Authors: Mark Oldfield
âI know exactly what I'm doing,' León said.
It was midday when Patxi Gabilondo reached the village. He peered through the snow at the
guardia cuartel
, despite the warnings Señorita Nieves had given him about staring at civil guards. Though he never said so, Patxi would have liked to join the
guardia
. They had nice uniforms, smart tricorne hats and he was mightily impressed by the long rifles they carried. His real motivation, however, was more mundane: three meals a day and accommodation. That luxury was hard for him to imagine.
He finished his
bocadillo
and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Up the narrow street, near Señora Olibari's
pensión
, he caught a glimpse of Nieves Arestigui carrying her wicker basket and his heart pounded as he watched her laughing and chatting with the villagers clustered around the vegetable stall. Nieves didn't see him and Patxi was far too shy to approach her in public. He continued on his way.
The snow was falling faster, its endless continuity disrupted by sudden gusts of wind. âWhat's that noise?' the driver asked.
León shrugged. âI didn't hear anything.'
âWe should drive straight to Oroitz,' the driver grumbled. âLobo won't try anything now. Even if he does, the
comandante
won't see him in this.'
âTell you what, we'll drive halfway and see if it starts to clear. If it doesn't, that's it.'
The weather got worse. The road was already soaked from the previous day's rain and the wheels were losing their grip in the mud. León glared through the repetitive arcs of the wipers, seeing only mist and slanting gusts of snow in the headlights.
âIt's a big reward,' he grunted.
âDoesn't matter how big it is,' the driver said. âWe can't catch him if we can't see him.'
The road began to slope to one side, causing the wheels to slip on the half-melted snow. The truck began sliding towards the verge.
â
Joder
.' The driver twisted the wheel as he tried to fight the skid. The truck didn't obey and León grabbed the dashboard as the vehicle slid down the sloping section of road, miring itself in the muddy ground.
âThat's all we need.' León pulled his oilskin cape round his shoulders and got down from the cab. The driver heard a sudden flurry of oaths as León saw how deeply the wheels were embedded in the mud. âWe're going nowhere,' he muttered. âBetter let the lads out.'
The driver went round to the back doors and pounded on them with his fist. The cramped troopers climbed out unhappily, forming a semicircle around the stranded vehicle.
âI don't believe it,' the driver groaned.
A sudden sharp whistle, fading in the thin air.
âWhat the fuck was that?' the driver asked, suddenly uneasy.
âHow do I know?' León said. âA bird maybe.'
âAre we going to walk back,
Sargento
?' one of the men asked.
León shook his head. âNot with all this money in the truck. We'll stick together. If Lobo makes a move, we're more than a match for him.'
Another piercing whistle in the wintry air. Louder this time.
âI don't know what that is but it's too close for my liking,' the driver said, unfastening the flap of his holster.
Snow dripped from the trees in heavy grey drops. The men looked at one another. Several had drawn their revolvers.
âFuck's sake,' León said, âput those guns away. If that bird suddenly flies past, you lot are going to panic and shoot one another.'
Sheepishly, the men holstered their weapons.
Several loud whistles. All around them.
âShepherds,' León said. âThey'll be moving their flocks because of the weather.'
âYou sure about that?' the driver asked, staring into the snow.
âDead sure.' León leaned his rifle against the side of the cab. âI'll go and have a word. They can help push us out of this mud.' He gestured towards the open doors of the truck. âYou wait inside, lads. No point all of us getting soaked.'
Anything was better than standing around knee-deep in mud and the men trudged back to the vehicle as León splashed across the road and disappeared into the mist-shrouded trees. The civil guards heard him calling to the shepherds to show themselves. And then his calls faded and all they heard was the dripping of melting snow.
Patxi Gabilondo followed the narrow trail into the valley. He had decided to take a short cut. If he got Mikel's fence finished quickly, he might be able to do some chores for Begoña on his way home in return for the sandwich she'd given him. With luck Nieves would be there too.
Below him, beyond the trees, was the old road. Patxi would follow that until he came to Mikel Aingeru's pastures. Despite being soaked, he was happy. This snow should have stopped by the time he was ready to make his way home.
He paused, hearing the muffled pounding of hooves coming towards him.
A dark shape emerged from the mist, towering above him. Patxi's eyes widened as he recalled the litany of gods and spirits who dwelled in the mountains. But this was no spirit or demon but a man on horseback wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long oilskin coat.
Patxi saw the Winchester rifle in the man's hand, the high knee boots, the intricate spurs and ornate stirrups. He knew who this was. When he had still attended school, he had seen a picture in the only book the school possessed, showing one of Spain's greatest enemies, the pirate and heretic Francis Drake. And now here he was in front of him.
âWho are you, boy?' Francis Drake asked, in Basque. He raised the muzzle of the Winchester, resting the stock on his thigh.
âPatxi Gabilondo, your worship.'
âAnd where does Patxi Gabilondo live?'
âPast Oroitz, your worship, beyond Lauburu Farm in the house near the bridge.'
âThen go back there, young man. This is no place for you today.'
âI have to mend a fence, your worship,' Patxi stammered, âfor Mikel Aingeru.'
The rider laughed. âThere are no fences that can be mended for that old man.' Resting his rifle on the pommel of his saddle, he dug into one of the pockets of his coat. âHere.' He flipped a coin towards Patxi, spinning a silver trail through the damp air.
Patxi retrieved the coin from the wet grass, his eyes wide.
âA
Yanqui
dollar,' Baron Ãubiry said, as he wheeled the horse about. âSpend it wisely.'
âYes, your worship,' Patxi gasped, scuttling away up the trail.
âI'll tell you another thing,' Guzmán said, staring out of the window as the car slid on the sodden road, âI'm never coming back to this fucking country again.' He pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. âThere's too much weather for my liking.'
âIt was bad last time we were here,' Ochoa said. âIn the war, I mean.'
âI know what you mean,' Guzmán snapped. âAlthough we agreed not to talk about it.'
Ochoa wisely changed the subject. âI appreciate the time off to find my wife, sir. Especially since you know what I'm going to do.'
âFor fuck's sake.' Guzmán breathed out a mouthful of smoke. âI'm a policeman. What do I care if you kill someone? It's none of my business.'
Ochoa slowed to a crawl. âDo you know where we are,
jefe
?'
Guzmán looked at the bleak landscape. âNot really. But we can't miss the truck, it's coming down this road towards us.' He peered into the whirling snow again. âEventually.'
âDaylight at last.' Ochoa pointed ahead, where a long shaft of sunlight slanted down onto the craggy hillside, glittering on the snow.
âPull over,' Guzmán said. âI'm going up that ridge to take a look round.' He got out of the car and pulled his rifle from the back seat. âYou wait here. Keep me covered from behind the car, just in case.'
Ochoa took his rifle and rested it on the car roof, watching the hillside through the sight as Guzmán started working his way up the rocky gradient.
It was slow going. The snow fell steadily, imposing a muffled silence over the slope, a silence broken only by the sound of his laboured breathing. As he reached the top of the ridge, he heard a noise. Muted footsteps running towards him. He lifted the rifle and aimed as the figure appeared out of the snow. An adolescent boy, hair the colour of straw, his eyes wide as he saw the rifle pointed at him.
â
Joder
.' Guzmán lowered the rifle. âWhere are you going,
chico
?'
âTo mend a fence in the lower pasture, your worship,' Patxi stammered.
âGo back home,' Guzmán said. âDon't hang around here, it's not safe.' He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a twenty peseta note. âYou know what this is, don't you?'
Patxi nodded. He knew what it was though he had never touched one.
âTake it,' Guzmán said, âand get lost.'
Patxi scooted back the way he had come, his skinny figure soon lost in the mist and snow.
Guzmán started back down the hillside. There was nothing to be seen from up here, the visibility was appalling.
León moved across the road into a thicket of trees and tangled clumps of scrub. Behind him, he could just make out the dark shape of the truck where the lads would be smoking and joshing as they waited for his return. He grinned, pleased with himself. It was true what they said about having the last laugh.
âIf you move, monsieur, I will surely kill you.' A suave French voice, disembodied in the swirling mist.
León saw the dark bulk of Baron Ãubiry's horse as it edged towards him. The Baron was not alone. From where León was standing, the Ãubiry were like an army bearing down on him, dark horses with coloured war ribbons plaited in their manes, sallow-faced men with rifles, cutlasses and automatic pistols. An insane collection of headgear. León staggered, struggling to stay on his feet as Ãubiry's horse pushed him aside. The Baron leaned from the saddle, baring his teeth. A metre away, León could smell his breath.
âYou've done well,
Sargento
.'
âI'm glad you think so.'
âWhere are they?' His voice thick, menacing.
âOver there,' León said, pointing. âThey're all in the truck, just as I told Jeanette.'
âAh, my dear Jeannette.' Baron Ãubiry smiled. âYou know what she said about you?'
León shrugged. Women's opinions counted for nothing as far as he was concerned. âI imagine she said how helpful I've been.'
âJeanette said there was no one on this earth the likes of you would not betray.'
León frowned. Things weren't going to plan. His plan, at least. âShe said we had a deal.'
Amused, Ãubiry twisted in his saddle to address the riders behind him. â
Mes amis
, you ride as Ãubiry, you die as Ãubiry. When you meet the enemy there can be no mercy. As the Good Book says, “I will not listen to their cry; though they offer burnt offerings, I will not accept them. Instead, I will destroy them with the sword.”'
The Baron leaned out of the saddle and stared at León, tightening his grip on the horse's reins. âYou think you're the only one who knows about treachery?' He pointed towards the road. â
Allez
, Ãubiry.'
The pack of riders moved forward, picking up speed, the dull pounding of their hooves exploding into an agitated rhythm as they raced across the soaked ground, swords flashing as they left the scabbards. As he followed, the Baron called to one of the men behind him. âKill him, Jean-Claude.'
León saw the rider gallop towards him, his pistol extended over the horse's head. He heard the percussive blast of the shot and then the ground whirled around him as he pitched backwards into the sodden scrub.
Guzmán stood with Ochoa, listening intently to the silence. âI'd swear I heard a horse.'
âI can't hear anything,' Ochoa said. He started walking back to the car.
Guzmán glanced around at the desolate landscape. He heard the horse again and raised his hand. Ochoa stopped, alert now.
âGet back in the car,' Guzmán said quietly. âDon't hurry and don't look round.'
Ochoa walked slowly, his boots crunching on the snow. He paused as he opened the car door, still listening. Then he slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
Guzmán ran his eye over the hillside again before hurrying back to the car. âPut your foot down,' he said. âFast as you can without killing us.'
Ochoa felt the wheel jar his hands as the car bounced over the rough road, accelerating in a shower of mud and snow, the engine rising in pitch as it picked up speed. A few hundred metres ahead, the road went down a slight incline. On either side the ground fell away steeply into groves of dark pines.
âOnce we're past this wood, pull over and we'll take another look,' Guzmán said.
The windscreen exploded in a storm of stinging glass.
The car veered off the road, smashing through the remains of an old wall as it plunged down the slope, shedding pieces of wreckage as it went. The two men were hurled forward as the chassis hit a tree stump that ripped the exhaust from the vehicle in a howl of tortured metal. The wrecked car careered on down the hill until it smashed into a large boulder at the bottom of the incline, throwing Guzmán and Ochoa forward into the dashboard.
Inside the mangled Buick there was a sudden silence.
An abrupt clatter as the bonnet jerked up from its broken fittings; the sound of glass falling from shattered windows; the creaking of battered bodywork; steam spluttering from under the crumpled bonnet; a stench of gasoline.