Vengeance Creek: The Sons of Daniel Shaye

30

Thomas and James tried to look the stalls over without stepping inside. There were plenty of tracks made by the horses, but neither of them could pick up anything distinctive.

After that they had Ron Hill take them out back to look at the horses in his corral.

“Which ones were theirs?” Thomas asked.

“You know anythin’ about horses?” the liveryman asked them.

“I do,” James said. Thomas had to admit, his younger brother was a better judge of horseflesh than he was. He didn’t exactly know when that had happened, but it had.

“Well, then you can pick them out,” Hill said, “’cause they ain’t mine.”

At first Thomas was going to tell Hill they weren’t there to play games, but maybe this would take his brother’s mind off other things. He watched as James opened the corral door, entered, and closed it behind him. There were enough horses in the corral—twenty head or so—that he could have been trampled if he wasn’t careful, but he moved among them with surprising ease, and just as surprising, they seemed to accept his presence.

“This one,” James said, putting his hand on a big bay mare that, even to Thomas’s unpracticed eye—and now that his brother had pointed it out—had obviously seen better days.

“That’s one,” Hill said.

James nodded, examined the horse, then lifted each of the animal’s feet to check the bottom. That done, he walked among the animals again and picked out a dappled gray that seemed to be a bit swaybacked. When Hill affirmed that this was, indeed, the other horse, James repeated the inspection and then left the corral and returned to his brother’s side, after locating and identifying all the horses the bank robbers had ridden into town on.

“So, what did you find out?” Thomas asked.

“Not much.”

“But you looked like you knew what you were doin.”

“I didn’t,” James said. “I guess we better go and find Pa.”

James headed off, and a confused Thomas hurried after him.

Shaye’s hip was screaming bloody murder by the time he reached the Road House Saloon. When he walked through the front door, he was almost dragging his leg.

“Twice in one week,” Al Baker said to him. “What an honor, Sheriff. You lookin’ for Thomas?”

“I know where Thomas is,” Shaye said.

“What happened to you?” Baker asked as Shaye limped to the bar.

“I think you probably already know.”

“Yeah,” Baker said, “I heard about the robbery.”

“And the murders?”

“Yeah. Uh, listen, I’m, sorry I didn’t come to help, but it was all the way at the other end of town, and by the time I heard about it, it was all over.”

“I’m lookin’ for Rigoberto.”

“The Mex? What for?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Check the back room,” Baker said. “He sleeps back there. I haven’t seen him yet this mornin’, so he’s probably still sleepin’ last night off.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s usually up before noon,” Baker said as Shaye headed for the back room, “so last night must have been pretty bad.”

Great, Shaye thought, the one day he might need Rigoberto Colon, and the man was sleeping off a good one.

Rigoberto Colon was another man in town about whom he knew something nobody else did. People tended to think town drunks had always been town drunks, but that wasn’t the case with Colon. In Mexico, Colon had been part of an aristocratic family, until his father lost all their money and committed suicide, taking Rigoberto Colon’s mother, brother, and two sisters with him. Colon happened to be out that day, and so had survived the day’s massacre. Since then that was all he had done—survive, rather than live. He wandered from town to town, eventually left Mexico and wandered through Texas and New Mexico until he found his way to Arizona. Around that time he decided he could not deal with the guilt anymore, and crawled into a bottle. He’d been there ever since.

Shaye entered the back room and heard snoring. It was dark, and while his eyes adjusted, he followed the sound and found the sleeping Colon.

“Rigoberto.”

The man didn’t move.

“Berto!”

This time he followed with a kick to the ribs, not hard, but enough to wake up most sleeping men. Unfortunately, Rigoberto Colon was no normal sleeping man.

“Damn it,” Shaye said.

By this time his eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room. He located a bucket and took it to the back door. He went outside, walked to a horse trough, filled the bucket, and brought it back into the room. He stood above Colon and upended the bucket, pouring the contents over the Mexican’s head.

Colon came to with a roar and then a sputter. He was sleeping on the floor, so when he rolled over he simply traveled across the floor a few feet before coming to a stop and sitting up.

“Wha—Who—Hijo de un carbon—”

“Wake up, Berto!” Shaye shouted.

The man looked up and squinted at Shaye through the gloom. “Señor Shaye?”

“That’s right, Berto,” Shaye said.

Colon looked down at himself, then back up at Shaye again with a confused look on his face.

“Que pasa?” he asked. What happened?

“I needed to wake you up,” Shaye said, showing the Mexican the empty water bucket. “You were sleepin’ pretty good.”

“I am all wet.”

“Well,” Shaye said, “get dry and I’ll buy you some breakfast. Meet me out front. I have a proposition for you.”

As Shaye passed the bar on the way out, Baker asked, “Did you find him?”

“He’ll be along,” Shaye said. “Don’t give him anything to drink.”

“Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

“I mean it.”

Baker put both hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, “I gotcha, Sheriff.”

Shaye went outside to wait for Colon.

Rigoberto Colon wolfed down a plate of steak and eggs while he listened to Shaye’s proposition.

“I owe you much, señor,” Colon said when Shaye was finished, “but…why me? I am but a humble borracho.”

“That may be so,” Shaye said, “but you were not always a drunk, Berto. When you’re sober, you’re a dead shot, and you can track.”

“Si, that is true,” the Mexican said, “but I am drunk now.”

“I think,” Shaye said, “what you need is a reason not to be.”

Colon washed down a mouthful of food with a huge swig of coffee, then pushed the plate away from him.

“Perhaps you are right, señor,” he said, “but what would this reason be? Money, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Shaye said, “but I was thinkin’ more of this—if you let my sons get killed, you will live to regret it.”

Colon thought a moment, then said, “Sí, I can understand where that would be a muy bien reason, señor.”

Shaye leaned forward and looked at the man intently.

“However,” he said, “I’d rather you do this because I’m askin’ you, Berto, and because you owe me.”

Colon sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh.

“Sí, señor,” he said, “but I will need a gun, and a horse, and I will need—”

“I’ll get you everything you need, Berto,” Shaye said. “What I need is you, to help back up my sons. Do we have an agreement?”

He extended his hand across the table.

“Sí, señor,” Colon said, accepting the hand and shaking it, “we have a bargain.”