Blood Sky at Morning

“What is your name?”

“Her name,” Chama said, “is Carmen Delgado. She is the wife of Julio Delgado.”

“You know her?”

“I have seen her before,” Jimmy said. “In the jail at Taos. She was bailing out her husband, Julio, who had beaten her up the night before.”

“Is this true?” Zak asked Carmen.

“He did not mean it. Julio gets loco sometimes. When he drinks too much.”

“Julio stole tiswin from a Chiricahua and killed the man he stole it from,” Chama said. “I tracked him to Taos.”

“You didn’t arrest him?”

“I tried. Nobody would listen to me. Julio is a bad man, a killer.”

Carmen’s eyes flashed. “Mentiroso,” she spat, her eyes blazing. “You liar,” she said in English.

“It is true,” Chama said. “The Apaches would like to see Julio hanged, or if they could get their hands on him, they would cut him into many pieces.”

“Well, Carmen,” Zak said, “looks like Julio run off and left you here by yourself.”

“He come back,” she said.

“Was he one of those who painted himself like an Apache?”

“I no tell you nothing,” she said.

Chama stepped in close and glared at her.

“Answer the questions,” he said. “Maybe he won’t kill you.” He spoke in Spanish, but Zak understood every word.

“That’s good advice, Carmen,” Zak said. “You want to live, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer.

Zak picked up the clay pipe, held it front of her.

“You want to dream again, don’t you?” he said.

Her eyes flashed, burned with need, with longing. Then they returned to their dull dead state as her shoulders slumped. She seemed resigned to the hell she was probably going through, but her lips pressed together in defiance.

“Just tell me their names, Carmen,” Zak said, “and you can fill your pipe.”

“They are friends of Julio,” she said.

“They work for Hiram Ferguson, don’t they?”

Her eyes widened and flashed again. “You know they do.”

“Tell me their names.”

Chama put the snout of his pistol up against Carmen’s temple. He thumbed the hammer back. The double click sounded like a lock opening on an iron tomb. Silence filled the room as the blood drained from Carmen’s face.

“They have gone,” she said. “You will not catch them.”

“No matter. But I want to know their names. There were six of them. Julio was one of them.”

“Yes,” she spat. “Julio is their leader. He is a very strong man. If you go after him, he will kill you.”

“The names,” Zak said.

Chama pushed the barrel of his pistol hard against Carmen’s temple. She winced and licked dry lips with a dry tongue.

“No matter to me,” she said. “Hector Gonzalez and his brother, Fidel. Renaldo Valdez, Jaime Elizondo, and Manuel Diego. They ride with Julio.” She paused, then said, “Give me the pipe.”

Chama eased the hammer down to half cock and pulled the pistol away from Carmen’s face. But it still pointed at her.

“I think you’ve had enough opium, Carmen,” Zak said. “Now, we’re going for a little ride.”

“Where do we go?” she said.

“To the next one of these adobe way stations, then to Tucson. To find Julio.”

“He will kill you,” she said, and as Zak threw the pipe down on the dirt floor, a shadow of a sadness came into her eyes and her dry tongue laved her lower lip.

“Saddle a horse for her, Jimmy, will you? Let’s get the hell out of here, out of this stink.”

The adobe reeked with the stench of whiskey, opium fumes, stale bread, and moldy tortillas. But there was also the lingering scent of pipe tobacco and burnt powder from the Sharps. Zak picked up the rifle, examined it. There was a dent in the receiver’s action, a dimple that kept it from ejecting unless force was used. Apparently, he thought, Carmen didn’t have the strength to force the breech open. And she was not even a good shot.

“Why would Julio leave you here all by yourself?” Zak asked her after Chama had taken saddle, bridle, and