The Hot Country

37

I stood up straight and stepped away from my crumpled Villista and squared around to face Slim.

If his brown eyes seemed, upon my first meeting in Corpus Christi, to be the color of mountain-lion shit, they were now the eyes of the critter itself. Cool and ravenous. And he gave off not even a first-glance impression of gaunt anymore, unless you’d call a steel cable on the Brooklyn Bridge gaunt.

We clearly both had the notion to shake hands, but given the context, we also both thought the better of it for the time being.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he said, lowering his voice, acknowledging our little bond, but speaking Spanish. There was no doubt that everyone knew he was an American, but soldiers of fortune had no fixed nationality. Slim was smart. He was doing this for me. He knew I couldn’t have gotten this far on a train as an American.

“I’m after a story,” I said.

“What the hell have you done to my man?” he said.

My Villista was now on all fours, making vaguely sexual-sounding, feminine sounds.

“Kicked him in the nuts. He was about to shoot me.”

Which reminded Slim of the body he had just ridden past. He glanced at it. “What the hell has my man done to this one?”

Slim and I both knew that was a rhetorical question.

I said nothing.

Slim shrugged. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

“Who am I to judge?” I said.

“Are you trying to get to my boss?”

“Villa?” I asked, also rhetorically.

“Villa,” he said anyway.

“Yes.”

Slim nodded. “Wait here. I’ve got something to deal with.”

Slim jumped back up on his horse and shot his Mauser twice in the air, paused for a beat, and then shot once more. All the Villistas stopped what they were doing and turned his way. He clearly was, as I’d assumed, in charge. “Compañeros!” he cried. He had the pipes-power of Caruso. “Work quickly now and do not damage the train!”

And he nudged his horse forward. I thought he was going to say something to me, but he looked past my shoulder, at the ground. I turned to see. The man I’d put down was sitting now, clutching his crotch, looking very unhappy.

“Hernando,” Slim said sharply. My Villista looked up. Slim said, “Do nothing to this man. Is that clear?”

Hernando lowered his head and cursed softly.

Slim spurred his horse along.

I looked to the right, past the first-class passengers, who were still in the process of being robbed, and I did not see Mensinger. I was daring to hope Slim would take me with him. If I could get to Villa without trying to follow Mensinger out of La Mancha, that would be very good. But it took a moment to absorb Mensinger’s absence and I thought: This was why Slim had hurried his boys along and wouldn’t burn the train. He knew who the German was, knew he was expected. I’m sure Slim offered Mensinger what I thought he would offer me, to ride with the train-tax company to Villa’s camp. Would Mensinger take him up on it? Would he let himself become a protectorate of a gang of bandits, even if they were under Villa’s command? Or if I was right about his reasons for getting off in La Mancha, would he excuse himself with Slim — whom he did not expect and may not trust — and stick to his own plan? Would he insist on making his entrance on his own terms?

And who was I, either way?

Soon Slim rode back to me, leading a chestnut stallion saddled up with an empty rifle holster and bags. He motioned me over and I knew we needed to say more private words. I moved to him and I stood in his shadow and looked up.

He was still speaking Spanish, but low. “Who were you pretending to be in order to get here?”

“A German.”

Slim nodded very faintly. “Interesting. Got another German on board.”

“To him I was a Canadian.”

Slim laughed. “Canadian newsman?”

“Coffee merchant.”

“You ready to go back to what you really are?”

I didn’t answer instantly, but I didn’t hesitate more than one slow blink of the eye, and Slim jumped in: “If you want some kind of story, you pretty much have to.”

“Will that work?”

And Slim was speaking English now, though still low enough for just the two of us. “Don’t know. He likes his publicity. No doubt about that. But he blows hot and cold. And I’m the only American fighting for him that he hasn’t sent packing. If I bring you in, I’ll know as soon as I look in his eyes. If he’s in the wrong mood, I’ll have to make like you’re my prisoner. Which, I have to tell you, is what you’ll be.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Mount up,” he said. “Courtesy of one of the last stubborn hacendados around these parts. Put your stuff in the saddlebags.”

He handed me the reins. “I’ll be back for you as soon as we finish with our tax collection.” And he rode off.

I moved to the chestnut, who shook his head at me but let me stroke his muzzle. I leaned near him and exhaled heavily into his nostrils, just to introduce myself. He dipped his head and muttered a little and I knew we’d be all right.

Repacking was tough. Fortunately, the saddlebags were big, and though I had to lose its nifty carrying case, I was able to squeeze in my Corona. Sadly, though, volume XVI of the Scribner’s monogrammed New York Edition of Henry James simply could not fit and would have to be abandoned a long, long way from Washington Square. About as far away as I was feeling at the moment from Michigan Avenue.