him! We must run him down!” Gonzales shouted.

Despite Gonzales’s urgings, there was very little likelihood that Ortega could be run down. None of the villagers were mounted, nor were any of the horses even saddled. Ortega made good his escape, leaving Gonzales to fume in the dusty street, the sergeant’s pistol still clutched tightly in his fist.

Because of his age, and because he was a natural leader listened to by the others, Jim Robison had become the undisputed ramrod of the little group of riders. Jim and his friends, along with Katie and her daughters, were camped for the night on the banks of a small, swiftly running stream. Here the water was cool and clear and they were able to fill their canteens and boil a pot of coffee. They cooked rice, augmented by a couple of rabbits, some wild onions and freshly picked mushrooms.

“What are we going to do if Ortega don’t show up again?” Frank asked as they ate.

‘We’ll get the horses and start back without him,” Jim said.

“How do you know they’ll give ’em to us?”

“According to Clay Allison, the horses have already been bought and paid for. They have no choice in the matter. They’ll have to give ’em to us,” Jim insisted.

“Right. And if they don’t, we’ll just go to the law,” Gene said. “That is, if the law don’t shoot us as soon as they see us.”

“We’ve got no problem with the law now,” Barry said. “I mean, we’ve got the women with us. All we have to do is have them say it wasn’t us that took ’em.”

“And are they just going to forget about the men we killed back in Escalon?” Frank asked.

“So what do you think, Jim? What will we do about that?” Barry asked.

“Our best bet is just to get the horses, then get ourselves back on up to Texas,” Jim answered. “I plan to shake the dirt of Mexico from my boots soon as I can.”

“Texas, yes,” Katie said. “That sounds good to me.”

“I don’t know why you are so anxious to get back,” Marilou said. “There’s nothing back there for us.”

“What do you mean?” Katie asked.

“Pa’s dead. Nate’s dead. What’s left?”

“The ranch,” Katie said. “Your pa and I cleared land, battled Indians, drought, locusts, bankers, and Yankee carpetbaggers to build that ranch. There is no way I’m going to walk away from it now. We’re going back to Texas to bury our dead. Then we’ll get on with the livin’. It’s what women have always done and we’re no different.”

As Jim listened to Katie talk to her daughters, he couldn’t help but admire her. He had never taken himself a wife, had never really wanted to settle down. But now, seeing Katie with her daughters, he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t missed out on something.

“We goin’ to stay here for the night?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” Jim said. “Frank, you take the first watch.”

“Jim. Jim, you awake?”

Jim stirred in his bedroll, and Gene shook him again. “Wake up,” he said.

Jim grunted.

“Damn, the older you get, the harder you are to wake up.”

“I’m awake,” Jim said.

“Maybe it’s time you quit cowboyin’,” Gene suggested.

Jim sat up and ran his hand across his face, then scratched his scalp as he yawned. “I told you, I’m awake,” he said.

“It’s four o’clock. It’s your watch.”

Jim stood up, walked over to one side and urinated, then came back to sit down on a rock near his bedroll while he pulled on his boots.

“Anything happen during the night?” he asked.

“Not a thing,” Gene said, pulling his own boots off. “What time we goin’ to get started today?”

“I figure round sunup,” Jim replied.

“Damn. It’ll take me that long to get back to sleep,” Gene said.

Despite his protestations, Gene fell asleep within minutes, his snoring joining that of the others in camp. Jim took a walk around the perimeter of the camp. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he found a rock and sat down.

It wasn’t too long afterward that he heard the noise. Pulling his gun from his holster, he moved quietly to investigate. A minute later he located the sound’s source and, when he saw what it was, stopped dead in his tracks.

There, in the bright spill of predawn moonlight was Katie Kincaid standing in the stream of water, totally nude. She was taking a bath, and because she had no soap, she was using the grit of a handful of sand. The result made her skin pink and shiny.

Jim caught his breath. He didn’t like the idea of spying on the woman in her private moment, but he could barely take his eyes off her. He knew she was a handsome woman, but he had no idea how beautiful she really was.

Katie seemed intent on scrubbing her body, rubbing herself down with sand so hard that Jim thought she was about to rub herself raw. At first, he couldn’t understand why she was so intense with her bath. Then he realized exactly what she was doing, and his heart went out to her.

Katie Kincaid was trying to wash away all the degradation and humiliation she had suffered over the last several days. And at that moment it dawned on Jim that, by spying on her, he might actually be adding to her humiliation, so he turned and started to walk away.

“You needn’t leave, Mr. Robison,” Katie said from the stream.

Jim was shocked by the words. He had no idea she even knew he was here. He stopped.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said.

Katie emerged from the water dripping wet. She started toward him, but he stood riveted to the spot, his eyes still averted.

“You aren’t intruding,” she said. “I heard you making out the watch last night. I knew when you would have the watch, so I chose this time to take my bath. You turn around, Mr. Robison,” she said.

Jim turned, then gasped. He had seen naked women, of course, but they had all been whores, often wasted by dissipation. Katie Kincaid had lived a difficult life, but it was one made up of hard work and clean living. As a result, her body was firm and well-toned. Whereas the whores Jim had encountered often had large pillowy breasts, Katie’s breasts were small and well formed, and he was keenly aware of her tightly drawn and sharply protruding nipples.

“I have to know,” Katie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have to know,” Katie said again. “The men I was with: Shardeen, Whitey, and Red. They used me, degraded me. I have to know if any normal man will ever want me again.”

“I promise you, Mrs. Kincaid,” Jim said, “that’s not something you need to worry about.”

“Thank you,’ Katie said. Without another word, she turned and walked away from him, disappearing into the morning darkness. Jim stood there for a long moment afterward, wondering if the encounter had really happened. Or if it was merely a hallucination, brought on by a trick of fatigue and shadow.