Hay whiskey en Tucson, said Mangas.
Sin duda, said the judge. Y soldados tambien. He put forward his horse, his rifle in one hand and the reins in the other. Glanton moved. The horse behind him shifted into motion. Then Glanton stopped.
Tiene oro? he said.
Si.
Cuanto.
Bastante.
Glanton looked at the judge then at Mangas again. Bueno, he said. Tres dias. Aqui. Un barril de whiskey.
Un barril?
Un barril. He nudged the pony and the Apaches gave way and Glanton and the judge and those who followed rode singlefile toward the gates of the squalid mud town that sat burning in the winter sunrise on the plain.
The lieutenant in charge of the little garrison was named Couts. He had been to the coast with Major Graham’s command and returned here four days ago to find the town under an informal investment by the Apaches. They were drunk on tiswin they’d brewed and there had been shooting in the night two nights running and an incessant clamor for whiskey. The garrison had a twelvepound demiculverin loaded with musketballs mounted on the revetment and Couts expected the savages would withdraw when they could get nothing more to drink. He was very formal and he addressed Glanton as Captain. None of the tattered partisans had even dismounted. They looked about at the bleak and ruinous town. A blindfolded burro tethered to a pole was turning a pugmill, circling endlessly, the wooden millshaft creaking in its blocks. Chickens and smaller birds were scratching at the base of the mill. The pole was a good four feet off the ground yet the birds ducked or squatted each time it passed overhead. In the dust of the plaza lay a number of men apparently asleep. White, indian, Mexican. Some covered with blankets and some not. At the far end of the square there was a public whippingpost that was dark about its base where dogs had pissed on it. The lieutenant followed their gaze. Glanton pushed back his hat and looked down from his horse.
Where in this pukehole can a man get a drink? he said.
It was the first word any of them had spoken. Couts looked them over. Haggard and haunted and blacked by the sun. The lines and pores of their skin deeply grimed with gunblack where they’d washed the bores of their weapons. Even the horses looked alien to any he’d ever seen, decked as they were in human hair and teeth and skin. Save for their guns and buckles and a few pieces of metal in the harness of the animals there was nothing about these arrivals to suggest even the discovery of the wheel.
There are several places, said the lieutenant. None open yet though, I’m afraid.
They’re fixin to get that way, said Glanton. He nudged the horse forward. He did not speak again and none of the others had spoken at all. As they crossed the plaza a few vagrants raised their heads up out of their blankets and looked after them.
The bar they entered was a square mud room and the proprietor set about serving them in his underwear. They sat on a bench at a wooden table in the gloom drinking sullenly.
Where you all from? said the proprietor.
Glanton and the judge went out to see if they could recruit any men from the rabble reposing in the dust of the square. Some of them were sitting, squinting in the sun. A man with a bowieknife was offering to cut blades with anyone at a wager to see who had the better steel. The judge went among them with his smile.
Captain what all you got in them saddlegrips?
Glanton turned. He and the judge carried their valises across their shoulders. The man who’d spoken was propped against a post with one knee drawn up to support his elbow.
These bags? said Glanton.
Them bags.
These here bags are full of gold and silver, said Glanton, for they were.
The idler grinned and spat.
That’s why he’s a wantin to go to Californy, said another. Account of he’s done got a satchel full of gold now.
The judge smiled benignly at the wastrels. You’re liable to take a chill out here, he said. Who’s for the gold fields now.
One man rose and took a few steps away and began to piss in the street.
Maybe the wild man’ll go with ye, called another. Him and Cloyce’ll make ye good hands.
They been tryin to go for long enough.
Glanton and the judge sought them out. A rude tent thrown up out of an old tarp. A sign that said: See The Wild Man Two Bits. They passed behind a wagonsheet where within a crude cage of paloverde poles crouched a naked imbecile. The floor of the cage was littered with filth and trodden food and flies clambered about everywhere. The idiot was small and misshapen and his face was smeared with feces and he sat peering at them with dull hostility silently chewing a turd.
The owner came from the rear shaking his head at them. Aint nobody allowed in here. We aint open.
Glanton looked about the wretched enclosure. The tent smelled of oil and smoke and excrement. The judge squatted to study the imbecile.
Is that thing yours? Glanton said.
Yes. Yes he is.
Glanton spat. Man told us you was wantin to go to Californy.
Well, said the owner. Yes, that’s right. That is right.
What do you figure to do with that thing?
Take him with me.
How you aim to haul him?
Got a pony and cart. To haul him in.
You got any money?
The judge raised up. This is Captain Glanton, he said. He’s leading an expedition to California. He’s willing to take a few passengers under the protection of his company provided they can find themselves adequately.
Well now yes. Got some money. How much money are we talking about?
How much have you got? said Glanton.
Well. Adequate, I would say. I’d say adequate in money.
Glanton studied the man. I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you, he said. Are you wantin to go to Californy or are you just mouth?
California, said the owner. By all means.
I’ll carry ye for a hundred dollars, paid in advance.
The man’s eyes shifted from Glanton to the judge and back. I like some of having that much, he said.
We’ll be here a couple of days, said Glanton. You find us some more fares and we’ll adjust your tariff accordingly.
The captain will treat you right, said the judge. You can be assured of that.
Yessir, said the owner.
As they passed out by the cage Glanton turned to look at the idiot again. You let women see that thing? he said.
I dont know, said the owner. There’s none ever asked.
By noon the company had moved on to an eatinghouse. There were three or four men inside when they entered and they got up and left. There was a mud oven in the lot behind the building and the bed of a wrecked wagon with a few pots and a kettle on it. An old woman in a gray shawl was cutting up beefribs with an axe while two dogs sat watching. A tall thin man in a bloodstained apron entered the room from the rear and looked them over. He leaned and placed both hands on the table before them.
Gentlemen, he said, we dont mind servin people of color. Glad to do it. But we ast for em to set over here at this other table here. Right over here.
He stepped back and held out one hand in a strange gesture of hospice. His guests looked at one another.
What in the hell is he talkin about?
