Jingo Django (13 page)

“Are you rested?” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“No point in sitting here. Let's go.”

We started along the beach bareback. I glanced over the water, but Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones's fortune in ice had melted away to the small end of nothing.

21

THE MARK OF A THIEF

Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones hadn't the slightest notion of perishing for lack of food or water. We rode bareback and along the way picked cactus apples, which were juicy and sweet, although infernally shot through with hard little seeds.

The next morning we stumbled into a small fishing village, and discovered we were in Mexico. But we had overshot Matamoros.

There were only three families in the village and Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones chattered away in their own lingo. They wouldn't let us go without feasting us as best they could. Then he found a lump of charcoal and nothing would do but what every family pose for him, children and all. There wasn't a scrap of paper to be found in the village, but that didn't stop him. He drew a family portrait on a plaster wall inside each house. It wouldn't surprise me if they were still there.

Before we left they loaded us up with a goatskin of fresh water, straw hats, a string of dried fish and corn for the horses. We waved at each other like old friends and started north.

“The way you rattled off their talk is something amazing,” I said.

“We'll be crossing a stream or two,” he replied thoughtfully. “They warned us to watch out for quicksand.”

We were two days reaching Matamoros.

The town sprawled upriver along the Rio Grande, baking in the sun. I was never so happy to see a place in my life. Dusty palm trees shot up along the riverbank and cotton stretched out behind the town like a field of snow.

I could see an old fort and another town sitting like a mirror image across the Rio Grande. “That's Texas,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said. “Brownsville, to be exact.”

He left me to water the horses and refill our goatskin. There was no telling whether Mrs.
Daggatt
and General Dirty-Face Scurlock had already beat us to the treasure. We had lost considerable time.

I calculated Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones would discover soon enough whether they had been seen in Matamoros, but he was gone an everlasting long time.

I sat in the shade and gazed across the muddy river at Texas. I had a yearning to set foot on the place, it was so close. A pole barge set out from Brownsville, ferrying over a wagon and horses, and I watched it to pass the time.

Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones turned up with an old shovel and a great bunch of carrots held in his fist like a bouquet.

“Provisions,” he grinned. “An
artiste extraordinaire
never goes hungry. Our Boston friends have not been seen in Matamoros.”

By that time I was on my feet and staring bug-eyed at the ferry halfway across the river. “Another five minutes, sir, and they will be. There she is! Big as a skinned ox! It's Mrs. Daggatt for certain, and General Scurlock, too!”

He flicked a glance across the water. “They do make an ugly pair, don't they? Nothing to worry about. We have a five-minute head start. Shall we go?”

It was true. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had the scrimshaw map etched in his head. We followed the Rio Grande upriver all day, munching carrots, and he pointed out landmarks I dimly recalled seeing on the whale's tooth. After a while, I stopped looking behind me. Mrs. Daggatt and General Scurlock most likely were taking their ease in Matamoros.

Late in the afternoon we saw a small town on the Texas side of the river and Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones peered at it.

“Unless I miss my guess that dusty place calls itself Bent Elbow. You'll recall it was distinctly marked on the map.”

I adjusted the
diklo
around my neck and felt the first real stirrings of excitement. The treasure hole couldn't be much further off. We might be weighted down with gold pieces before morning!

We crossed the shallow river and rode into town. It was a mortal dusty place. I made out
Bodger's
Barber Shop, a saloon, the jail, another saloon, Bodger's Hotel, two saloons, a bank, another saloon and Bodger's General Mercantile. And that was just one side of the street.

We dismounted in front of the hotel. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones addressed himself to a paunchy, small-eyed man sitting on a rickety chair in the shade of the porch. His polished boots were propped on the rail. “Is this Bent Elbow, Texas, sir?”

“Nope. You're lost, mister.”

Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones raised an eyebrow. “Impossible, sir. What do you call this place?”

“Crooked Elbow, Texas.”

The man broke into a barking laugh, and the chair almost slipped out from under him. I sorely wished it had. Then he squinted at Billygoat and Sunflower and shook his head.

“You don't call those sorry-looking hay-burners
horses,
do you?”

“They're racehorses, to be exact,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones replied.

“Racehorses. I do declare! I'm a racing man myself. Would a fifty-dollar purse interest you?”

“We never race for less than a hundred,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones stated firmly.

“A hundred it is, mister! You've got yourself a match. Two hundred would be more to my liking. Any distance, any conditions.”

Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones gazed at him with quiet scorn. “When we can spare a moment I'll look you up.”

“I'll be waiting,” the man barked. “Just ask for J. Cooter Williams. You won't disappoint me, now, will you?”

“I wouldn't think of it,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said, and we walked into the hotel.

He asked for the best accommodations, as if we already had our pockets full of treasure to spend. He registered with a flourish. Then, using the same pen, he made a perfect sketch of the scrimshaw ranch house, brick by brick, window by window, and he even drew in the bees and cattle.

He showed it to the hotel man, who turned out to be the leading citizen of Crooked Elbow, Texas — Mr. Bodger.

“Do you know this place, sir?”

Mr.
Bodger was a round-faced man with sideburns like squirrel tails. “Appears to be Cactus John's old place,” he said. “About three miles upriver. Nobody living there now, and nobody wants to.”

“Why not?”

“The hornets are an unholy torment up around that bend in the river. They finally drove Cactus John out. I can't say folks around here were sorry to see him go. We kinda sided with the hornets.”

“Not much daylight left,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said. “Is there a lantern about you could spare us?”

“You'll find one hanging out back. Help yourself.” Then he shifted expressions. “Did I hear J. Cooter Williams try to set you up to a horse race?”

“Exactly.”

“He's never lost a race. You can't beat that filly of his.” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones nodded. “I appreciate your good advice, sir. But I've never lost a race, either.”

Cactus John's place faced the river. Dark was coming on as we approached. The roof and stovepipe had fallen in and the adobe bricks had begun to melt away. Cotton-wood trees had sprung up everywhere like weeds. I kept my ears tuned for hornets, but all I heard were jackrabbits shooting away through the underbrush.

A sagging pole fence meandered around the property and I recollected the scrimshaw carving of a longhorn steer tied to the northwest corner post. The way Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones ciphered the map, that marked the spot to dig.

When we had found the post it had taken root and sprouted, and looked like a stunted tree.

“Hang up the lantern,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said, and began to dig.

I looked on in feverish high spirits. The gold was certainly directly underfoot, but that post didn't want to come out. The roots had most likely taken a grip on the treasure itself. I took a spell at the shovel and after a moment Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones remarked calmly, “Didn't you say your pa was a one-legged man?”

“Yes,
sir,” I replied.

“And his teeth were fairly rotted?”

“Black as tar,” I murmured.

There was a long silence. Then he said, “A man answering that description has been seen in Matamoros.”

I gazed up at him in the lantern light. “When?”

“As recently as this morning.”

My heart sank. I didn't want to think about it. I took a tighter grip on the shovel and began digging something fierce at the roots.

The post finally loosened like an old tooth. Together we lifted it out of the ground.

I fetched the lantern and we peered down into the post-hole. I expected to see a blaze of gold pieces.

But the hole was dark and empty.

Finally I said, “Maybe we didn't dig out the right post.”

“No,” he murmured. “We followed the scrimshaw map exactly.”

He picked up the shovel and began deepening the hole. A small breeze rustled through the cottonwood trees. I thought about my pa thumping about Matamoros on his timber leg. I wished I were a thousand miles away.

Then, in the lantern light, I saw a mark carved in the old post. I lowered the lantern.

“Look,” I said. “It's a
patrin!”

He cast a glance at the post. Then he stepped closer and we both bent down to examine the mark.

“It is, indeed,” he muttered.

I had never seen a gypsy sign exactly like it.

“Do you know what it means?” I asked.

He nodded. “It's the mark of a thief. In short, a warning to avoid this place.”

“Do you think someone beat us to the treasure?” I muttered.

He shook his head. “The roots of that post haven't been disturbed. I'd better make
inquiries
about Mr. Cactus John. I suspect now that you were correct — we're not digging in the right place.”

We started back for Crooked Elbow.

22

THE HORNET'S NEST

Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones left me at the hotel while he hunted up the sheriff, if there was one. I went up to bed and lay awake thinking of all the square miles stretching about where the treasure might be hidden. And I thought about my pa. I wondered if he had left that sign on the fence post. He was a gypsy, wasn't he? He'd know about
patrins.

But I knew that I didn't want to go back to Matamoros and set eyes on him. I wasn't even certain now that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had brought me along just to find him. Why did he need me to point out a one-legged man with black teeth? Men like that didn't exactly turn up by the bushel.

It was dreadful to consider that he meant to turn me over to my pa, and I kept putting that thought out my head. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones, was my friend, wasn't he? He wouldn't do a confounded thing like that.

When he woke me at dawn he was clearly in excellent spirits, and I said, “You found out where the treasure is hid! Did somebody move it?”

“On the contrary, Django. Somebody moved the fence post!”

We bolted down a full breakfast at the hotel and fetched the horses. J. Cooter Williams was once again sitting on the porch with his boots on the rail.

“Howdy,” he said. “Got time for that horse race?”

“Make it noon today,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones said.

“What do you say to a $500 purse? Just to make it
interesting.”

“Agreed, sir.”

J. Cooter Williams broke into his barking laugh and we went plodding out of town. I disliked that man and wished we could win the race, but I knew Billygoat and Sunflower couldn't outrun a tumblebug. I calculated Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones had let his anger get the best of his common sense.

We
followed the river and arrived at Cactus John's place in about an hour. Now that it was daylight I was able to spot hornets' nests hanging like gray cabbages in the cottonwood trees. They made me downright uneasy. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock-Jones ignored them.

He walked here and there, getting his bearings. He squinted along one side of the fence and then along another side. Finally he counted out twenty paces back toward the ranch house, stopped, gazed about thoughtfully — and nodded.

“Throw me the shovel,” he said, and began digging.

I kept an eye out for hornets, but after a while I began to think they were overrated. Gnats in the air were a good deal more troublesome. They came and went like drifts of black smoke.

Taking turns with the shovel, we soon had a hole big enough to bury a horse. “How do you know this is the right spot?” I asked. I was melting away in the heat.

“Because Cactus John was a thief. Keep digging. The treasure's bound to be close by.”

I kept at it, enlarging the hole. We were well inside the fence and coming close to a cottonwood. I could see a hornet's nest dangling overhead, and it was worrisome.

Another ten minutes in that heat and I was no longer certain I cared to dig for treasure. The handle of the shovel was soaked with sweat.