The Wild Bunch Read online

  “If you’ve killed him I’ll break your scurvy neck.”

  Tector wrenched free, raving, pointing.

  “That damn old bastard near killed us all. Get rid of him or I will.”

  Sykes stirred and sat up, groggy, blood running down his face.

  Pike was shaking with fury. He almost pulled his gun and shot Gorch. He fought himself under control and called.

  “You all right, Freddie?”

  “All right.”

  The voice did not sound sure.

  “You hear this. All of you.” Pike spoke through closed teeth. “We’re not getting rid of anybody. We’re sticking together—just like we used to do. When you side a man you stay with him.” His eyes lashed at Tector. “If you don’t do that you’re no better than an animal. You’re finished. We’re finished. All of us.”

  Tector glared back. Pike waited, his hand close to his gun. Tector turned away, made an important business of helping Dutch round up the horses.

  Pike stood, cooling out, then went to his own animal. He put his foot into the stirrup and pushed up to mount. The stirrup leather broke. He fell heavily, landed under the animal on his back, his bad leg bent under him. Knifing pain dragged a shriek out of him.

  Agony washed the strength out of his body. For moments he could not move. His muscles refused to answer his brain.

  The others were rising to their saddles. They looked down at him, caught in sudden surprise. Dutch, one foot in the stirrup, hesitated, then swung on up, not offering help.

  Slowly, in agony, Pike rolled, got to his feet. He did not glance toward the others but hung against the saddle for support. Then with a vicious yank he tore away the rotten leather.

  Tector and Lyle, already up, grinned at each other.

  “ ’Pears like Brother Pike needs help, Brother Lyle.”

  Lyle laughed.

  “Riding with Brother Pike and old man Sykes makes a man wonder if it ain’t time to pick up his chips and find another game.”

  Suddenly Tector yelled at Pike, “How in hell can you side a man that can’t get on a horse?”

  Pike scorned looking their way, covered his anger by working to fashion a makeshift stirrup. He finished it, pulled himself to saddle, fighting to hide a new lance of pain that burned through him. He took time to settle himself as comfortably as possible, looked evenly at Angel.

  “How far to San Carlos?”

  The boy scanned the country, the Santa Caterina mountains that now loomed much closer.

  “Maybe two hours.”

  “So let’s start getting there. Move out.”

  Angel led off. Sykes, leaving Dutch with the remuda, pulled ahead to Pike’s side, his mouth a bitter twist.

  “Mighty fine talk you gave the boys about sticking together.”

  Pike did not answer.

  “That Gorch came near to killing me—or me him.” He spat. “Damned old fool like me’s not worth taking along.”

  Pike felt savage.

  “We started together. We’ll end it together.”

  “By God, that’s the way I see it. That’s the way it’s always been with me. Sorry Deke didn’t see it the same. Never figured him that way.”

  Pike shrugged and looked away.

  The old man cleared his throat.

  “Been meaning to ask you. Back in San Rafael—my boy—how’d he do?”

  “Your boy?”

  Pike’s head came around.

  “Clarence Lee—the one they called Crazy—my daughter’s boy. Not too bright but he was a good boy. Did he handle himself all right?”

  Pike drew a long, ragged breath. He had a mind’s picture of Crazy Lee in the paymaster’s office.

  He said slowly, “He did all right. Why didn’t you tell me he was your boy, Fred?”

  “Well,” Sykes looked embarrassed. “You had enough on your mind and I didn’t want no special favors for him. I wanted him to pull his weight just like the rest of us. Just wanted to know he didn’t let you down—run when things got hot.”

  “No,” said Pike. “He didn’t run. He did fine—just fine.”

  It had to be the heat of the day, Pike thought, that made him feel sick.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The San Carlos hacienda had for generations been one of the showplaces of northern Mexico, presided over by the same family since the middle fifteen hundreds, its spreading acres a flourishing oasis surrounded by desert. The Wild Bunch rode in to find a destroyed pueblo, silent, ghostlike people—a place of recent and violent death.

  First there were the children with huge haunted eyes. They screamed and scattered as the men rode through the open wrought-iron gate. The youngsters disappeared through the doorways of the adobe village huts.

  Then there were the four corpses hanging from the brilliant green tree in the square. Vultures flapped noisily away from the bodies when the riders came near.

  No other humans were in sight.

  Pike reined in, Dutch at his side. Angel was cantering around the plaza, his arms outstretched in open despair, calling in a voice of horror and disbelief.

  “It was so beautiful—so beautiful a place—”

  Pike shouted, “Find out what happened.”

  He did not like it when men were hanged. For too long he had flirted with the rope himself.

  Angel called out in Spanish, all but crying. Old men gradually crept from the doors, huddled into a group, their eyes filled with fear. Angel rode to them and a flurry of questions and answers ensued in Spanish too fast for Pike to follow. Angel came back, his face grey.

  “Huerta’s crowd. The butchers. May they rot in hell.”

  “Did you ask about food?”

  Angel flung his hands wide.

  “The place is scraped clean.”

  He kneed his horse around in a slow circle, reaching for words, finding none. Abruptly he faced Pike again, his lips thinned back, pointing toward the mountains.

  “My village is up there. They say the soldiers went that way. I have to go and find out.”

  “What about Agua Verde?”

  “I will show you the road to take. Me, I have to know whether my people are alive.”

  “You running out on us?”

  Angel was vehement.

  “No. I will meet you in Agua Verde the day after you get there.”

  “How you going to make it to your village and still meet us that soon?”

  “The road will take you south of the mountains. I go through them. It is more direct, shorter. I can make better time.”

  Dutch grunted.

  “If it’s quicker through the hills—why should we go around? Why don’t we go with you?”

  Angel withdrew into himself, plainly unwilling to take his companions to his home.

  “The road is dangerous for strangers.”

  The corner of Pike’s mouth tipped up.

  “You ashamed to have us meet your folks?”

  Angel was a bad liar and knew it. He did not try again.

  “Mr. Bishop, they do not know about my life when I am away from the village. They are simple people.”

  Pike’s horse stretched its neck, wanting to get to the watering trough and he walked it that way, letting it drink, speaking over his shoulder.

  “As far as I’m concerned, you can go.”

  Lyle Gorch, already at the trough, straightened, snarling, “Far as I’m concerned—he goes, he don’t come back.”

  “Yeah,” Dutch said, “that sounds about right to me. We stay together.”

  Tector was late in coming up, heard only the last.

  He asked, “Is somebody leaving? What’s the problem now?”

  Pike gave him a faint grin.

  “Angel wants to go visit his village—alone. He thinks we’re a little rank for his people.”

  Tector snorted, dropped off his horse and bent to drink. The animal dipped its muzzle into the water beside him. Tector straightened, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “I say he c
an go straight to hell. Probably wants to get a bunch of his tribe and waylay us.”

  Dutch’s chuckle rolled over them.

  “Sure—they waylay us and take what?”

  Tector subsided, shoving back his hat, scratching his head and finding no answer. Pike looked over the group and back at Angel.

  “Well, you heard them. How do you want it?”

  The Mexican, caught between the choices, bowed to the will of the group and even dredged up a show of hospitality.

  “I invite you to my home, my village.” He raked his eyes over the Gorch brothers and his tone went cold. “Any violence—any disrespect—and I will kill both of you.”

  For an instant it seemed that their quick tempers would rise again. Then a sly brightness changed Lyle’s bold eyes.

  “You got a sister?” And when Angel nodded curtly Lyle laughed. “I’ll be proud to make her acquaintance—and that of your mama, too.”

  “And your grandmother, too.”

  Tector slapped his brother’s shoulder. Pike watched Angel but the Mexican had himself in control. His face was bland, enigmatic, accepting what had to be accepted.

  The moment passed. Pike smiled.

  “Well, let’s ride. We might even find something to eat up there.”

  If Angel’s warning about the trail had had an evasive intent, it nevertheless was true. The road was so old that no one alive knew when it had been built or by whom. Or how much treasure had been hauled over it.

  It wound along shelves cut out of solid rock, climbed the sheer walls of canyons that dropped a mile to the bottom. It passed through gorges where the little animals’ hoofs had worn the trail two feet deep into stone. It crowded through cuts where the riders’ feet scraped both rising sides, and twisted over brush-covered slopes and climbed again.

  After dark the trail became too dangerous even for Angel. The men camped in a windy canyon where the downdraft brought the cold from snowbanks on the higher peaks. They froze in their thin desert clothes. Blankets and a fire kept burning through the night were not enough. They chilled through and no one slept. Bodies were stiff and tempers edgy in the morning.

  Pike felt he might crack as he lifted himself into saddle.

  “You called the turn on this ride, Angel. How much farther?”

  “Not far.” Angel’s tone was careful. “A half-day if luck holds. The trail does not grow better.”

  The men’s bellies were empty, growling. The group’s mood was ugly. Lyle Gorch cursed loudly.

  “You know what he’s doing? He’s trying to lose us. He never meant to take us to no village.”

  “Shut up.”

  Pike himself was uneasy in these hostile mountains.

  By noon they were out of the canyons, on a rolling high plateau where timber grew thick and clear streams raced in tumbling courses down the slope.

  Angel quickened the pace and the stiffness of his back told of his concern for what they might find ahead. They rode over a shoulder of land, dropped into a gentle bowl and the village lay before them.

  Pike caught his breath at the beauty of the place. The simple old buildings hugged a steep rise of ground as if they grew from it, were part of the earth itself. The flat land before the rise was deep in sweet grass, shaded with ancient trees and crossed by a silver stream. Children played at the water’s edge. Women in bright, full skirts carried jugs on their heads, walking barefoot, their hips swinging in unhurried rhythm. Men sat wrapped in serapes, seeking the warmth of the sun that up here held none of the desert’s searing bite.

  Angel stopped them within the edge of the trees and sat absorbing the scene. Pike, beside him, watched the tight face soften with relief, watched the smile grow and saw a younger boy emerge than he had believed still lived within the man.

  “Our church.” Angel nodded toward a squat stone and adobe building with a bell tower. “It has no bell now. The bell was taken away before my grandfather’s grandfather could remember. But on clear nights when the wind is right we hear it ringing, calling to the old people who were here before.”

  He was, Pike guessed, talking to steady himself, to loosen the tension that had been building in him ever since San Carlos. He looked behind with a challenging caution for the riders, then led them down through the grass.

  They were discovered. A cry went up and everybody vanished as had the children of San Carlos, running out of the village on the far side and into the thick timber. An older woman threw her skirt high, grabbed for the hand of a young girl, towed her several steps, stopped and turned back.

  Angel rode toward her, frowning. She stood waiting, tears flooding her cheeks.

  Angel asked, “Madre? Rocio? What?”

  The older woman reached for his leg, buried her head against it. She tried but could not speak. The young girl’s eyes were dark, fearful. She was beautiful, perhaps thirteen.

  “Angel. Whom have you brought here?”

  “Comrades. Friends. Why does our mother cry?”

  “For our father. The soldiers caught him and killed him.”

  Angel snapped, “What soldiers? When?”

  “Three days ago. Huerta’s army. We ran away but some were caught. Padre was caught. They asked where the gold was hidden. He said he knew of none and they shot him. They tortured two others. One died. One will not walk again.”

  A bent old man was suddenly there, catching the mother, pulling her back from Angel. His voice held a sharp command.

  “Get in the house, Carmen. Rocio, too. Vamos.”

  The girl bolted. The mother followed, her skirt thrown up over her face. The old man looked from Angel to the riders and back.

  “It is these that you ride with now, my grandson? Why do you bring them here?”

  Angel’s mouth had been forming words but none had come. Pike kneed his horse abreast.

  “For food, Grandfather. We’ve come a long way on an empty gut.”

  The old man’s laugh was short, sharp.

  “Others were here before you. Like locusts.”

  Angel suddenly found his voice but it was hoarse, grating.

  “The man who killed the padre? His name, abuelo?”

  The old man shrugged, turning away.

  “What matter? He is dead.”

  From the far side of Angel, Dutch growled, “There’s got to be something to eat here. These people don’t look to me like they’re starving. What do we have to do, use guns to get a measly frijole?”

  Angel put up a quick, restraining hand. The villagers had been slipping back, recognizing Angel, moving up in a curious circle. He raised his voice.

  “We last ate two days ago. Our food was a snake. Is there no corn left in the caves?”

  There was a general shy smiling. The old man nodded. He looked up at Pike, extending a hand.

  “Angel forgets his manners. He does not introduce his friends. I am Don José. You are our guests.”

  “Pike Bishop.”

  He took the hand. He was anxious to get out of the saddle but there were rules to observe if you wanted to enter these villages peacefully. He stepped down and his men followed suit. Angel named them one after another, then called to a handful of boys to take the horses, water them and shut them in the pole corral.

  They walked in a group to the house. Angel sank again into a black gloom. But now Don José’s hospitality flowered fully. He called through the door for Carmen to feed the guests, asked Rocio for tequila. The girl brought the skin and he patted her arm, told Pike’s men she was Angel’s sister.

  Tector and Lyle Gorch took off their hats, bowed to Rocio and tried to talk to her.

  They knew no Spanish and she no English. A sign language developed quickly and when Don José led the other men to seats on the shady side of the house, the Gorches stayed behind.

  • There seemed a magic to the village. Its cool beauty was in sharp contrast to the brutal country the bunch had ridden through. The girl was plainly innocent, open, friendly. At any other place or time Lyle and Tecto
r would have had her between them and devil take a man who interfered. Now they stood bashful, captivated, laughing with her like boys her own age.

  Dutch sat relaxed, watching the village come back to life. He saw tequila appear in other houses and guessed a sort of celebration of Angel’s return home was in progress. Three Mexicans returned to the job the arrival of strangers had interrupted—they were trying to put a shoe on one of their tiny mules. They were laughing, half drunk, enjoying the tussle as the mule kicked, bucked and fought them.

  The magic touched Dutch. He pushed erect and went to help, throwing a hammerlock around the little animal’s head to hold it still. It tossed and dumped him into the dust and brought a howl of laughter from up and down the street. He picked himself up sheepishly, joined the laugh and tried again.

  Pike Bishop leaned back in his seat between Sykes and Don José, eyeing the show. Women had built a fire, brought out a fresh kid, run a spit through it and hung it to broil, taking turns spinning it slowly over the flames. Their chatter was low, musical. It reminded him of the sound of Angel’s guitar. The smell of the cooking made his stomach rumble. He took another drink of tequila, passed it to Don José, savoring the scene. It was a place like this that he wanted finally to find for himself.

  He saw Tector and Lyle. They had found a place under a spreading tree and squatted on either side of Rocio, earnestly trying to learn as she demonstrated with a thong how to make a cat’s cradle. Their gun hands were clumsy at the childrens’ game.

  Don José was watching them too.

  Pike said wryly, “Hard to believe.”

  “Not so hard.” Don José drank and wiped the neck of the skin with the palm of a brown hand. “We all dream of being children again—even the worst of us—perhaps the worst most of all.”

  Pike squinted at him. “You know us then?”

  The old man’s eyes followed Carmen as the girl’s mother, at the fire, discovered her daughter between the Gorch brothers. She doubled her fists on her hips.

  She called out, “Miha—trigame agua por los frijoles—”

  The girl jumped to her feet and ran to pick up the olla. The brothers followed her, grinning, taking the jar from Rocio’s hand and walking docilely with her to the stream. The mother watched them go, shrugged and turned back to her mixing bowl.