Country of the Bad Wolfes (69 page)

Lopez nodded. Of course an assassin. A leading cause of death among powerful men in Mexico. And almost always, whoever the shooter, there was someone else behind him, some schemer, and usually more than one. In this case too, no doubt. Somebody who wanted to protect this goddam place for whatever goddam reason. Somebody who knew Espinosa was a threat to it and who had been very quick and efficient about removing that threat. Worst of all, somebody who was unknown to him, Lopez, but who knew that he was Espinosa's man and even where to send him the news of the general's death. Goddammit, he should've had the boys cut the lines while he was talking to that fucking gringo patrón and not waited until afterward.

Leave there and live.

It was Esmeraldo Lopez's belief that when somebody with an advantage on you gave you a chance to walk away it was generally best to walk away, especially if there was little to be gained by risking otherwise. It was a lesson worth the learning, not to let pride prevail over reason. Many died young because they had not yet gained that knowledge. Reason was best. Maybe next time you would be the one with the advantage and deciding whether to give the other fellow a chance to walk away. His regret was for the lost money. The agreement with Espinosa had as always been for half the fee in advance and the rest on completion of the assignment. Now there would be no rest of the fee. He would nevertheless pay his men the full wages they had coming. Never shortchange the men. Another rule he learned long ago. Anyway, what the hell. There was plenty more work out there. Always plenty of Espinosas in want of his service.

That's it, boys, he said. Job's over.

The people of Buenaventura had expected to wake that Thursday morning to the smoke of some new fire but there was none. The wranglers who remained at the ranch while the stable burned down had been busy with calming the spooked horses and fearful of being shot at from the shadows, but there had been no further attack, and at first light they drove the horses to the compound corrals. When the church bells rang at noon there still had been no new destruction visited on the hacienda. The apprehensive afternoon was slow in passing. Maybe the bastards were waiting till dark to resume the harrowing. As evening closed in, people spoke in lower voice and kept an ear cocked for more trouble. But the nervous night passed without disturbance and at daybreak everyone was sure the raiders were gone. It was a bittersweet conclusion because its only justification was that Lopez had found the twins.

John Samuel thought so too. Either Lopez had captured them and taken them away to be killed on the road, as he and Bruno had conjectured, or he had killed them where he found them. Somewhere in the jungle, most likely. Where scavengers and insects would devour the last earthly trace of them.

Well. They brought it on themselves, didn't they?

Bruno dispatched work gangs to find and repair the breaks in the telegraph line, reconnect the train tracks, clear away the felled trees blocking the entrance roads. The crews were armed with muskets and pistols but were under Bruno's order to speed back to the compound at the first sign of Lopez men. A superfluous directive. But none of them saw any sign of the raiders. For whatever reason, they were gone.

No sooner were the lines repaired than a wire arrived for Bruno—the message from Sófi that Amos had been trying to send since the day before. The telegram said, I told Gloria. She says all is well now. True?

Gloria? Bruno was puzzled. What did Gloria have to do with any of this? Unlike his affectionate tie to Sófi, he and Gloria had never been very close. Except for the brief period in childhood when they helped each other to learn English, the only times they were even in each other's company was at family meals, where Gloria rarely joined in the conversation except to argue with their parents about one thing or another. During his years in the army he had corresponded with Sófi and his mother, and through them with his father, but he and Gloria had never exchanged a letter. They were not estranged but simply strangers. The last time they had spoken to each other was just before she went to Raquel Aguilera's wedding and never came back. But Sófi had given him periodic reports on their sister's life, and he recalled now that Gloria and her husband—Louis? yes, Louis—and Louis's father and his wife had all lived with Porfirio Díaz back before he was president. And that the hacienda where Gloria now lived had been a gift from Díaz to her husband's father, but her husband managed it because the father had kept on working for Díaz in Mexico City. Did he still?

The whole thing was suddenly clear to him. Sófi had sent word to Gloria and Gloria had spoken to her husband and her husband had spoken to his father and the father had spoken to Díaz. Yes! Spoke to the president of Mexico about Buenaventura's troubles! El presidente then sent word to Mauricio who then sent word to Lopez who then ceased his offensive on Buenaventura. That was what happened—Bruno was sure of it.

Sweet Jesus! What power his sister married!

He was now also certain that the twins had not been caught. They had escaped by their own device or with Gloria's assistance, but they had escaped, he was sure of it. But how would they find out Mauricio had called off his search for them? And
when they did find out, would they return? To what? Their father was dead and John Samuel was the patrón, and they sure as hell would not live under his authority.

He thought about sharing his thoughts with John Samuel but decided against it. Let him believe they were dead. Imagine his face should they some day return.

He sent Sófi a wire telling her that all was well at Buenaventura and thanking her for contacting Gloria. The two of you saved the place, kid, he said. Nobody knew where the twins had gone but he believed they were all right, wherever they were. He asked for Gloria's telegraph address so that he could thank her personally. Sófi wired back that he should not thank her via telegram but with a proper letter. He could send it to her at Patria Chica by way of the San Luis Potosí post office.

He went through several false starts before settling for the short and simple. Dear Big Sister, Thank you. And thank whoever else who had a hand in it. Love from your little brother.

He drew a tiny heart under his signature and then felt embarrassed about it and thought about scribbling over it, but doing so would only make a mess and make her wonder what it was he'd had second thoughts about, so he left it as it was.

Gloria wrote back. My Dear Little Brother, You are most welcome. I am very happy you are well. A hug and kiss from your big sister who loves you. Beneath the large looping letters of her name, she appended a small heart drawn in replication of his.

The exchange would inspire them to maintain a regular correspondence for years to come. Bit by bit they would acquaint each other with their lives. And if some of their letters were hardly a page long and said little more than they were doing well and hoped the other was too, that was enough for both. What mattered most were the affectionate salutations and the inscribed hearts at the close.

W
hen Edward Little got back to the capital he told Díaz what he'd done. He gave as his reason the need to protect his daughter-in-law's family from Espinosa's retribution. He had thought about telling him the full truth, of explaining his sense of obligation to the San Patricios, but he had never told Porfirio of his brother John and did not want to tell him now. To do so would raise questions about the rest of his family. About his murderous father and lunatic mother and tragic little sister, none of whom he wanted to talk about to anyone ever.

Díaz banged his palm on the desk. Goddammit, Lalo! Espinosa was a good general. A
loyal
general. You know how hard it is to find a loyal general?

Yes.

You should have come to me. I would have talked to him and that would have ended it.

Edward could see Díaz was trying to keep his anger in check. He had granted Edward license to take care of certain problems without first consulting with him, but Edward had never before dealt with a general, much less one who stood in Díaz's favor.

I didn't think that would resolve it, Edward said.

Oh really? You didn't think that would
resolve
it. So you now decide whether I, who am only the president, will be permitted to
resolve
things my way, is that it?

No, my president.

No, my president, Díaz mimicked. That's right—
your
president! President of the whole damned country! That's who
I
am.
You
are not the president of anybody, not even those crazy fuckers who work for you. You're their boss but
I'm
their president!

Like everyone else, Edward had been amazed by the changes young Doña Carmen had wrought in her husband. In public today Don Porfirio was ever the patrician, the terse but precise speaker, the sagacious man of noble bearing who seemed to have been born to the purple. In private, however—at least in private with Edward Little—he could still revert in an instant to the profane cavalry officer of his youth.

I understand that, my president.

Goddammit, this wasn't some bandit. Some fucking politician. He was a
general
. You don't shoot a general without my say-so. What the hell's wrong with you?

His men were setting fires at the place. They cut the telegraph lines, they blocked the roads. I had to move fast.

Goddammit! You—

I didn't come to you, Porfirio, because no matter what you said to him it wouldn't have stopped him from trying to get even for his brother. He would've—

He would've heard
me
tell him don't do it and he wouldn't have done it!

If
God
told you don't do it, would that have stopped you from getting even for Félix?

Díaz's face stiffened.

A whole town, Porfirio. We did away with a whole town. Chopped up the mayor and shot every man and most of the boys too. Burned the place to the ground. And you remember what you said when I got back and handed you was left of your brother? I wish there'd been a thousand more of them for you to kill, Lalo. I wish there'd been a thousand more of their filthy huts for you to burn.

He saw Díaz remembering behind stone eyes.

Espinosa was loyal, Porfirio, because he was an honorable man. But because he was an honorable man, no order you gave him or threat you made would've stopped him from trying to get revenge. Somebody killed his brother and fed him to the pigs—he
had
to do something about it. If you told him don't do it he'd say, Very well, my president, as you wish, my president. But he'd say it only so he would still get the chance to kill those boys and the hell with the consequences or whoever else he killed along with them.

They fed him to pigs?

They did.

You didn't tell me that.

No? Well. Nevertheless. Edward had deliberately withheld that detail for the most opportune moment to introduce it.

These boys. How old are they?

I'm told they are sixteen.

Sixteen. Your cousins?

Cousins to Gloria.

Ah yes, Gloria. Gloria of the unforgettable wedding. This wasn't the first of my
officers to get shot because of her. A dangerous woman, your son's wife.

Aren't they all?

Díaz almost smiled. Then scowled and said, You should have come to me anyway, goddammit.