The Wild Bunch Read online

  The old man cackled, turned back to Pike and picked up the conversation.

  “No, I don’t know you. I know myself only—where I have been—what I have done.”

  Pike, feeling a strange kinship here, smiled faintly.

  “Like to ride with us, old man?”

  For an instant Don José’s eyes flashed. Then they dulled.

  “I am too old.” He nodded toward Sykes. “Too old to ride even with this ancient one.”

  Sykes reached for the skin, lifted it in salute.

  “Hell, you ain’t so old, partner. It’s what you know that counts, not the years.”

  Angel had stayed apart from the older men, deep in his brooding, eaten by the sense that he should have been here to protect his father. He moved suddenly, stood above Don José.

  He asked in a flat tone, “What soldier shot my father? What was his name?”

  The three looked up at the tight face. Don José shrugged elaborately.

  “There were many. Who shot? Your father resisted like a man and he died like a man. Names are of no importance.” He glanced at Pike and said proudly, “I killed one of them.”

  Pike arched an eyebrow and the old man’s eyes fell.

  “I lie—I ran.”

  Sykes thrust the skin of liquor at him.

  “Joe, by God, I like a man who tells the truth.”

  Angel was not to be distracted.

  “If you do not know who fired the shot—who was the leader? Mapache?”

  Don José nodded reluctantly.

  Angel said softly, “That name is enough. I will settle with Mapache.”

  Don José wanted to argue but did not know what to say. Pike spoke into the breach.

  “They were federal troops. They were supposed to take care of you.”

  The old man’s tired eyes flicked in quick anger.

  “Federal troops is what they call themselves. Commissioned by the traitor Huerta. They killed seven men here. They took our horses, our cattle, everything that was not hidden—all in the name of Huerta the killer of our President Francisco Madero. In Mexico, señor, these are the years of sadness.”

  Angel, his question answered, had turned to his next important interest, searching among the women around the cooking pit. He swung back to his grandfather, misgiving in his voice.

  “Teresa. Where is she?”

  Don José had been waiting for that moment, dreading it.

  “Gone.”

  He spoke without inflection.

  “They took her?”

  Don José shook his head. He did not know how to ease the blow.

  “No. She went with them because she wanted to. She became the woman of Mapache—and others. She went with them laughing, drunk with wine and love.”

  Angel stepped back. He looked as if he wanted to grab the old man’s neck and choke him. But with a gasping, wordless cry he turned and fled.

  The tequila passed from Don José to Sykes. The old outlaw drank slowly and handed it to Pike. Don José’s voice came sadly across their drinking.

  “To him she was a goddess to be worshipped with music and flowers—a diety to be followed and adored. But Mapache knew she was a mango, ripe and waiting.”

  Sykes spat a stream into the dust.

  “So Angel lives with the dream while Mapache eats the mango.”

  “Just so.” Don José peered keenly at Pike. “You have been there? With the dream?”

  Pike’s grin held no humor as he thought back to the past.

  “Many times. And with the mango too.”

  Sykes chuckled.

  “You just bet he has, Joe.”

  Pike’s mouth twisted. “I could never hold a candle to you, old timer.”

  Don José smiled, feeling a warmth stir something in him that had been cold for years.

  “And which do you prefer, the dream or the taste?”

  Embarrassment roughened Pike’s tone. “I dream when I sleep. And eat when I’m hungry.”

  Sykes laughed aloud and Don José’s toothless grin spread wide.

  “Just so—the both of you. And Mapache. And I.”

  All of them fell silent, watching as Angel’s sister with Tector holding one elbow gently, Lyle carrying the olla, came from the stream toward the fire, the village children dancing behind them.

  “The damned war,” Don José barely whispered aloud. “The damned life.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The afternoon and evening in Angel’s village were good. These people were timeless. They were like flowing water churning briefly at obstacles, then flowing on. They had lived with grief and sorrow for a thousand years. When the chance came they sang and danced. It was a way of living that Pike Bishop understood.

  The frijoles were plump, fat, boiled until they had a mealy texture. The chili was fiery, satisfying. The meat was tender, rich and filling.

  He picked a tortilla from the smoking stack Carmen brought to the ramada, rolled it into a cone and scooped beans into his mouth. He ate slowly, savoring, like a man who has known hunger long enough to appreciate food, washing it down with swallows of mescal that dribbled from the corners of his lips and down his bearded chin.

  Life was good again.

  Dutch finished. Don José ate sparingly. Tector and Lyle had put their bowls down. They put on a belching contest that drew a general laughter and submitted to Rocio’s teasing. She began to teach them a Mexican reel.

  Pike was amused that Sykes had dug out his harmonica and joined the guitars and castanets that played for them. It had been a long time since he had heard Sykes play a harmonica. He found himself wondering where Thornton was at the moment.

  Not that it mattered much. Deke would either come or he wouldn’t.

  Showdown.

  A girl they called Carmelita brought him more roast goat. He caught her wrist and pulled her down beside him and kissed her with his greasy mouth. She pulled back but he held her, sliding a hand under her skirt, up the fat leg. Her body tensed. Then she laughed and pressed against him.

  His eyes met Don José’s eyes across her plump shoulder. Pike saw the old man laughing at him and grinned back. The girl was a tease. As Pike’s grip on her loosened she jumped away, pirouetted and whirled into Angel as he came around the corner of the house.

  He put out a quick hand, caught her and held her until she found her balance. But he did not actually see her. His eyes were hot on his grandfather. His voice came intently.

  “Tell me, where is Mapache?”

  “Why do you want to know? Because of your father or the whore?”

  The boy’s fists tightened at his sides. He was fighting within himself. Pike tried to help him.

  “Mapache doesn’t matter, kid. Remember, our business is in Agua Verde.”

  For a moment Angel looked as if he would explode. Then he nodded.

  “As you say, jefe. To Agua Verde and our business.”

  He walked away, straight and stiff. Don José waited, then spoke in a low, quick slur.

  “Take care of him if you can, señor. Go with God.”

  • In the morning the bunch lined out down the western face of the mountains. It was easier than the harsh trail they had known.

  The whole village had turned but to see them off. Pike saw Dutch shaking hands with the blacksmith. Tector and Lyle hovered over Rocio, first one kissing her, then the other and all of them laughing. Pike had pulled out of line to sit his horse beside Don José as the bunch strung past. Lyle and Tector had taken over the remuda, Dutch and Sykes walked their horses side by side with Angel at the head, the handsome young face returned to its opaque stillness.

  “Take care of him.” Don José’s eyes followed the boy. “The young are fools.”

  Pike said nothing. He raised his hand and put his horse after the others. Angel was riding with them on equal terms. Pike would side him if he could. That was the law of the bunch—the only law he had ever honored. But the law did not require a man to keep another from hurting himself.
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br />   They camped that night on the high desert that stretched to the west. The timber of the hills and the streams were far behind. Here was nothing but greasewood, rocks, cactus, miles of waste sand. They built their fire, ate what food the village had sent with them. They slept and the next day the village was the memory of an oasis.

  Their minds were not turned back. They looked ahead. They passed small ranchos separated by empty miles, dead places from which the occupants had fled. They did not pause. The scavangers had already looted here. The bunch put its hope in Agua Verde.

  There would be food in the town, liquor, women. An excitement built up in them as they neared the place. They laughed, called jokes back and forth, made plans. Even Sykes showed a subdued glow.

  Angel alone remained remote and cold like the mountain tops that rimmed the desert. Pike noted him and said nothing.

  Finally the town was before them. Dun-colored buildings blended with the dun ground. An ancient mud wall surrounded the community.

  The bunch rode through the gate into a large central plaza cooled by the shade of trees. Pike dropped down, favoring the leg that was hurting again. He unfastened his makeshift stirrup from the saddle, examined it closely, found it sufficient until he could replace it and attached it again.

  Tector and Lyle watered the remuda two at a time, took the animals under a tree and tied them together on a line around the trunk, then stretched out in shade to ease the cramp of long riding. Sykes walked through the plaza casually, reconoitering.

  The place was filled with soldiers, a majority of them collected in small groups about the entrance of a cantina. Pike looked them over under cover of his concern with his stirrup. They were about what he had expected. The soldier of the Mexican revolution was not a prepossessing figure. Most were peons gathered off the land as the army moved, forced into service at bayonet point. Few had any interest in the political tug of war that swayed back and forth as the leaders gained or lost advantage.

  Dutch, too, surveyed the square with an experienced thoroughness, then sighed in relief.

  “Plenty of soldiers. But not a bounty hunter in sight.”

  Pike nodded. “We’ll go get us a drink, see what the lay looks like, then try to sell the horses.”

  Sykes had wandered back. He looked skeptical.

  “Who do you think would buy?”

  “We’ll find out.” Pike called Angel over. “Go talk to somebody, find out who’s in charge, then stay close with us.”

  Two Mexican boys had gravitated to the remuda in obvious envy. Angel sauntered to them, smiling, tipping his head toward the cantina.

  “Are many soldiers in town today.”

  They studied him in silence. Few in Agua Verde wanted to be caught discussing the soldiers. The older one shrugged.

  “There are many.”

  He moved to turn away.

  “A moment, amigo. What is the name of their commander?”

  Neither boy was anxious to answer. They had watched Angel ride in with the outlaws and recognized that the rest of the party were Americans from the north.

  “You have business with him?”

  “That’s right.”

  The boys nodded down the street. “He comes now.”

  Angel turned. He had heard the noise but had paid no attention. A huge cloud of dust filled the gate. It rolled through and finally he made out the shape of a touring car. It pulled up at the edge of the street before the cantina as running, shouting children followed and surrounded it. Dogs ran in and out of the pack barking in excitement and fright.

  The dust began to settle. Two men were in the front seat, four in the rear. The two in front hopped out almost before the car quit moving. Guards on horseback rode up, two on either side, scattering the children, shoving them back. One of the men from the front seat opened the rear door and stood at attention.

  A fat man in the uniform of a Mexican general climbed out. He was followed by his companions. For a moment the four milled, brushing dust from the general’s clothes and from their own.

  The boy behind Angel said softly, “There is the commander you want. El Mapache.”

  Angel’s eyes glowed, centered on Mapache, judging him, weighing him. He spoke without turning.

  “The others?”

  A bitter hate made the boy abandon his caution.

  “The one at his side is Zamorra, his second in command. The one in white linen is Mohr, a German military adviser. Behind Mohr is his aide, called Earnest.”

  Angel could not pull his eyes from the group.

  “Why are the Germans here?”

  “Quien sabe? To help the thief rob the people, I guess, although he’s a past master at it by himself.”

  Pike’s group, too, watched the touring car speed in, watched the general hurl instructions at the mounted guard, then swagger at the head of his entourage into the cantina, leaving the men from the front seat to whip out cloths and begin wiping the car.

  Angel walked back to Pike, his hand slowly clawing and straightening, swinging near his gun. His face was rigid, bleak.

  Pike asked, “Mapache?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  Angel repeated the names. The Gorch boys, disturbed in their rest, came up. Lyle sounded awed.

  “Now that’s a damn fancy rig, ain’t it? I’d like a look at that.”

  “Let’s go,” Pike said. “But mind your manners.”

  They crossed the plaza idly and made a loose group on the sidewalk, examining the car without crowding too close to it. The men wiping it ignored them.

  Sykes said, “Pike—I heard they got one up north that can fly.”

  “Yeah?” Pike was intrigued. “I seen one just like this one in Waco.”

  Lyle asked in a knowledgeable tone, “Run on steam?”

  “Nope,” Pike shook his head. “Alcohol or gasoline.”

  Tector was looking at Sykes in contempt. “That wasn’t no auto you heard about, old man. That was a balloon.”

  “He’s right.” Pike came to Sykes’ defence. “They got them now with motors and wings—cover sixty miles in less than an hour. Going to use them in the war, they say.”

  “Ah—” Tector did not believe him.

  “They got them.” Pike was sure of himself. “This car here could go maybe thirty miles in an hour, according to the road of course.”

  “That could run a horse right into the ground.”

  Dutch let it show that he was impressed. Pike shrugged.

  “On a good road, sure. But these automobiles can’t take rough ground or hot sun like a horse. They’re for show mostly.”

  Tector brushed past and ran a finger over the near fender. A mounted guard jumped his horse forward, cursing in Spanish. Tector jerked his hand away, backed away.

  He said sullenly, “I was just touching the damn thing. I don’t want to marry it.”

  Even Angel’s concentration on Mapache was forgotten for the moment. His eyes glistened up at the guard.

  “A giant of a machine.” His admiration was genuine. “What force it must have.”

  The guard relaxed, grinning. “The force of a hundred horses, amigo.”

  Angel’s eyes widened and then narrowed sharply.

  “The general owns it? He must be a man of great importance.”

  “Mapache.” The guard was more pleased. “He is the greatest. He is more than a general. Some day he will rule all of Mexico.”

  “Is that all that he wants?” Angel smiled upward.

  There was no warmth in the smile. The guard did not understand but Pike did. As Angel made a slow turn toward the door of the cantina, he caught the boy’s shoulder, roughly pulled him back.

  “Partner, remember you’re here with us. Any business you think you have with the general—save it for after we finish ours, which is to sell our horses.”

  Angel shrugged, saying softly, “As you wish.”

  Pike still held him.

  “I mean what I said. Yo
u make one move that causes us trouble and I’ll kill you. Understand? We stick together.”

  “I understand.”

  Dutch’s face had a musing quality, his attention still on the car. It was passing through his mind that they might steal it. His only doubt was that he had no idea how to make it go.

  Pike read the thought and touched Dutch’s arm. He did not want problems.

  “Come on. Let’s go inside, get some beer and talk to this general about his automobile and our extra horses, Dutch—nice and easy.”

  He had not let go of Angel’s shoulder. He turned and steered Angel toward the doorway. The others fell in behind. No one protested.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The cantina was big for the size of the town. It was crowded. Almost all of the men were in uniform but there were bright spots of color in the girls. Camp followers, Pike guessed, lured away from their homes by the excitement of war.

  He stopped just inside the doorway, noting how the groups were positioned, judging the order of the day here, feeling for the mood. A generally festive atmosphere seemed to prevail.

  Voices and music made an overriding din. A small mariachi band wandered from table to table, playing and singing folk songs. A few horses were stabled at the rear of the big room and a blacksmith was working at a forge to one side.

  Mapache and his top men sat at a table in a covered area raised above the other levels. Near the center of the room a clutch of men rose from a table and left the cantina. Pike and his bunch moved to the vacated table.

  Their passing caused a stir, a focus of attention and a breeze of tension in the air. Pike felt it and ignored it, walking as if he owned the place.

  At the general’s table the conversation stopped and all heads turned on the group as it found chairs. The German, Mohr, leaned toward Mapache, obviously asking a question.

  Mapache reared back, spread his hands, lifted his heavy shoulders, then reached out to pinch a pretty waitress as she passed him. The waitress continued to the outlaws’ table, a tin tray tucked into her armpit. She gave them a broad, meaningless smile, pointed between her large breasts.

  She said, “Emma.”

  Pike looked her over boldly, returned the smile and said, “Pretty one—beers, Emma. Six cervezas.”