Country of the Bad Wolfes

One afternoon in the early spring, anchored off a reef so far offshore that the coast was but a thin dark line on the horizon, the twins spied a large sloop bearing toward them from the north. It had been one of those rare mornings when they had not raised any sharks in any of the usual areas. So they had tried farther out but remained luckless until mid-afternoon when they happened on this reef, and the last of their chum raised a horde of shark fins. To lessen the chance of entangled lines in such a rich lode of sharks, they reeled in two of them and left only one on each side of the boat. They had landed and finned one shark and were reeling in the second one when they saw the coming sloop.

They knew of the bitterness some of the fishermen felt toward them and had been wondering how long it would be before some crew tried to do something about it. They brought in the shark, a nine-foot mako, and shot it and hauled it onto the deck. Then made ready for the approaching boat. When they were all set they turned back to the mako and finned it. They waited till the other vessel was close enough to see what they were doing before pitching the carcass over the side.

The other boat was half again as big as theirs. A man at the bow raised a hand and hollered, “Que tal, amigos!” The twins stood at either end of the little cuddy and grinned widely and returned his wave and kept their hands in sight of the other crew. The Colts were tucked into their waistbands at the small of their backs, and the Winchesters, with bullets chambered and hammers cocked, were leaning against the cabin side where the other crew couldn’t see them.

The boat dropped its sails and came abeam of the Marina Dos with about fifteen feet between them, the two vessels bobbing on the gentle swells. The pilot worked the rudder to keep the boat in place. Fishnets hung gathered on their upraised beams, dripping silver in the sun.

“Hola, jovenes,” called the man at the bow. The twins took him for the captain. He looked down at the sharks tearing up the carcass in the churning red water, then looked at the twins, his smile brilliant against his dark face. “Tiburoneros, eh?”

That’s right, one twin said. Shark is all we go after. “Y ustedes?”

Oh hell, the captain said, anything we can catch. Sometimes this, sometimes that, sometimes something else. We saw your boat and we thought maybe there are fish here and we catch some too, so we take up the nets and get here quick, but . . . shark? He made a face of disgust and shook his head.

There were four of them, including the pilot and captain, the other two standing amidship at the near side— and the twins were sure they’d seen still another two duck behind the cabin as the boat closed in. Low-voiced and without looking at his brother or losing his smile, James Sebastian said the two at the near side likely had weapons at the ready below the gunwales. “Sneaky sonofabitches,” Blake Cortez whispered through his own smile.

We heard a shot, the captain said. You shoot the shark, eh? I don’t see no gun. What kind of gun you have?

An old beat-up thing. We keep it in the cabin except for when we need it so it doesn’t get any rustier than it is.

Very smart, the man said. And then in a voice of different sort said, Tell me, do you take only the fins?

That was the signal. The captain ducked below the gunwale as the pilot reached behind a high coil of mooring line and the two men at the near side stooped to take up their muskets and the two behind the cabin rose up with their muskets ready and fired the first shots. One ball bit nothing but the sea on the far side of the Marina Dos and the other glanced off the cabin roof in a spray of splinters and passed so close to James Sebastian’s ear he heard its hum as he and Blake snatched up the Winchesters. Then the twins were shooting and shooting as fast as they could work the levers. They shot the two men at the near side before they could raise their muskets and shot the pilot—whose pistol discharged into the deck as he staggered backward and went heels over head into the water—and they shot one of the men on the other side of the cabin in the face and he spun into the gunwale and lost his balance and screamed as he too fell overboard and they shot the other one in the neck and he slumped against the cabin roof and Blake shot him in the crown this time and the man spasmed off the cabin and onto the deck.

The twins stopped firing but still held the carbines ready. Not ten seconds had elapsed between the first shot and the last. The powdersmoke carried away on the breeze. The only sounds were the swashings of the ravening sharks, the flappings of loose sails, someone moaning. An open hand showed itself above the rail near the bow and the captain called out that he was unarmed, he swore it, he wanted to surrender. All right then, James Sebastian said, stand up. Don’t shoot me, for the love of God! the captain cried. We won’t, James said, now get up. The man raised himself just high enough to peek over the rail and James Sebastian shot him through the eye.

The boat began to drift from them, and they saw now its name was Marta. Somebody on it yet moaning. Blake set down his rifle and picked up a grapple line and whirled the end of it over his head like a lasso and sent the grapple lofting onto the other deck and quickly took up the slack until the hooks snagged the gunwale. James Sebastian helped him pull the other boat toward theirs, which was held fast on her anchor. When the Marta was within a few feet of them, Blake made the grapple line fast to a cleat. James Sebastian retrieved their axes from the cabin and tossed them into the other boat, and with Colts in hand they jumped over onto it.

The moaning man was one of two still alive, the two who’d been standing at the rail. Please, the man said, please. He’d been shot in the arm and the thigh. The thigh wound was streaming blood he was trying to stem with his good hand. This wasn’t my idea, he said, believe me. I didn’t want anything to—Blake Cortez shot him square in the heart.

The other one had been hit in the stomach. His hands were tight on the wound and his face clenched against the pain. Bastards, he said. Sons of whores. Blake Cortez smiled and cocked the Colt but James Sebastian said, “Hold on, Black.” Then said to the wounded man, You should not speak of our mother that way.

Oh yeah? What are you going to do, you bastard, shoot me? The man gasped through his grimace. Well, do it, you son of a whore! Go on! Shoot me, whoreson!

Shoot you? James Sebastian said. He grinned. Then yanked the man up by his shirtfront and propelled him toward the rail, the man screaming in pain and the horror of what was happening—and then he was in the air and falling in a flail of arms and legs into the riot of jaws.

They took the axes below decks and applied them to the hull. The in-rushing water was to their waists before they clambered topside and slung the axes into the Marina Dos and freed the grapple and leapt back onto their deck. The Marta sank stern first in five fathoms and settled on the reef to become roost to all manner of marine life.

They knew the boat had encountered them by chance. There was no way its crew could have known beforehand where the Marina Dos would be working—the twins themselves rarely knew where they would go to fish for shark until they were under sail. Whatever suspicions about the Marta’s disappearance might obtain among the crew’s friends and family, there was no evidence whatever to implicate them, the White Twins. Oh yes, they were aware of the name they were known by. Los Cuates Blancos. They liked it.

How many now? They did not know nor care. They had decided it was silly to keep count of men killed. Nor did they feel misgiving. In their view, any man who intended harm to them was simply another kind of crocodile, another kind of shark.

So would they pass two years. One month collecting crocodile hides for Mr Sing, the next collecting fins. They never failed to meet their quota and rarely required more than two weeks to do it. They took care of business during the first half of each month, spent a few days in Veracruz, then returned to Ensenada de Isabel. As they requested, Mr Sing always paid them half in gold specie, half in currency—paper money the Diaz banking system had made as sound as the bullion and silver that backed it. Because they had few expenses, they each month added a large portion of their earnings to the strongbox they kept wrapped in a tarpaulin and buried at the jungle’s edge behind the house. They spent their time at the cove exercising their talents with guns and knives, practicing hand- to-hand fighting techniques. They grew so skilled at silent movement through the forest they could close to within ten feet of a deer before it was aware of them. In the evenings, they talked, played cards, drank beer of their own brewing. They read. And always, during the last days of every month, they made the promised visits to their father. It was a simple and regimented life, and had it lasted to the end of their days it would have been fine with them. But they well understood that the only certainty in life other than their faith in each other was that things could