Merkabah Rider: Have Glyphs Will Travel (23 page)

“I only did it ‘cause I figured you
were lonely down there, Al,” Belden shot back.

“Let’s go, Seiber,” Chaffee said. He
touched his hat, his eyes lingering on the tall African in the strange dress. “Gentlemen.”

“Clear trails, captain,” Faustus
said congenially.

Seiber let the troop pass by and
nodded to the boy at his side to follow.

“Go on, Tom. I’ll be about directly.”

The youth spared them a hard glance
and went on.

Seiber rode alongside Belden.

“Don’t know what you’re up to down
here, Dick,” Seiber said conspiratorially. “But you ought to listen to the
captain. We know for a fact Vittorio’s down here somewhere. Something big’s
going on.”

“What?”

“Don’t know, but the ‘Paches at San
Carlos are all in a lather about it, whatever it is. Some holy man’s been
whippin’ ‘em up.”

“What holy man?”

“Nobody I ever heard of. Somethin’
like…Miskwummikus or somethin.’ He’s been callin’ for ‘em to leave the
reservation. He wants blood. We been out lookin’ for ‘em, but ain’t seen hide
nor hair.”

“Yeah well,” Belden said, “huntin’
Apaches with a column the way you’re doin’ is like huntin’ deer with a brass
band.”

“I know it. I tried to bring
Togo-de-Chuz and his boy from San Carlos, but the captain don’t trust Apache
scouts. He only let me bring along that kid.”

“Hope he don’t learn the hard way,”
Belden said.

“Something’s gonna happen,” Seiber
said. “Big raid, probably. Don’t get caught in the middle of it.”

“Thanks, Al.”

“
Vaya
con Dios
,” the German said, and gave his boot heels to his horse.

“
Auf
Wiedersehen
,” said Belden. He watched them go, and looked at the Rider.

“Misquamacus,” the Rider echoed.

Faustus cracked the reins and the
camels got moving again, groaning their displeasure.

They came into the mountainous
Madres Occidental, and followed the winding road through Sonora, across the
desert and up into the mountains. They passed through Fronteras and found the
town littered with nervous looking
rurales
.
Word of Vittorio possibly being in the region had spread. The camels drew a
good deal of attention, but they did not tarry, and pressed on to Nacozari,
joining a train of mule drivers headed for the town.

The drivers worked for the Moctezume
Copper Company, hauling supplies and the payroll for the Nacozari miners.
Through Belden, who was the only one among them (aside from Piishi) who was
fluent in Spanish, they learned that Nacozari’s garrison had been doubled to
protect the mining facilities and the local ranches from any Apache who might
decide to swarm down from the mountains.

When at last they reached the town,
late in the night, they saw the truth of it. The
rurales
they had seen at Fronteras looked like sheepherders
compared to the wild looking bunch leaning in the doorways of the raucous
cantinas of Nacozari. Their shoulders were draped with glittering ammunition,
belts sagging with multiple pistols and machetes, and rifles on their shoulders
besides. The tequila of which they reeked burned in their dark and wary eyes.
Most were faceless as ghosts beneath the great shadows of their sombreros, only
their lean necks and unshaven chins, their tight mouths, some of them closed
around the glowing ends of cheap cigars, visible.

The town itself was mostly a
tumbledown scattering of adobe buildings erected with apparent randomness, so
that they were practically piled on top of one another, connected by rickety
wooden stairs and impromptu bridges, split by steep, twisting dirt and stone
streets. The houses and businesses emanated from a central red brick plaza
dominated by a respectable municipal building and a church in the old Spanish
mission style.

Empty bottles burst beneath the
vardo’s steel tyres, and the giggling of women came to their ears through
frayed, glowing curtains, but no drunken singing. A strumming guitar
occasionally, or loud, angry voices, but no singing. The
rurales
were expecting, likely anticipating a fight, and the drink
was to fuel their cruelty, not mellow their moods.

Only the tired, filthy
mineros
stumbling to their shacks were
on the streets, and the thin cur dogs shouldering and nipping at each other for
the right to lap at puddles of vomit. The
rurales
ruled the town.

“Lots of black hats,” Belden
commented.

“What do you mean?” the Rider asked.

The uniforms of the
rurales
were varied. They wore piecemeal
outfits ranging from white cotton peon’s clothes to silver-laced jackets and
pants of green, red, and brown. Those hats not made of frayed straw were either
tan or black, he noticed. And Belden was right, the black hats did outnumber
the tans.

“The
rurales
recruit from the local bandits,” Belden explained. “The fat
ones are the most successful. Black hats mean convicted murderers.”

The big wagon and the groaning
camels once again drew the attention of the bleary-eyed bystanders, and soon
they had a sizable train of followers clinking along behind them, tipping
bottles back, elbowing each other. A few golden toothed smiles lit the night in
their wake, and lots of excited talk.

Their train surprised a fat gunman
on a nervous gray coming around the corner. The horse shook and screamed at the
sight of the camels and went galloping in the other direction, bucking it’s
cursing rider into a water trough three blocks down.

They came to the plaza and Faustus
drew the wagon to a halt.

“With all the attention this rig is
attracting, Piishi ain’t gonna have a wax cat in hell’s chance of sneakin’
outta here,” Belden said.

“I have endless faith in the Apache’s
ability to get out of here unmolested,” Faustus said lowly.

“What about us?” the Rider said
dryly as the
rurales
surrounded the
wagon, running their fingers along the gilded sides, commenting on the gold
painted workmanship. One even jumped on the back porch, his weight causing the
vardo to sag on its springs.

“Mister Belden,” Faustus began,
cracking the front door of the wagon and leaning in to rummage through a pile
of crates just inside, “will you be so kind as to translate for me?”

Belden nodded and remained on his
horse as the Mexicans crowded the wagon, craning their necks to peer in the
open doorway. Piishi was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had ducked behind a
curtain. But the Rider and Kabede stared out into the dark and held their guns
behind their legs.

The fat gunman who had lost control
of his horse came stalking over, dripping wet and with murder in his eyes. He
elicited a growl from one of the camels at his approach, and his comrades burst
into laughter as he jumped back in fear and surprise. The Mexican dropped his
black hat, revealing a head of greasy, curly hair. He quickly retrieved it,
glared at his fellows, then turned his ire on the camel and drew his pistol.

“
Bestia
maldito
!” he growled.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Belden warned, touching
his own pistol.

The Mexican wheeled on him, and it
seemed like they would go to guns, but at that moment Faustus turned from the
doorway of the vardo and rose to his full, impressive height, a glass bottle of
some brownish substance in each knobby fist.

“
Amigos
!”
he bellowed, in his deep, undeniable baritone.

The
rurales
one and all turned from the gringo and their angry
companero
and gazed up at the proffered
bottles, the moonlight shining through the caramel liquid sloshing within,
their interest in the conflict quickly forgotten.

“
Muestras
gratis
!” Faustus yelled, and tossed the two bottles end over end into the
crowd.

Dozens of ruddy hands shot skyward
and a cheer went up. The bottles disappeared into the crowd and there was a
commotion among them.

“Mister Belden, that’s about the
limit of my Spanish,” Faustus said, “so if you will.” Then, to the crowd, “
Amigos
! Men of honor! How the oppressive
air of impending war does hang upon you! Well do I know it, being a veteran
myself. Publilius the Syrian wrote that the fear of death is more to be dreaded
than death itself! How true, how true. And how fear does wear away the body. It
is scientifically proven friends, that mental anguish is nine tenths the cause
of all the bodily maladies which may strike a man low, granting him a death
more slow and agonizing than any bullet or arrow. That’s why it’s important
that we gird our loins prior to the fight, gentlemen, so that the mental
stresses of anticipation and indeed of war itself do not carry with us all the
days of our lives. Those potions the two lucky gentlemen in the crowd are
currently imbibing were brewed and distilled in the mountain oasis of
Shambhala, Tibet, by yogis whom you would guess were thirty years old but are
in fact over two hundred. What’s the secret of their longevity? A total absence
of fear! Now…”

The Rider listened to Faustus extol
the virtues of the bottles he had cast into the crowd as though dousing a
wildfire, and his mind wandered to the blowhard soliloquy of Hashknife, the
half breed huckster who had traveled with the Nazirite Gershom Turiel selling
the boy off as a strongman. He smiled faintly at Dick Belden’s fumbling
translation and doubted the Spanish words were coming off quite as eloquently
as the old man intended.

When it was over, Faustus had not
only sold two cases of the bottled stuff, but a cigar box of Catholic scapulars
and a few carved little wooden religious figures he called
santos
besides.

“That stuff in the bottles,” Belden
whispered nervously to Faustus. “There ain’t nothin’ in there’s gonna make
these boys sick is there?”

“On the contrary,” Faustus said
smiling. “It’s entirely what I said it was. It’ll do them good. They’ll feel
quite invincible for a day or so till they piss it out.”

In about an hour the
rurales
dispersed for the most part,
except for a half dozen men who had joined the audience late.

“Quite a hustle you run, old man,”
said one of the men, as Faustus counted his money and Belden finally
dismounted. “But you could maybe use a new interpreter, I think.”

Belden looked sharply at this, a
little wounded.

“I don’t suppose you want the job,
son?” Faustus smiled over his pesos.

“I have a job already,” the man
said. He was one of the more well-dressed
rurales
,
with silver lace up and down his well-fitted black clothes and a bright rainbow
Saltillo poncho thrown over his shoulder. He had a neatly trimmed beard and
mustache, and good looks, but an air about him, as if he would smile just as
prettily if he were lifting a
señor
ita’s
mantilla to kiss her or wringing your guts between his fingers. “First Corporal
Mendez,” he said, tapping the elaborate silver swirls on the sleeve of his
jacket, as if they meant something to the uninitiated. “I’m in command here.”

“Corporal,” Faustus said, tucking
his money in his coat and touching the brim of his hat. When his hand came away
there was a silver cigarette case, and he popped it open. “Cigarette?”

“
Gracias
,”
said Mendez, and took one and a light.

“Faustus Montague.” “I read the side
of your wagon. Who else do you have with you, Mister Montague?”

“Just myself, Mister Belden here,
and two assistants.” He leaned back and made as if to knock on the porch door,
but Mendez held up his hand.

“Wait. You don’t object to my men
searching your wagon, of course.”

“Of course not,” Faustus said,
lowering his arm.

Belden’s eyes flashed, but Faustus
caught his look and winked.

“Step down, please,
señor
,” said Mendez.

Faustus nodded and got down.

“
Pimpollo
,”
Mendez said, dragging on the cigarette.

A lean, smooth faced kid of about
fourteen or fifteen with eyes like a thirty year old man stepped out of the
darkness, his black sombrero hanging from a thin
barbiquejo
strap that accentuated his boyish lack of an Adam’s
apple. The crossed bandoliers looked too heavy to be supported by his thin
frame, and the skinny arms protruding from his broad woolen sleeves ended in
girlish hands that looked odd resting on the reversed butts of the heavy
pistols hanging from his thick belt. He stepped onto the porch and wrenched
open the door without preamble and ducked inside, a long barreled Smith and Wesson
cocked and in his hand.

Mendez blew smoke and watched Belden
and Faustus, but said nothing. Behind him, his shadowed subordinates shifted,
angling the barrels of their rifles in their direction.

Inside the vardo, Kabede and the
Rider rose abruptly at the appearance of the armed boy.

“It’s alright, boys,” Faustus
called. “The authorities just want to have a look around.”

The Rider held his palms up and
Kabede laid his rifle aside as the glaring boy began to run his hard eyes along
the cluttered shelves. He kicked over boxes of papers, medallions, and
santos
.