Part Six
One of the men leered at Johnny. The other was Corporal Jara.
"Figured you'd be too much of a coward to claim your own gear. We followed your boy." Jara's rat face grimaced, or was that a smile? "You're coming with us. Junior wants a word."
Jara made a move to take Johnny's gun. Johnny swung his bag with both hands. He hit Jara's head so hard he knocked him into the other soldier. When both men staggered Johnny stepped in with a sharp kick to Jara's balls. The corporal collapsed with a howl, but the other man regained his feet; he reached forward and squeezed Johnny in a bear hug that lifted him clean off his feet.
Johnny wriggled and struggled as the canvas-clad arms squeezed tighter. He couldn't reach his Colt. He couldn't breathe. Desperately he reared his head back and with everything he had slammed his forehead into the guy's nose. There was a satisfying crunch and the arms opened up. Johnny smashed the bloodied nose with his open palm. The big man went to his knees, shrieking, hands covering his face.
Ignoring the pain in his own head Johnny turned to see Corporal Jara groping for his pistol. In a smooth, well-practiced move, Johnny drew and fired. Half Jara's face blew away. The corporal collapsed like a rag doll, shot through his right eye at nearly point blank range.
Johnny looked away to keep from gagging. The other soldier still held his hands over his face, but he was trying to get up. Johnny kicked him hard in the shoulder to send him back down. He holstered his gun, pulled his knife from its sheath, and fumbled to cut the now-bloody yellow bandana from Jara's neck. He stuck it in his bag and got the hell out of the alley.
He'd earned the rest of his fee.
It wasn't long before the rush from the fight wore off, leaving him shaky and sore. He wanted to rest, but he knew it was time to collect his money and clear out before anyone figured out what he had done.
There was no sign of Lester in the cantinas or saloons, so Johnny headed for the mine. Walking due west, squinting against the glare of the setting sun, his eyes started to water. He was glad when the sun sank behind the foothills.
At the locked gates of the mine entrance a group of hard-faced miners blocked the way, arms crossed. They stared at him until one recognized him from the morning.
"Johnny Madrid! Good to see you up and around. How you feeling?"
The other men smiled and the mood lightened. He tried to smile back. "Hey, where can I find Lester? Is he in there?" He pointed his thumb at the wooden building closest to the gates.
Several miners nodded.
"Can I just go in?" Johnny didn't wait for an answer. He stepped up on the wooden stair and opened the door.
Lester, hatless and with armbands holding his sleeves up, wasn't alone. He leaned forward on his desk, head in his hands, as Senor Bartholomew raged at him.
"It is a reckless thing to do, Señor. You promised us a peaceful protest. The soldados will be angry and will avenge the death of one of their…"
He stopped as Johnny came in and pulled the door shut behind him. Lester looked up in surprise.
"What are you doing here?"
Johnny flicked his eyes to the other man.
"It's okay. We were just discussing…" Lester trailed off.
Johnny nodded at Bartholomew. Then he tossed Jara's bandana on Lester's desk. "It's done."
Lester's eyebrows arched up. "Done? Already?"
Bartholomew gasped. "Jara is dead? By your hand?"
"I can't…." Lester looked pale. "Just like that? You're sure?"
Johnny snorted. "I'm sure."
"Did anyone see you?"
"He had another man with him."
"Did you kill him, too?" Bartholomew's nostrils flared.
Johnny looked him up and down. "No one was paying me to kill the second man."
Bartholomew shook his head and turned to Lester. "When the rest of the soldiers arrive they will surely turn their weapons on us. We must end this action and go back to work or many more will die."
"No." Lester slammed his hand on the desk. "We've come this far. If we fold now we'll never get another chance."
"Bah!" Bartholomew's lip curled. He pointed a finger at Johnny. "They intended this boy to kill you. Then Jara would kill him so the miners would feel grateful justice was done."
Lester stared at Bartholomew. "You know this how?"
The older man shrugged. "The same way I know more soldiers are coming. We have spies, they have spies…"
"Spies?"
"My sister's daughter cooks for the Butterick household. They think she doesn't understand English. The gringos are very angry their plan was foiled."
Johnny worked hard to keep his expression flat, his breathing even. He'd been played. It was a set up all along. The assholes thought a half-breed kid with a gun would shoot somebody in the back if they told him to. Well, Johnny Madrid wouldn't. Junior's plan hadn't worked, had it? Good thing, too.
Lester rubbed his face with his hands. He blew out a bunch of air and looked over Johnny's head, his attention far away. Bartholomew opened his mouth to say something else, thought the better of it, and turned away.
Both men were upset, but Johnny had done what he'd been hired to do.
"Uh, Mr. Lester, we agreed on twenty-five dollars."
Lester's face sagged. With a sigh he got up from his chair to kneel in front of the floor safe. The lock gave him a little trouble, but he opened the door and pulled out a leather bag. He counted out some banknotes, put the bag back, and closed the safe. Bartholomew watched, jaw clenched, as Lester handed Johnny the money.
"Thanks." Johnny folded the bills and stashed them in his jacket pocket. "A pleasure doin' business with you, Mr. Lester." Lester didn't answer. He looked defeated. Johnny didn't have a word for the look on Bartholomew's face.
Johnny couldn't get out of there fast enough.
Funny. He was more upset by the Buttericks' arrogance than the knowledge they intended to kill him. He knew his life was cheap, always had known it. But he'd outsmarted them. Didn't know it at the time, but he outsmarted them just the same.
Now something was about to explode and he didn't want any part of it. It was none of his business. He'd done his job—thirty-five dollars total for shooting a man who was a piece of shit anyway.
It almost made up for the beatings.
Thirty-five bucks! He wasn't so tired after all. His aches and pains didn't trouble him anymore. He should make tracks out of Prieto, but maybe he would celebrate being alive and having money first. In the hour or so of daylight left, should he find the nearest bordello, or go get that chestnut gelding? At the bordello he could buy himself all the fun he could stand. But if he bought a horse he could ride out of town like a real pistolero. Wouldn't that be sweet?
Moving through town Johnny kept a sharp eye on every man he passed. To his relief no brown canvas uniforms or mustachioed men crossed his path. It was nearly closing time when he got to the livery, but the man was happy to make a deal. They agreed on a price for the skinny chestnut and some worn out tack. Johnny paid extra to have the horse stabled there until he was ready to ride out. With a final pat to the horse's neck he set out for the bawdy house he'd passed on his way. He wouldn't stay long, but hell, he had the money and a little bit of time. It was worth the risk.
There was no way he meant to fall asleep. But here he was, on his back, trying to figure out what woke him. The windows of the bordello were covered in heavy drapes, but muffled sounds seeped into the tiny room. He thought he heard voices. The sound of trotting horses was unmistakable. The girl beside him was asleep. What time was it? It felt like the middle of the night. Shit—he needed to get out of town.
Johnny was on his feet, cleaning up and getting dressed, when the sound of glass shattering woke the girl,.
"¿Qué está pasando ahí fuera?" she mumbled, turning over and lighting the lamp. The light made it easier for Johnny to find his socks and shirt.
"No sé." He was at the door before the girl had her robe on. "¿Estamos en paz?"
She looked at him, brow furrowed. Her brown hair tangled its way down her face and her eyes were only half-open. Johnny smiled at her sleepiness, left more money on the dresser, and grabbed his bag. He was glad he only had to go down one flight; the stairwell smelled of piss and stale booze. The bordello fronted a few streets south of Camino del Este. He slipped out the door and headed through the night to the livery. The sounds that awakened him were louder now. Eerie lights flickered over the rooftops.
His horse was sleeping on his feet inside the barn. Johnny tacked him up and pulled him into the alley. An orange glow shone through the passage to Camino del Este. Men shouted; more glass splintered. Thuds and curses filled the night along with the sound of horseshoes ringing on the bricks in the square. The chestnut nickered at the horses in the distance as Johnny tied his bag over the saddle. Whatever was going on, he would head away from it.
Just as Johnny put his foot in the stirrup and hopped up, gunfire split the air. The startled chestnut shied and the stirrup broke off with Johnny's boot still in it. Foot and stirrup slammed on the ground as the horse took off, down the street toward Camino del Este.
"Hey! Get back here!" Johnny yanked the stirrup off his foot and threw it hard against the nearest wall. Then he picked it up again and set off after the damned horse.
The gelding headed toward Camino del Este, where the other horses were. At the edge of the bricks Johnny stopped dead and tried to make sense of what he saw. The square was filled with men running toward the fountain. They carried burning torches, flames slashing through the darkness, their faces twisted with anger and fear.
A knot of men at the end of the square threw rocks and bottles at horses. The riders in brown canvas uniforms reined their horses into a tight bunch; their pistols spit bullets in front of the crowd.
Johnny had never seen a riot, but he was pretty sure this was one. How would he find his horse in the darkness and confusion?
Someone screamed "Stop!"
Johnny recognized the voice. It was Lester, and his shout didn't change a thing. No one stopped anything.
If Lester was here, the men on foot had to be miners. They moved forward despite Lester's shout. Maybe he had shouted at the guards. It didn't matter. The guards fired in front of the advancing miners. A group of them ran head long toward the horses, jabbing them with sticks, cutting them with knives. Horses screamed. Their riders quit shooting the ground and started killing men.
Johnny kept looking for Lester, but he couldn't find him among the running men, horses, gunfire, and smoke. He thought he caught a glimpse of a chestnut gelding but by now there were several rider-less horses in the square. He couldn't be sure.
He ducked into a doorway when more soldiers arrived in a clatter of shod hooves. They spurred their horses into the thick of the fight. The riders used their rifles as clubs on the miners below them. The miners retaliated with picks, shovels, bricks, whatever came to hand. A man with a blazing torch ran toward Johnny, screaming words Johnny couldn't make out. His wild eyes met Johnny's as a rock hit him in the back. When he fell his skull cracked like an egg on the pavement.
The battle surged in Johnny's direction, and he crouched low. Between the security guards and the newly arrived soldiers the miners were boxed in. So was he. Horses and men shrieked. Furious gunfire came from every direction. Johnny couldn't see through the suffocating gun smoke. Bullets whizzed by taking his breath with them. He wrapped his arms around his head, dreading being found by a stray slug.
After forever the shooting stopped.
It all stopped at once and the silence was so thick he thought he might be deaf.
He lifted his head at the jingling of horses' bits; the soldiers were moving out. He unfolded from his crouch as they trotted past, some of them laughing. He was on his feet when the smoke cleared enough to watch them disappear in the distance. There were shouts, but they seemed far away. Shaking, he stared at the stirrup in his hand; he'd forgotten about his horse.
He turned back to the square. Dying torches lit the bricks, but their light disappeared into dark shapes that used to be men and horses. Ghostly figures moved in from the edges of the street. His heart beat faster until they were closer and he saw they were women. They dropped to their knees at men who moved. They helped them up, supporting them through swirls of smoke out of the square. A woman folded, keening, over the body of a man past saving.
Johnny walked past sputtering torches, looking at holes in the animal pictures where miners had dug up bricks to throw. The holes were bleeding.
He kept his head down and looked for Lester, hoping he wouldn't find him. His boot slid in a pool of blood, and he nearly fell on a younger man flat on his back, legs bent under him at impossible angles. It could have been the guy he'd stolen the thirteen dollars from. It could have been anyone.
Half his face was missing.
Johnny turned around and started walking. He quit looking for Lester. He didn't pay attention to where he went. He needed to keep moving, to get away from the bodies and the blood and the faces shot half away.
The old Mexican in Lester's office said this would happen, didn't he? Bartholomew said the soldiers would retaliate if Jara was killed.
But by the time he said that, it was too late. The job was done.
Johnny walked alone through Prieto. The sky was less black but there was no hint of a sun rising on the horizon. He found himself back at the livery, and damned if that chestnut horse wasn't there too, waiting by the barn door, not a mark on him.
Johnny grabbed the reins, stashed the stirrup in his bag, and vaulted into the saddle without even trying to use the stirrup that wasn't there. He'd fix it later.
He turned the horse to the west and jogged him through the dark streets to the mine. There were no miners milling around, no guards. The only light shone around the door of Lester's office.
Señor Bartholomew was inside, his eyes red as he sat in Lester's desk chair. When Johnny came in he looked up at him and sighed loudly.
"Were you there?" Johnny's voice scratched his throat. "Did you see it?" He wiped his hand over his eyes and thought of blood.
"Señor Lester went. He hasn't come back, and I don't think he will."
Johnny fixed him with a stare. "Was it because I killed Jara?"
Bartholomew shook his head before he answered. "We had heard more soldiers were coming. We didn't know they were already here." He sighed again. "We know what's going to happen and it happens anyway."
His smile was even sadder than his eyes. "The strike is over. Those who live will go back to work, and Butterick will hire new men to replace those who died. Widows and children will suffer, and life will go on as it always does."
Johnny straightened up and took a deep breath. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Haven't you done enough?"
For a long second Johnny stared at the old man. He should be madder than hell at that remark. Why wasn't he? It didn't matter. He turned on his heel and walked away.
The riot wasn't his fault.
The miners' deaths weren't his doing.
He had done the job he'd been paid to do, and he was leaving Prieto on a horse like the professional gun fighter he was.
He hoped his papa would understand.
End