down at the town, the quiet adobe houses, the line of green oaks and cottonwoods that marked the course of the river, the plaza filled with wagons with their osnaburg covers and the whitewashed public buildings and the Moorish churchdome rising from the trees and the garrison and the tall stone powderhouse in the distance. A light breeze stirred the fronds of his hat, his matted greasy hair. His eyes lay dark and tunneled in a caved and haunted face and a foul stench rose from the wells of his boot tops. The sun was just down and to the west lay reefs of bloodred clouds up out of which rose little desert nighthawks like fugitives from some great fire at the earth’s end. He spat a dry white spit and clumped the cracked wooden stirrups against the mule’s ribs and they staggered into motion again.
He went down a narrow sandy road and as he went he met a deadcart bound out with a load of corpses, a small bell tolling the way and a lantern swinging from the gate. Three men sat on the box not unlike the dead themselves or spirit folk so white they were with lime and nearly phosphorescent in the dusk. A pair of horses drew the cart and they went on up the road in a faint miasma of carbolic and passed from sight. He turned and watched them go. The naked feet of the dead jostled stiffly from side to side.
It was dark when he entered the town, attended by barking dogs, faces parting the curtains in the lamplit windows. The light clatter of the mule’s hooves echoing in the little empty streets. The mule sniffed the air and swung down an alleyway into a square where there stood in the starlight a well, a trough, a hitchingrail. The kid eased himself down and took the bucket from the stone coping and lowered it into the well. A light splash echoed. He drew the bucket, water dripping in the dark. He dipped the gourd and drank and the mule nuzzled his elbow. When he’d done he set the bucket in the street and sat on the coping of the well and watched the mule drink from the bucket.
He went on through the town leading the animal. There was no one about. By and by he entered a plaza and he could hear guitars and a horn. At the far end of the square there were lights from a cafe and laughter and highpitched cries. He led the mule into the square and up the far side past a long portico toward the lights.
There was a team of dancers in the street and they wore gaudy costumes and called out in Spanish. He and the mule stood at the edge of the lights and watched. Old men sat along the tavern wall and children played in the dust. They wore strange costumes all, the men in dark flatcrowned hats, white nightshirts, trousers that buttoned up the outside leg and the girls with garish painted faces and tortoiseshell combs in their blueblack hair. The kid crossed the street with the mule and tied it and entered the cafe. A number of men were standing at the bar and they quit talking when he entered. He crossed the polished clay floor past a sleeping dog that opened one eye and looked at him and he stood at the bar and placed both hands on the tiles. The barman nodded to him. Digame, he said.
I aint got no money but I need a drink. I’ll fetch out the slops or mop the floor or whatever.
The barman looked across the room to where two men were playing dominoes at a table. Abuelito, he said.
The older of the two raised his head.
Que dice el muchacho.
The old man looked at the kid and turned back to his dominoes.
The barman shrugged his shoulders.
The kid turned to the old man. You speak american? he said.
The old man looked up from his play. He regarded the kid without expression.
Tell him I’ll work for a drink. I aint got no money.
The old man thrust his chin and made a clucking noise with his tongue.
The kid looked at the barman.
The old man made a fist with the thumb pointing up and the little finger down and tilted his head back and tipped a phantom drink down his throat. Quiere hecharse una copa, he said. Pero no puede pagar.
The men at the bar watched.
The barman looked at the kid.
Quiere trabajo, said the old man. Quien sabe. He turned back to his pieces and made his play without further consultation.
Quieres trabajar, said one of the men at the bar.
They began to laugh.
What are you laughing at? said the boy.
They stopped. Some looked at him, some pursed their mouths or shrugged. The boy turned to the bartender. You got something I could do for a couple of drinks I know damn good and well.
One of the men at the bar said something in Spanish. The boy glared at them. They winked one to the other, they took up their glasses.
He turned to the barman again. His eyes were dark and narrow. Sweep the floor, he said.
The barman blinked.
The kid stepped back and made sweeping motions, a pantomime that bent the drinkers in silent mirth. Sweep, he said, pointing at the floor.
No esta sucio, said the barman.
He swept again. Sweep, goddamnit, he said.
The barman shrugged. He went to the end of the bar and got a broom and brought it back. The boy took it and went on to the back of the room.
A great hall of a place. He swept in the corners where potted trees stood silent in the dark. He swept around the spittoons and he swept around the players at the table and he swept around the dog. He swept along the front of the bar and when he reached the place where the drinkers stood he straightened up and leaned on the broom and looked at them. They conferred silently among themselves and at last one took his glass from the bar and stepped away. The others followed. The kid swept past them to the door.
The dancers had gone, the music. Across the street sat a man on a bench dimly lit in the doorlight from the cafe. The mule stood where he’d tied it. He tapped the broom on the steps and came back in and took the broom to the corner where the barman had gotten it. Then he came to the bar and stood.
The barman ignored him.
The kid rapped with his knuckles.
The barman turned and put one hand on his hip and pursed his lips.
How about that drink now, said the kid.
The barman stood.
The kid made the drinking motions that the old man had made and the barman flapped his towel idly at him.
Andale, he said. He made a shooing motion with the back of his hand.
The kid’s face clouded. You son of a bitch, he said. He started down the bar. The barman’s expression did not change. He brought up from under the bar an oldfashioned military pistol with a flint lock and shoved back the cock with the heel of his hand. A great wooden clicking in the silence. A clicking of glasses all down the bar. Then the scuffling of chairs pushed back by the players at the wall.
The kid froze. Old man, he said.
The old man didnt answer. There was no sound in the cafe. The kid turned to find him with his eyes.
Esta borracho, said the old man.
The boy watched the barman’s eyes.
The barman waved the pistol toward the door.
The old man spoke to the room in Spanish. Then he spoke to the barman. Then he put on his hat and went out.
The barman’s face drained. When he came around the end of the bar he had laid down the pistol and he was carrying a bung-starter in one hand.
The kid backed to the center of the room and the barman labored over the floor toward him like a man on his way to some chore. He swung twice at the kid and the kid stepped twice to the right. Then he stepped backward. The barman froze. The kid boosted himself lightly over the bar and picked up the pistol. No one moved. He raked the frizzen open against the bartop and dumped the priming out and laid the pistol down again. Then he selected a pair of full bottles from the shelves behind him and came around the end of the bar with one in each hand.
The barman stood in the center of the room. He was breathing heavily and he turned, following the kid’s
