Death Rattle

people.”

Slowly the blacksmith’s eyes crawled to the Indian. From there he glanced at Purcell and Adair both crumpled on the ground, bleeding. Then his eyes quickly danced over some of the soldier bodies scattered across the compound. Those black, forbidding eyes that so reminded him of Emile Sharpe’s glare eventually came back to rest on the old trapper.

“That nigger’s gotta go down afore we leave here,” Kersey observed as he peered at Adair and Purcell.

“I give you one of the women,” the blacksmith offered with a shrug. “Go, whore!” and he shoved the muzzle of his pistol against the back of her head.

She stumbled forward a step and froze, her eyes wide with terror as she turned slightly to gaze at the Mexican.

“We are leaving with both of them,” Bass warned, just as he spotted the Indian guide going into a crouch. “Frederico—don’t move! This one, he is mean. If you do anything stupid, he will kill your sister.”

“S-sister?” the blacksmith echoed.

Titus’s gut sank with the realization he’d made a terrible mistake.

The Mexican asked again, “This one I will keep is the Indian’s sister?”

Titus shook his head. “We’re taking both—”

“No, gringo. I give you the sister and we keep the other whore.”

“Both.”

“Maybe … they are both sisters, eh?” The big Mexican’s eyes squinted cruelly.

“You give us both, or we kill you,” Titus said. “There’s many more whores at the mission. You can have them to keep—”

“Si, there are so many Indian whores at the mission,” the blacksmith interrupted. “Why don’t you gringos get some whores from the padres there—just the way the holy friars give us women for our beds. And when we need more women, the friars give us all we need, the ones do not work hard enough in the vineyards.”

Scratch took a tentative step forward. “Why do you need other women when you already have—”

With a loud, harsh gush of laughter, the blacksmith rocked his head back quickly, then said, “Women do not always last. Some get hurt very bad when our play with them is too rough. Then we can no longer use whores who are hurt so bad. And,” he shrugged, “some of the whores, they kill themselves if they get the chance—grab a gun or knife to hurt themselves badly. Ah, the holy fathers know not to ask any questions when we go to them to ask for more Indian whores from the mission!”

Sure as hell those men of God didn’t ask, Titus brooded. This was nothing short of a deal made between the devil and his evil minions themselves. At every California mission the soldiers kept hundreds of Indian slaves terrorized and docile for those self-righteous Franciscan friars, while the padres repeatedly turned over an array of the youngest, prettiest Indian girls to the army posts. Appeared that the friars and the soldiers both had something the other needed badly. And with their most unholy bargain, a peaceful colonial order was struck in this new world.

“When the soldiers come back,” Titus said, “go get some others. Can’t you see how you’ve used these women up?”

“What?” roared the blacksmith. “They are not dead yet! Go away before I have to kill them just for fun while I have myself poked inside one. A geniazo whore is bound to die sooner or later anyway!”

In a frightening blur, Frederico dove forward, tackling Celita, both of them spilling to the side at the Mexican’s feet. At this moment Mayanez twisted in the blacksmith’s grip and planted the fingers of both hands into his face, unmindful of the slashing he did along her forearms with his knife. She screamed in pain—but dug her claws into his face even more fiercely as she kicked and thrashed with her tiny bare feet. The Mexican shrieked in his own torment.

Backwards he stumbled as Kersey and Bass lunged forward.

“Stay down!” Titus yelled at Frederico as he rushed toward the blacksmith. “Get her out of here!”

Another step backward the blacksmith stumbled, desperately attempting to hack the shrieking woman from his flesh. Up and down his face, neck, and across his chest she scratched, ripping ribbons of crimson on his brown skin. With the two Americans closing in the big Mexican roared in pain and desperation, seizing a handful of Mayanez’s black hair. He yanked her head back and shoved the pistol into her face.

“NO!”

But just as Titus reached the blacksmith, the Mexican pulled the trigger.

The back of the woman’s head exploded, bright blood splattering the Mexican, Titus, and even Elias Kersey too.

With a shriek of horror, Celita tried to grab for her brother, but an enraged Frederico sprang to his feet and flung himself on the blacksmith at the moment Bass was diving under that huge hand gripping the knife. Together they thrust the Mexican back against the adobe wall with a loud grunt.

Back and forth Titus raked his skinning knife across the soldier’s gut, slicing deeper and deeper with each heave of the bone-handled weapon. Gut spilled at their feet, the two trappers slipping, stumbling in the blood and greasy coil as the Mexican slowly, slowly slid downward, his back pressed against the wall.

The stench was heavy and foul, nothing new to Bass. Both trappers inched back. Kersey knelt to pull Mayanez’s body away from the blacksmith as the Mexican’s half-lidded eyes gazed up at Titus.

For a moment he stared down at his riven belly, the pile of dirty intestine between his legs, blood flooding his uniform breeches; then his glazing eyes fought to focus on Scratch.

“Chaguanoso, eh—I think women only bring the trouble for a man. See how it is with me? The women, they only bring big, big trouble for a man.…”

With a rush the air escaped the Mexican’s chest, making that distinct and unmistakable rattle Titus had heard more times than he dared count. Years and years, surrounded by sudden, capricious death.

Behind him, Frederico and Celita crouched over Mayanez’s body.

Scratch turned to Kersey. “Get me a blanket, Elias.”

With the gray soldier blanket, Frederico and Celita wrapped up their dead sister while Bass and Kersey went over to join Corn and Coltrane by the wounded Adair and Purcell.

“Gonna use your belt, Silas,” Scratch said as his fingers worked at the buckle.

When Roscoe had his friend Adair propped up, Titus dragged the scabbard and a small pouch from the belt, then stuffed the wide strap under Silas’s thigh, a few inches above the dark smear of blood. Once the end of the belt was back through the round buckle, Titus tugged it tight, then half-hitched the strap under itself to secure the tourniquet.

“I lost lotta blood,” Adair groaned in a weakened whisper, his head sinking back against Coltrane’s chest.

“You ain’t gonna die here,” Scratch said. “Less’n you want me to leave you.”

“Silas? Die here? With a bunch of dead Mex’can soldiers?” Kersey chortled, his s’s whistling as he clearly did what he could to cheer up Adair. “Now that’d be a yank on the devil’s short-hairs!”

Bass turned to give his attention to Purcell. “How’s Rube?”

With Jake Corn’s help, the skinny man pulled the tail of his shirt up even farther so Titus could see for himself. “Well, damn-me, Scratch, if that ball didn’t go right on through. An’ that’s the preacher’s truth.”

“The man’s nothing but bone and sinew-strap anyway,” Corn declared. “If a ball don’t hit him in a bone, you ain’t gonna hurt this nigger none.”

“That’s the narrow truth of it,” Purcell said.

Scratch nodded. When he stood, Titus flexed his back, suddenly aware of his own raw flesh wound once more. “Wrap him up, Jake. Me and Roscoe gonna boost Silas into the saddle. We best be making tracks for the hills.”

On his own, Elias cleared out the long, low-roofed stables, driving what few horses and mules remained in their stalls out to the central placita. Celita and Frederico tied their sister over one of the soldier horses while Bass and Coltrane got Adair hoisted into his saddle and settled with a startled grunt of agony. Titus studied the thigh one last time, not finding any new blood dampening the crusty buckskin around the bullet hole.