Country of the Bad Wolfes (75 page)

They eased through the gloom to the corner of the house where four big rain barrels, barely discernible, were aligned along the wall beneath the gutter drains. The barrels stood chest high and had wirescreen covers. James Sebastian went to the barrel at the far end. In here, he said. The bag's tied to a cord hanging over the other side.

Well get it, the man said.

James removed the screen cover and reached across the barrel for the cord. The shotgun muzzle pressed into his spine as he started taking the cord up hand over hand. Christ, it gets heavier every time, he said. Which was true—the sack now held nine fat money belts and a partially filled tenth. Glad to hear it, the man said.

As he got the sack to the surface James Sebastian cursed low and hunched forward against the rim of the barrel.
What
? the man said. Gashed my hand on the edge of this goddam thing, James said. He held the sack against the inner rim of the barrel with his left hand and with the right slid the shark knife out from between the sack and the cord wrapped around it. It was a principle of his and Blackie's to keep a weapon wherever they kept money. Fuck your hand, the man said. Get it out here.

Holding the knife close against his chest as he would an injured hand, James grunted and raised the heavy dripping sack out of the barrel with his left hand. As he turned toward the man he felt the shotgun muzzle slide off his back. Take it, quick, James said, it's slipping.

As the man's hand closed on the sack, James brought the knife up as quick as a punch and skewered his neck and grabbed his shirtfront to support the instant dead weight of him—the hilt wedged under the jaw and the blade angling out the back of the skull, the brain stem severed so he could not have pulled the trigger even in reflex.

He had feared the shotgun would discharge when it hit the ground but it didn't. The blood was hot on his knife hand. He yanked out the blade and let the man drop. He rinsed his hands and the knife in the water barrel and slipped the knife into his belt and picked up the shotgun and opened the breech to ensure both chambers were loaded and then snapped the breech shut again. He took up the money sack and went to the kitchen porch and set the sack under the steps. He recocked both hammers and went up to the door and eased into the kitchen as noiseless as shadow. He stood still and listened hard a moment. Then crossed the kitchen to the parlor door.

The two men were standing with their backs to him, facing Blake and Marina, who still sat on their hands. One of the men was saying something to Marina in low voice and the other was giggling. She was staring at the floor, her face stiff and dark with fury and embarrassment. Blake looked past the men and saw James, who nodded and entered the room, raising the shotgun as he advanced toward the two
men and said “Oye.”

As the men turned, Blake pushed Marina down and threw himself atop her—and in the next instant and from a distance of five feet James Sebastian shot one man in the side of the head and the other square in the face with blasts that shook the room and slathered large portions of both heads onto the wall behind the sofa.

The air stung with gunsmoke. James's ears felt plugged. Blake got off Marina and she scrambled to her feet in a rage and glared down at what remained of the one who had been talking to her. “Pinche puerco!” she said, and spat on him and kicked him. Then cursed at the blood on her shoe and wiped it off on the man's pants.

She saw the twins staring at her.
What
? she said, her look defiant. You heard what this
asshole
said to me. She rarely used profanity, and when she did, it had bite. Like Blake, she was flexing her fingers to regain circulation.

Blake raised his palms to her. “I didn't say anything.”

Then stop looking at me like that. Both of you.

“Yes mam.” The twins exchanged an arched-brow look, then Blake said, “I take it the other's down too.”

“Yep.” James Sebastian picked up the two revolvers—.38 Smith & Wesson double-action top-breaks—and passed them to Blake. As he retrieved the derringers from the coat of the one who'd taken them, the coat flap fell open to reveal a badge. Policía de Tampico.

“Ah Christ,” Blake said. “Is that real?”

“Looks it. Doesn't mean it's really his.”

Now Marina saw it. “Es un
policía
? Ay, dios mío.”

James flipped open the other man's coat and exposed his badge too.

“Son of a bitch,” Blake said. “And the one out there?”

“I didn't look but I'd bet on it. He was the bossman.”

“Well, Brother Jeck, I'd say it's time we mosey.”

“For damn sure, Brother Black. They probly didn't hear the shots in the plaza but the neighbors might've. Could be they sent for police.”

“For the rest of them, you mean.”

In five minutes they were out of there. They left by the kitchen door and out the rear gate of the dark patio and made their back-alley way to the river. The twins each wore a full money belt and were armed with the derringers and the cops' revolvers. In one hand Blake carried a valise of clothes and in the other the shotgun and a smaller valise containing only money and a Colt revolver. James Sebastian carried identical valises with identical contents. Marina carried a bag of clothes too—including her lovely dress—and tucked under her other arm was the document case, which in addition to their father's papers held their mother's Dragoon and the deed to the Rio Grande property. Another fifteen minutes and they had the sails up
on the
Marina Dos
and were pulling away from the dock.

As they headed downriver they speculated that some sore loser at the casino who was friends with the crooked policemen had tipped them about the Anglo brothers who had been winning too much for too long. Probably made a deal with them for a cut of the recovered money. The police had likely watched them for a time and came to know they never went to the bank and so the money had to be in the house.

Maybe it wasn't like that. There were various other possibilities. But however it really was didn't matter. They had been after the money, that was the simple fact of it. So the only thing that really mattered was in Marina's question that wasn't a question at all—If they had intended to let us live they would have worn masks, wouldn't they?

Nor was there any question about which way to go when they cleared the mouth of the Pánuco. They bore north.

 

 

 

 

 

t
hat his father was a very rich man, richer even than Don Máximo. Look here, she said, right here, her fingertip tapping the map. The hacienda is there. That is where we were born, I and then you. Where we were
born
. Our
home
. The home we were banished from. Remember it. . . .

that his father had other sons. Your brothers, she said. White brothers born of a white mother. He was married to that one and he loved her and loved them. But he was not married to me and I was not white and he did not love me and so he does not love you. That he does not love you for such a reason is unjust.
Unjust
! Never forget it. . . .

that she had no right to anything from his father. But
you
do, she said. You have as much right as the other ones to a place in his house. You have the same right by blood. By
blood
, do you understand? You have as much of his blood in your veins as the white ones have in theirs. Remember that, Juanito. You have his blood. Remember. . . .

that he had no reason to feel shame about himself. His father was the shameful one. A father who turns away his son, who sends his son away from his true home, who refuses to grant his son what is his right by blood, is a dishonorable father. He has spit on you. He is worthy only of your hate. It pains me to speak of him to you this way, my son, but it is the truth. It is important that you know the truth about him. He is an unjust man and a coward in his heart. Do not forget that. . . .

that the world was full of injustice, and more so for the poor of course. But anyone, rich or poor, who was a victim of injustice and then had a chance to right that injustice should do so. It is a matter of honor that he do so, she said. A poor man can have as much honor as one who is rich. Never forget, my son, never. . . .

His mother said all this and more about his father, reiterating it through his boyhood like a catechesis.

Feeding him of her own bitter creed.

They had always been outlanders on this hacienda, among these Poblanos, these people of Puebla state, whom all the rest of Mexico knew to be the most duplicitous and treacherous people in the country. By the age of fifteen he had been in many fights because of her. Because of the things other boys said about the shameless Veracruzana widow who pleasured the patrón under his own roof even as Doña Alicia was at mass. About the whore whose son's obvious gringo blood testified to a bastardy doubly disgraceful. He fought like a berserker and broke the bones of some and bit the nose off one and beat another to stuttering imbecility. Some said his lunatic temper made him a menace and he should be locked away. Even older boys who were too big for him to defeat with his fists did not come out of the fights undamaged, and when word went around that he now carried a knife, even the bigger ones grew careful with their talk in his presence.