prodded, or dogs. That was why Joey followed him, roped him, and cut off his hands and feet with the machete, so that he would not prod his mother on all fours again.
The railroad man was not so guilty, but he looked a little like Benito, which was his misfortune.
His mother didn't even know that Joey had seen her, in her shame, or that he had followed Benito and killed him.
Later, in a cooler mood, Joey went back and got his pistols. He shot the bleeding railroad man at close range, ten yards away. Then he rode back to the train. He had never been on a train, and was curious about it. The men he had killed must have some possessions. There might be things he would want, among their baggage.
What he found far exceeded his expectations.
Three of the men had Winchesters, fairly new.
Winchesters he could sell.
Besides the rifles he found two watches, a nice knife, a razor with ivory sides, a little shaving brush, and some soap that smelled like the soap a woman might use. The soap surprised Joey. The men were just men, not clean, not neat. He wondered which one had used the fancy soap.
He also found three hundred Yankee dollars, in gold. Finding the money stunned him.
Three hundred dollars was more than all the people in the village of Ojinaga had, put together. It was more money than he had ever expected to see. And yet this was just a poor train, carrying a few hundred sheep.
If such a train yielded several guns, the knife, the razor, the watches, the nice-smelling soap, and the three hundred dollars, what would he find if he robbed a train with many people on it? What if he robbed a train with rich gringos on it? What would they have?
Joey had only killed the men to try out his new rifle. He had not been particularly interested in robbing the train. But now that he had robbed it, he began to think it might be interesting to rob a better train, a train with wealthy people on it, people who would own interesting things.
Once Joey had combed through the men's effects again--he had missed two coins and a nice pocketknife--he prepared to ride away, into Texas. When they discovered the bodies they would expect him to go into Mexico, but they did not think very well, the Texans. He thought he might go to San Antonio and buy things with his new money.
As he prepared to ride away, he paused for a moment to consider the sheep. There were several hundred of them stuffed into the hot boxcars. The day was very hot, and the sheep had no water, no food. If he didn't let them out, or if someone didn't find the train, all the sheep would be dead.
Joey thought about letting the sheep out; he could use them for target practice. He could let them graze a few hundred yards away and pick them off with his great gun, pretending they were gringos. But his ammunition was limited. He did not have cartridges to waste on sheep. His brother, Rafael, lived with sheep and goats. He would have brought them into the house, if his mother had permitted it. Rafael, with his curly, dirty hair, looked like a sheep. He sang like a sheep, too. His little songs were like bleats. Teresa defended Rafael fiercely. Once, when Joey was teasing him, she had managed to grab a knife and stick him in the shoulder, through his shirt.
Because Teresa was blind, he had underestimated her.
When he laughed at Rafael, Teresa grabbed the knife and struck at the sound. Joey knocked her down and kicked her, but the damage was done.
She had made a hole in his shirt. It was a new shirt, too, one that he had bargained for in Presidio. It was a shock, to discover that a blind girl could be so quick.
Remembering Rafael and Teresa and his ruined shirt hardened Joey's mind toward the sheep.
He did not let them out. He merely whistled at them a few times, as he loped beside the cars that held them prisoner.
Seven hundred and twelve sheep died in the boxcars. The cars were covered with buzzards when the railroad men found the train. The sky was so black with buzzards that they could be seen for fifty miles. The men from the railroad had to wrap wet blankets around their heads in order to be able to run in and disconnect the cars that held the hundreds of dead and melting sheep. The buzzards were so thick around the sides of the cars that the men had to beat them away with clubs. The couplings of the cars were fouled so badly that some men fainted and some ran away. They could not breathe long enough to work the couplings loose. Finally, they had to be content with taking the engine, and even that was covered with buzzards.
'You know how flies will swarm on meat,' Goodnight told Call. Goodnight had been in south Texas at the time and took an interest in the incident.
'Yes, they swarm,' Call said.
'I'm told the buzzards swarmed on that train like big flies,' Goodnight said. 'The Garza boy wasn't known at the time, but it sounds like him, to me. Not too many people would ride off and leave seven hundred sheep to die.'
'Seven hundred and twelve,' Call said.
'Well, I wasn't there to count, so I don't know why they think they know that,' Goodnight said. He was often annoyed by Woodrow Call's pedantry, when it came to matters of that sort.
'I expect the railroad knew beforehand--that's probably how they got the figure,' Call said.
'Then I doubt it was accurate,' Goodnight said. 'I never met a railroad man who could count animals on the hoof, particularly sheep.' 'Sheep all look alike,' Call said.
'That ain't my point,' Goodnight said.
'An animal's an animal. The problem is, most people can't count accurately. I never met a railroad man who could count the legs of a three-legged cat.' The more Goodnight thought about human incapacity, of which he had witnessed a great deal, the more he warmed to his subject.
'I can't say that it's just railroad men,' he said. 'People can't count animals. I am one of the few that can.' 'What's the most you ever counted in one count?' Call asked. The man's irascibility had always put him off slightly,
