Gringos by Charles Portis

Author:Charles Portis
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2011-01-03T16:00:00+00:00

ON TO Ektún in the potato chip van. The plan was that Refugio and I would drop Gail off there and then make our way down to Tumbalá along the rivers. We would catch a boat ride on the Usumacinta, as Rudy must have done. The van stood high off the ground and did well enough in the water. The hydraulic brake system was out, and Refugio had to work the hand brake and hold the wheel and shift gears, all three things, with his two hands.

Doc was glowing. “What shall we find today?” he said. He seemed to think we were off on a dig. I had tried to persuade him to stay behind at the salvage yard. He could do Refugio a real service there, sorting out his relics and appraising them, but no, he was determined to make one last venture into the forest. “My last entrada,” as he put it. He sat up front beside Refugio, holding Ramos between his knees and calling him Chino.

Dry season or not, a shower of rain was falling when we reached the ruins. The place was deserted. Refugio fired two shots in the air. We went from tent to tent and found no one. The motorcycle was gone. Ramos barked at a wooden box in the mess tent. Refugio kicked it over and a big diamond-back palanca came tumbling out, or what they called a nauyaca around here. In any case, a fer-de-lance, who righted himself in no time. He stood his ground, with his head rolling about and his jaws flung open about 160 degrees. Don’t tread on me! Ramos, still yapping, shied back, as did we all, except for Refugio. With one hand he tossed a rag over the snake’s head and with the other he grabbed the tail and popped him like a whip, cracking his neck. Snakes take a good deal of killing as a rule, it’s a long business, but this one was stone dead, and all at once.

Doc and Gail waited inside out of the drizzle while I went down to search along the river bank. At least the mosquitoes were grounded. I took my shotgun, slung muzzle-down from my shoulder. Soaked or dirty, the old L. C. Smith had never failed me, with its exposed hammers and double triggers. It was simple and sure. The only firing mechanism I knew of with fewer moving parts was that of a mortar, with none. Refugio looked around in the woods behind the camp. I turned up nothing. He found two Lacondón Indians hunkered down in the old steam-bath chamber. They were drinking cans of beer and smoking long cigars they had rolled themselves.

He marched them back to the mess tent and questioned them sharply in their own lingo. Why had they not shown themselves? Did they not hear us calling out? The gunshots? The dog barking?

It was raining. They were waiting out the rain.

Where was everybody? Where were all the arqueos?

Gone away for a time. To Palenque or some other town.

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