Danaher broke in, “Jordan’s still with him?”
De Spain nodded. “He was when they left. You see Digo kept it up, looking like a crazy man the way he was pleading, and finally Phil said, ‘All right, we’ll ride out.’ He looked at me then and said, ‘But you tell ’em I’m coming back!’ ”
“I don’t think he’ll be that obliging,” Danaher murmured. “What kind of a start did they have?”
“Not two hours,” De Spain told. “But Tindal and Stedman should slow them down some.”
Danaher’s eyes showed surprise. “They’re along?”
“They were here when Digo came in,” De Spain said. “They tried to leave but Phil held them and said, by God, if he was running then they were too. They argued and pleaded until Phil pulled his gun and told them he wasn’t going to hear any more.” De Spain shook his head. “They were a couple of sorry sights riding off with him.”
Danaher said, “But Earl Beaudry wasn’t there?”
“I haven’t seen him in four days.”
“They didn’t say where they were going?”
“No. They couldn’t go toward Sun-D because you were coming from that direction. Though it seems to me as they were going out Digo said something about circling around to Sun-D and seeing who’s about, then meeting Sundeen later.”
“I hope he does,” Danaher said. “He’ll find three men there I’m sure of. Three of mine.”
Later on, while they were in the Metropolitan eating—Frye, Danaher, and the Sonoita and Canelo deputies sitting at a table together—a man came in from the street and went straight to Danaher.
“John”—he was excited and grinning, eager to see Danaher’s reaction—“you sure must live right. Those three boys you mentioned watching Sun-D…they just brought in Digo!”
They walked across the street, pushing through the men crowding in front of the jail. Frye went in first, seeing Dandy Jim and then Digo, Digo sitting in a chair against the wall and a man standing close to him on both sides; but Danaher stopped in the doorway. He told the men outside to go over to De Spain’s and take it easy.
Turning, he looked at Digo, then to the two men guarding him. “Go have a drink, boys.”
They moved reluctantly and one of them said, “John, maybe you’ll need a hand,” glancing at Digo as he said it.
“I got two of my own,” Danaher told him. “Close the door behind you.” He waited until he heard it slam and then he removed his coat, not taking his eyes from Digo who sat low in the chair watching him. Danaher folded the coat deliberately and draped it over the chair by the desk.
Frye half sat on the edge of the desk with one foot on the chair. Dandy Jim stood near him. Frye moved slightly as Danaher lifted his revolver and placed it on the desk, then watched Danaher as he moved toward Digo again.
“Where’d they go, horsebreaker?”
The Mexican’s chin was close to his chest, but his eyes were lifted watching Danaher and he did not answer.
Danaher stepped closer. “Where did they go?”
Digo did not move, looking up at Danaher sullenly.
“Once more. Where did they go?”
“Gimme a cigarette—”
He was saying it as Danaher hit him; his head snapped back and his eyes came full awake and he put his hand to his face.
“When I ask a question, you answer it.”
“I don’t know where they went.”
“You were to meet them.”
“No, we split up.”
“You were to check for riders and then meet them.”
Digo shrugged. “You know so much, why ask me?”
Danaher hit him again, his right fist landing solidly against Digo’s cheek.
“The next time I’ll knock you out of the chair.”
Digo’s hand covered the side of his face. “We did not have a place to meet.”
“Maybe you’ve just forgotten it.”
“Maybe that’s it.”
“Be careful, Digo.”
“Listen…I don’t know where they went!”
“You were to meet them tonight.”
“There was no plan.”
Danaher glanced at Frye, who had not moved from the desk and was smoking a cigarette now, and then to Dandy Jim. “We got a boy,” Danaher said to Digo, “who could pick up their sign within an hour.”
Digo shrugged. “All right.”
“We’re giving you a chance to square yourself.”
“I didn’t ask for favors.”
“If you helped of your own accord, Judge Finnerty would go light on you.”
“Go to hell.”
Digo saw it coming and brought his shoulder around, but Danaher’s right hand tightened in the air and the left hand swung viciously against the exposed side of Digo’s face. The chair went over and Digo sprawled on the floor.
He came to his hands and knees slowly, his eyes raised to Danaher. And as he brought his legs under him, he lunged. Danaher was waiting. He shifted his weight and his right hand swung like a mallet against Digo’s head. The Mexican staggered and Danaher hit him with the other fist. Digo gasped as Danaher found his stomach. He tried to cover, but Danaher’s fists broke through his guard. A jab to the head straightened Digo and a right cross slammed him against the wall.
Danaher picked up the chair, then helped Digo into it.
“I was saying, it would be easier on you if you cooperated.”
Digo’s mouth was bleeding and he touched his jaw, moving it gently.
“We’re trying to help you.”
“You know where you can put that,” Digo muttered.
Danaher’s arms were folded; but suddenly they uncoiled and his right fist lashed back-handed across Digo’s face.
“First we want proper respect. Then the right answers.”
Digo held his sleeve to his mouth, wiping it gently. “I can tell you nothing.”
“Maybe,” Danaher stated, “they went north.”
“I don’t know.”
“Over toward Tubac?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or South. To La Noria.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“First to La Noria, then over the border.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I’ve got more of it to waste than you have.”
Digo’s eyes stayed on the sheriff, but he said nothing.
“You know why?”
Digo shook his head. “Why?”
“Because before Christmas you’ll be dead.”
Digo shrugged.
“You’ll hang for taking part in that lynching…even though it wasn’t your idea.”
“Maybe it was.”
“Why should you protect Phil Sundeen?”
“He pays me.”
“His old man pays you.”
“One or the other—”
“What will you do after we hang Phil?”
“You won’t hang him.”
“Why not?”
“He has influence.”
“All right,” Danaher said, “then we’ll hang you and shoot him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll give orders to shoot him on sight. Sound asleep, taking a bath or sittin’ in the outhouse, shoot him…and then bring him in.”
Digo was silent. “But,” he said finally, “you have to find him first.”
“Which brings us around again,” Danaher said. “Maybe you were to meet him somewhere on Sun-D land.”
“He didn’t say.”
“In a line shack.”
“He didn’t say.”
“Let’s try the Huachucas.”
Digo nodded. “All right.”
Danaher’s face tightened. “Watch yourself.”
“You don’t scare me.”
Danaher stood close to him, looking down and both fists were clenched. “Digo, before the night’s over I’ll break you.”
“I can wait.”
Danaher moved a half step
and his fist slammed into Digo’s chest. He tried to rise, Danaher letting him, but it was momentary. Digo was pushing up, both hands on the arms of the chair, and Danaher hit him again, in the stomach and then in the face, standing in close, keeping Digo pinned against the chair, now driving both fists, grunting as he hit the Mexican, not hurrying because Digo could no longer defend himself. And when he stepped back Digo sunk into the chair, his arms hanging over the sides, and did not move.
“I’ve had them that tough before,” Danaher said, moving to the desk. “Not many hold out.”
Frye said, “He won’t tell you anything if he’s dead.”
“If he won’t alive,” Danaher said, “then what difference does it make?”
“Dandy Jim asked me what you were doing. I told him and he said, ‘There are many better ways to do it.’ ”
“I was giving him a chance, not like the Apache does it,” Danaher said. “He could fight back any time he wanted.”
“If he could get out of the chair.”
“Don’t you approve, Kirby?”
“It’s none of my business.”
Danaher looked at him, trying to read more than was on Frye’s face, then he picked up his coat. “I’m going across the street.”
“Maybe I’ll work on him while you’re gone,” Frye said.
Danaher studied him again. “You do that, Kirby.” He went to the door, but looked back before opening it. “Let me know if he tells, huh?”
When the door closed, Frye went to Digo. He pulled him forward in the chair, then stooping, let Digo fall across his shoulders. He stood up and this way carried the man up the stairs, into the cell that the two Mexicans had occupied and lowered him to the bunk. He stepped into the hall and poured water into a cup from a canvas bag that was hung there for the prisoners, then returned to Digo and raised his head gently to let the water trickle between the man’s swollen lips.
Digo’s eyes opened. His hand went to the cup and he emptied it drinking thirstily.
“More?”
“A little.”
Frye returned with the cup filled and handed it to him. He made a cigarette while the man drank and lighted it and when Digo handed him the cup he offered the cigarette. Digo took it hesitantly, then inhaled and blew out the smoke slowly.
“When do you take your turn?” Digo asked.
“Do you think I should?”
“You have a good opportunity.” Digo’s eyes raised to Frye. “If it was the other way around, if I was in your shoes, I’d take a turn.”
“Danaher’s doing all right.”
“He’s doing too good.”
“Just keeps it up, doesn’t he?” Frye said.
“I think he must be crazy.”
“That’s the way he is when he makes up his mind to something,” Frye said. “He stays with it. Good for his word.”
“He doesn’t scare me.”
“Then you’re in for some more.”
“That’s all right.”
“John gets mad and he keeps most of it inside…for a while. Then he has to blow off steam, like poking his fist through a door. The less you talk, the madder he gets.” Frye paused. “But this time he’s lucky.”
“What do you mean?”
“He can blow it off on Phil.”
“If he finds him,” Digo said.
“There’s nothing to that,” Frye said. “You saw that Coyotero boy. He’s the best tracker ever read sign. It would just be a matter of time.” Frye grinned. “With old Danaher getting madder and madder.”
“You mean that about shooting him on sight—”
“You think he was kidding? Listen, that man’s word is gospel.”
“I thought he was just talking.”
“Danaher doesn’t just talk.”
Digo shook his head. “If he’s so sure of getting him why does he question me?”
“It could save him a day or two if you told.”
“Giving Sundeen that much more time.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Frye said. “Phil doesn’t have a chance. And all the time the steam’s building up in Danaher.”
Digo was silent. He said angrily then, “This is none of his business! Why is he here?”
“Just to help out.”
“Why don’t you do your own work?”
“If he wants to help out it’s all right with me.”
Digo looked at Frye intently and asked, “Would you shoot him on sight?”
“Well, I’ve got no reason to.”
“You’d try to arrest him for trial?”
“Probably.” He knew what Digo was thinking, that if Sundeen stood trial he would most likely get off with little more than a fine. Digo had used the word influence before and there was truth to that.
“This is your territory. Would Danaher let you handle it yourself?”
“If I asked him.”
“Listen.” Digo was breathing heavily and his face was alive with what he was about to say. “It would be senseless for him to die just because Danaher is a madman.”
“Go on.”
Digo said it quickly. “If you promise to handle this yourself I’ll tell where he is.”
“How do you know you can trust me?”
Digo shook his head violently. “Keep Danaher off of Phil…swear it to God or I won’t tell you!”
Frye stooped close to Digo. He said quietly in Spanish, “Where is he, man?”
“Promise in the name of God—”
Frye nodded. “I promise.”
But Digo hesitated. His swollen face was strained and he closed his eyes as if in pain. “Give me another cigarette,” he said, relaxing. He took it from Frye and smoked it down as he convinced himself that this was the right thing. Keep Phil alive. Perhaps it would break some of him, but it would keep him alive. He rolled toward Frye and whispered close to his ear, even though they were alone in the cell.
Danaher closed the door behind him as Frye came down the stairs.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs.”
“Did you work on him?”
Frye nodded, and he could see that Danaher was keeping himself from smiling.
“Did he tell where Phil is?”
Frye nodded again. “La Noria. You guessed it once yourself, John.”
Danaher stared. There was nothing he could say.
10
“They got no business coming here,” Earl Beaudry said.
Behind him, sitting at the table, the woman watched him as he stood in the doorway looking past the deserted bandstand with its grayed wooden awning to the row of two-story adobes across the square. One of these was the La Noria Cantina and lettered on the weathered expanse of wall next to it was the one word, MOCTEZUMA. Now, in the evening dusk, with rain clouds approaching, the word was obscure, losing its meaning in the fading light, though its form stood out against the pale adobe.
The woman watched him and said nothing. This was her adobe, hers alone since the death of her husband three years before; though when Earl Beaudry came she assumed a different role: the sub-missive role she had known so well when her husband was alive. When this mood was on him it was better not to speak at all unless he asked a direct question.
“Why did they have to come?” Beaudry muttered.
Her eyes lifted, looking at the back of his head. No, that was not a question expecting an answer. He was talking to himself. It was bad when he was in this mood. Like Sunday night when he had beaten her for no reason at all. But he was good to her, too. He brought printed cloth…and flour and chocolate and—One learned to accept the good with the bad. Sometimes though, she was thinking now, it was better to speak out, then take the beating and it would be out of his system.
She was a handsome woman, firmly built, and the part of her blood that was Tarahumare showed strong in the clean dark features of her face.
“As long as they are not in this house,” the woman said, “what difference does it make if they are here?”
 
; Beaudry turned from the door, not answering her question, but came to the table and lifted the mescal bottle that was there and poured some of it into the glass he held. He had been drinking the mescal all day and it showed in his eyes and in the way he breathed with his mouth open, the corners of his mouth filmed with the colorless liquor. He returned to the doorway and looked across the square as he sipped the mescal, and now it began to rain.
“What difference does it make if they are here?” the woman said again.
“Just keep still.”
“It would be less cold with the door closed,” and as she said it she wondered if this might not be going too far. But he did not turn and now she knew that whatever it was that bothered him was a grave matter.
She was a simple woman and she said, “Are you thinking of your wife?”
This time he looked at her. “God, no!”
Then it was something else. Often, when he was silent and did nothing but drink mescal, she believed he was thinking of his wife, thinking that it was too bad she existed. Men did that, she knew. Even unattractive men such as this one. They felt that their wives were great weights and if they could be free of them they would be men again.
This one came here thinking himself irresistibly virile (until he slipped into his black mood), reliving a part of him that had been dead for a dozen years. Even being a simple woman she could see the kind of man that he was: at home, speaking words to his wife only when it was necessary and sentences only when they were arguing; but most of the time silent, thinking what a great beast she was, a dumb-eyed animal without feeling, a woman who no longer knew what it was to be a woman, and no longer cared. These were the men who never looked at themselves, yet wandered from home.
Even when he came here picturing himself something else, the Mexican woman knew this about him; but she did not mind it and she thought of it little, having learned to accept the good with the bad. She did feel obligated to respect him. A man from the village had told her Señor Beaudry owned…how many?…thousands of varas of land. And he did no work! Something was said how he allowed others to use the land and they paid him for it. But, the woman would think, it is too bad he isn’t attractive.
Beaudry turned now and said, speaking to himself more than to the woman, “He’s over there lappin’ it up, not caring a damn what happens.”