Vengeance Creek

since.

Shaye entered the back room and heard snoring. It was dark, and while his eyes adjusted, he followed the sound and found the sleeping Colon.

“Rigoberto.”

The man didn’t move.

“Berto!”

This time he followed with a kick to the ribs, not hard, but enough to wake up most sleeping men. Unfortunately, Rigoberto Colon was no normal sleeping man.

“Damn it,” Shaye said.

By this time his eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room. He located a bucket and took it to the back door. He went outside, walked to a horse trough, filled the bucket, and brought it back into the room. He stood above Colon and upended the bucket, pouring the contents over the Mexican’s head.

Colon came to with a roar and then a sputter. He was sleeping on the floor, so when he rolled over he simply traveled across the floor a few feet before coming to a stop and sitting up.

“Wha—Who—Hijo de un carbon—”

“Wake up, Berto!” Shaye shouted.

The man looked up and squinted at Shaye through the gloom. “Senor Shaye?”

“That’s right, Berto,” Shaye said.

Colon looked down at himself, then back up at Shaye again with a confused look on his face.

“Que pasa?” he asked. What happened?

“I needed to wake you up,” Shaye said, showing the Mexican the empty water bucket. “You were sleepin’ pretty good.”

“I am all wet.”

“Well,” Shaye said, “get dry and I’ll buy you some breakfast. Meet me out front. I have a proposition for you.”

As Shaye passed the bar on the way out, Baker asked, “Did you find him?”

“He’ll be along,” Shaye said. “Don’t give him anything to drink.”

“Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

“I mean it.”

Baker put both hands up in a gesture of surrender and said, “I gotcha, Sheriff.”

Shaye went outside to wait for Colon.

Rigoberto Colon wolfed down a plate of steak and eggs while he listened to Shaye’s proposition.

“I owe you much, senor,” Colon said when Shaye was finished, “but…why me? I am but a humble borracho.”

“That may be so,” Shaye said, “but you were not always a drunk, Berto. When you’re sober, you’re a dead shot, and you can track.”

“Si, that is true,” the Mexican said, “but I am drunk now.”

“I think,” Shaye said, “what you need is a reason not to be.”

Colon washed down a mouthful of food with a huge swig of coffee, then pushed the plate away from him.

“Perhaps you are right, senor,” he said, “but what would this reason be? Money, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Shaye said, “but I was thinkin’ more of this—if you let my sons get killed, you will live to regret it.”

Colon thought a moment, then said, “Si, I can understand where that would be a muy bien reason, senor.”

Shaye leaned forward and looked at the man intently.

“However,” he said, “I’d rather you do this because I’m askin’ you, Berto, and because you owe me.”

Colon sat back in his chair and heaved a great sigh.

“Si, senor,” he said, “but I will need a gun, and a horse, and I will need—”

“I’ll get you everything you need, Berto,” Shaye said. “What I need is you, to help back up my sons. Do we have an agreement?”

He extended his hand across the table.

“Si, senor,” Colon said, accepting the hand and shaking it, “we have a bargain.”

31

Shaye considered giving Colon some money to buy supplies, but decided not to risk it. The Mexican might just go and spend it on whiskey. Instead he took him to a nearby bathhouse, paid for him to have a bath, then told him to come to the office when he was finished.

“Don’t make me come lookin’ for you, Berto,” he added.

“No, senor,” Colon said, dreading the bath, “I will not.”

Shaye left him there and went back to the sheriff’s office, to find his sons waiting for him.

Shaye listened while his sons related to him the events of the past hour or so.

“So we really couldn’t see anything unusual about the horses’ tracks in the stalls,” Thomas said, “and James looked over their horses and couldn’t find anything.”

“Did they have the same brand?”

Thomas and James exchanged a glance. James had lifted the horses’ legs to inspect the hooves because he thought he might see something there, but neither brother had inspected the brand on either horse. Shaye knew this from the looks on their faces.

“Okay, it doesn’t matter,” Shaye said. “You have to get on the trail or it’s gonna be too cold to follow.”

“When should we leave, Pa?” Thomas asked.

“Within the hour. Get yourselves outfitted to spend a lot of time on the trail. You both remember last time.”

“Yes, Pa,” James said. “We remember.”

“Pa,” Thomas said, “we don’t have a posse.”

“I got you some help.”

“You did?” James said.

“Who did you get?”

The door opened at that moment and the gunsmith, Ralph Cory, entered. He was carrying a rifle, saddlebags, and was wearing a gun belt.

Thomas and James both looked at their father expectantly.

“Boys, this is Ralph Cory,” he said. “Cory, my sons—and deputies—Thomas and James.”

Thomas approached Cory with his hand out. “I’m Thomas. You’re the gunsmith, right?”

Cory shook hands, looked past Thomas at Shaye for a moment, then said, “That’s right.” Obviously, he’d expected Shaye to have told his sons who he really was by now.

“Glad to meet you.”

James also shook hands with Cory.

“Is this what you meant when you said you got us some help?” Thomas asked Shaye, then said to Cory, “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Yes,” Shaye said, “Mr. Cory and one other man.”

“One more?” James asked. “Four of us?”

“Better than just the two of you,” Shaye said.

“Pa,” Thomas said, “we can handle this.”

“Thomas,” Shaye said, “what were the brands on those horses again?”

Thomas looked down and James looked away.