Paxton Pride (58 page)

“You harm her and I'll kill you, Jaco. I don't care how many men and guns, you won't have enough to stop me.”

Jaco lifted the bottle in salute. “
Muy bueno, señor
. Spoken like a
genuino
Paxton,
verdad?
” He spoke the name with contempt. “But that is the way with you Paxtons, is it not? The magnificent
hacienda
, many cattle and riders, the best women and big words. Very big … words.”

Vance's face darkened. When he continued his voice was solemn and thick with malice. “I don't make empty threats,
amigo.
”

Amigo?
” Jaco laughed awkwardly. “No,
señor
. I have news for you. You should say,
‘hermano'! Si. Medio hermano
. Half brother. Would that not be more interesting?” He paused, ready to be amused at Vance's disbelief. Instead, Vance only stared noncommittally. “You think much of your father! Ha! There is much you should learn.”

“No,” Karen protested, realizing what he was about to say.

“Be quiet,” Jaco ordered. “
Medio hermano
, we are brothers by the same father.
Señor
True Paxton rutted with my mother, took his pleasure and left her. I am his son as much as you, yet when we hungered, he did not come to feed us, when the north wind howled in winter song, when we shivered beneath its breath, he did not offer us shelter in his magnificent
hacienda
.

“My mother, she always gave reasons. ‘Paxton has forgotten us.' ‘The past is better left dead.' ‘He does not know of us or where we are.' Pah! I spit on her reasons. As a boy, I wondered why I have no father as the other boys. As a young man, the wonder grows to hate, fed by hunger and the scorn of the
norteamericanos
. I ask myself, what does a few
pesos
mean to a man like that? If he truly wished, he would find me, bring me to him.

“And then one day I hear more. I hear of the great Paxton ranch, the fine sons who live like the
dons
, like men of title, and I can abide no longer. I leave my mother, taking only the clothes on my back, a gun and my hatred. Later, I find out my mother is taken in by the kind and gracious True Paxton to be a maid and servant to the
gringos
at whose table she should sit, not like a humble dog, but resplendent, the head of a magnificent household. When I learn this, I curse the very gods. My mother permits this injustice, and I grow to hate her as much as the old man—the
putañero
to whom you listen with such respect. A man of character? Pah! I spit on his character!”

Karen looked worriedly at the features of the man she loved, found it difficult to believe he remained so utterly calm. “
Putañero?
” Vance began. “No. A man like any other. True met Maruja once during the war. They had one night together and were separated. He didn't see her, know where she was or about you until the day he rescued her from the Comanches. Maruja was a fine, gentle woman, a woman of patience and warmth. It never surprised me he loved her once, or that he still loved her, in a quiet way.

“My own mother knew this. She told me … and understood. In war, many things happen that might not otherwise occur. It is a sad truth, which does not demean the people affected. I believe my father often wondered about Maruja, but in the early years he never had the time or money to find out what had become of her. He was trying to build a ranch and he had children of his own. He had no way of knowing you even existed, but your hatred and jealousy made you believe otherwise.

“I have known of you for years,
mi medio hermano
, and it was from Elizabeth Paxton, my mother, I heard the tale. She first heard the story in San Antonio and then, much later, from Maruja herself, who was afraid of what you had become, of your insane hatred and of what such bitter resentment might lead you to do. Elizabeth decided the responsibility was hers: she had to inform her sons for their own protection. Our most fearful enemy was liable to be our own kin. Our own brother.”

Vance laughed softly, his eyes glimmering with ironic amusement. “So you are late,
medio hermano
. Does my murderer brother think to taunt me with a truth I have known all along, that he himself has never been able to accept? I pity you, Jaco. You had your chance, but when True sent the messenger to you, you were so eaten with hate you couldn't accept his offer, instead killed the bearer of love and conciliation and sent back his ears and hands to the sender. Your heart is dead and your soul carrion, not fit for the buzzards. I pity you.”

Triumph thwarted, Jaco's fury burst. “Pity! You pity Jaco?” he shouted. A cry tore his throat and he lunged at Vance, smashing the gun barrel down on his wounded arm. Vance paled, grimaced as searing bolts of agony coursed through his arm. Struggling to retain consciousness, he sagged to the floor where Jaco kneed him in the jaw and sent him crashing back against the wall. Karen pummeled and cat-clawed the outlaw chieftain, but he shrugged her off, hurling her to one side, out of his way. Desperate, no longer thinking of herself, she crawled between Vance and any further punishment. Jaco paused. His lips pulled back in an animal snarl and his breath came in furious spasms. The gun in his hand rose to point at Vance's head.

The click of the hammer being cocked was deafening in the sudden stillness, in which three bodies stood motionless in strained tableau. A fly buzzed in unconcerned circles, weaving intricate airy patterns between the outlaw and his captives. The sound droned on, subjectively louder and louder before the impending act of violence. Karen closed her eyes, not able to meet the unrelenting stare of the single cavernous eye at the end of the gun barrel. “No,” Jaco purred, his face relaxing. “Not yet. The pleasure would be too quick. I have waited too long, spent too much of myself. Tonight my men will celebrate,
señor
. You and your
señora
will provide them with pleasure. This time, you will not interrupt as before—save with howls of rage. No,
Señor
Paxton,
señor campeón
. Tonight you will watch as Jaco and his
vaqueros
take your woman again and again. I would watch you froth at the mouth like a mad dog as you stand tied, close enough to touch her, close enough to hear her struggle and cry out in pain as we take our sport with her. Your rage will do you no good, for as the last man spills his seed in her belly, I shall slit yours. I have waited a long, long time for this,
hermano
. I will be glad to be done with it.” He slid the gun into his belt, picked up the whiskey bottle and walked to the door. “And you,
señora
, perhaps, if my men enjoy their sport, I let them keep you. I would have made you a
princesa
. Now, you can be
puta
to the scum!”

Jaco stepped outside where Manuel bolted upright, leaping to attention. The young guard coughed nervously and looked sternly about, an unconscious admission only magnifying his earlier inattention to all but what had gone on inside the
jacalito
. “Manuel!”

“
Si, mi general!
”

“I am not
el general
yet,” Jaco replied, nevertheless flattered. “Perhaps in a few days, if all goes well. Maybe you will be a
capitán
, eh, Manuel?”

The youth brightened enthusiastically, delighted with the prospect of assuming rank in the yet to be formed army of the grand revolution. “
Si, como no, señor
. To be
capitán
would be a great honor.”

“If you would be so honored, you would do well to keep away from open doors.
Entiende?
”

Manuel paled, nodded vigorously. “I understand completely,
señor.
”

“
Muy bueno,
” Jaco said, smiling as he walked away from the thoroughly cowed young man.

“Jaco!”

The bandit stopped, turned quickly. Behind him, in the doorway of the prison hut, a pale figure stood, barely holding himself erect with the aid of the sides of the door. “Remember what I told you,
chacal
. The hand of peace was extended to you once. You rejected it.” Jaco stood with head swaying like a bull confused as the voice drifted eerily across the plaza. “Do you feel a chill, jackal? It is, as they say, footsteps walking over your grave.”

Jaco had a choice. He could kill the
gringo
as he stood in the doorway or he could wait. The choice had been made long ago, but he didn't know it. Now, with the ghostly-white figure close enough to kill, the choice came back to haunt him. Stubbornly, he would have his vengeance as he had dreamed night after countless night. Only now the plaguing dream would be made real in flesh and torment culminating in sweet triumph, in vengeance realized for the many years. The Paxton whelp would know suffering as Jaco had known it, would howl, and howling, run screaming to death and out of the dream that would give him no peace. Still … hurriedly, he turned and strode away from the voice, away from.… Had he felt a chill? He wasn't sure. Maybe only a little one, nothing to worry.…“Remember!”

The word caught him from behind, slapped him, lingered, caught in the valley, spun around like a dust devil driven wildly about by capricious winds. “Remember …” Jaco was a child, to be bothered by such a man. The whelp's arm was wounded, possibly broken. He had not eaten for a day. He would be bound hand and foot. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing …“Ursula!”

“
Si, señor.
”

“I do not see Marcelina. Where is she?”

“I do not know,
señor
. We spoke this morning, then she went with the
gringa
to the river.”

“I told
you
to go with her.”

“She insisted,
señor
, said …”

“Get out of here,” he snarled, waving her away. Alone, he turned to stare back at the
jacalito
. The figure was gone. There was a chill in the air, even though the sun was not yet below the mountain peaks. For no reason, he looked up suddenly.
Un zopilote
, a buzzard, circled lazily above him, stirring the dark premonition lodged in the back of his mind. Troubled, he turned away from the
cantina
, sauntered absent-mindedly toward the
tienda
and entered, pausing in the door as his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the shop.

The interior was empty save for the motes of dust dancing in the bright rays shining through the cracks in the walls and door. A cat walked in from the back room, glanced about and yawned to signal her boredom with the afternoon before settling into slumber. Flores, the diminutive Mexican shopkeeper who somehow managed to retain his girth in spite of the empty shelves, shuffled into the front room from his quarters. “What is it,
señor?
” He fumbled with his glasses, squinting to see who stood before him. “There is little here. I have not felt up to the trip across the divide. San Pedro gets farther away as I become older.”

Jaco looked about, puzzled, wondering why he had come to the store. “We leave tomorrow, old man. The
putas
, they will follow. They always follow. You will be left alone, with nothing more than the corpse of a
gringo
for company. Who will spend gold for your goods?”

Flores laughed soundlessly, more like a wheeze than a sound of mirth. “Goods? My shelves are full of dust. Would you buy dust?”

“What will you do?”

The old man stared, his good eye enormous behind the lens, his bad eye milky white and unseeing. “Do? I will die in peace,
señor.
”

Jaco scowled sourly, perturbed by the old man's evil eye. He should have made the
viejo
leave with the other villagers when the bandits moved in. He should have gone directly to the
cantina
. He should have … the chill again! Angry he should be so affected by old wives' tales, he turned abruptly and stalked out.

“Jaco!”

He glanced back. Again his name from the back! The old man stared into the fading light. “Tell your
vaqueros
… no. Tell your
soldados
in the grand army of the revolution I will sell them my dust. Yes. Tell them to hurry—ha ha ha—while I still have dust to sell.” He slammed the door and Jaco hurriedly crossed to the
cantina
, still hearing Flores as the old man mulled aloud, over and over to himself, “Dust for soldiers. Yes. Ha ha ha. Dust for soldiers, soldiers for dust.”

The old man bolted the door and stared through the cracks until Jaco disappeared around the corner of the
cantina
. His laughter changed to a croaking cough and he shuffled past the vacant shelves to rummage behind the counter, found a brittle plug of dusty tobacco and broke off a section in his mouth. He glanced once more at the bolted door, half expecting to see Jaco again. There was no one there. Alone, he sighed and stepped through the ragged curtains masking the entrance to the back room. Marcelina stepped out of the shadows and returned to her place before the hearth. “You hear?” Flores asked.

“
Si
. I heard. He will leave tomorrow to be a general.”

“If you plan to hide here long you had better forget it.
El gran jefe
and the others will surely come to take what little I have left, then again to search for you. And what can one old man do to stop them? Tonight I shall bury that which is most important to me.
Soldados
…! Ha! When men become soldiers, stealing becomes
requisición
. Do not stay here,
señorita.
”

Marcelina shrugged and walked to the back door. Opening it a crack, she looked out at the slowly-cooling hills, dark gray-black shapes against the azure canvas of sky. There was no place to run. Nowhere to hide.
What is the use? Can I hide from the guilt that weighs like
la cruz,
the cross of Christ upon my soul? I have sinned
, Mi hermano,
my own brother
. She fought back the wracking sobs, the overwhelming remorse.
No. I have wept enough. My tears have fallen until there are no more. My eyes are as dry as the sand and the unforgiving stone
. The wind moaned down the North Pass, across the eroded valley floor, a threnody for illicit love and death.
Maruja. Oh, mi madre
… the plaintive lament provoked a still deeper response, and suddenly Marcelina knew what had to be done. Jaco had known! He had wilfully, viciously allowed love to flame within her breast, knowing full well the forbidden nature of an alliance between brother and sister. The need to account for her sin and to avenge her betrayal at Jaco's hands grew like a malignant tumor, filling her belly, choking her throat until she could hardly breathe. “Good-bye,
viejo.
”