Scalpers by Ralph Cotton

Author:Ralph Cotton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2015-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

A few remaining Mexican elders sat in a row on a short adobe wall and watched as the Ranger rode the last few hundred yards into their smoldering village. An empty water bucket lay on its side at one old man’s feet. His feet and sandals were blackened from the soot of the windswept fire. Behind the elderly villagers, all that remained were a few roofless adobes. A loose corner of the livery barn roof—the only tin roof in town—flapped and rattled on a gust of wind like the tongue of a lunatic.

When the Ranger stopped his horses, an old man stood up, a relic of a Spanish muzzleloader rifle in hand, and picked at the seat on his blackened peasant trousers. He rolled the bucket away with his bare foot and stepped forward.

“Buenos dias, señor,” the old man said, keeping the barrel of the ancient muzzleloader lowered. He swept a hand toward the smoldering village. “Bienvenido.”

A woman’s voice behind the old man said in Spanish, “Tell him it was gringos like himself who set fire to our homes.”

The old man looked troubled at the woman’s request and scratched his head.

“Yo hablo español,” Sam said, letting the man off the hook.

“Ah, he speaks our language,” the man said to the others in border English. He looked relieved at not having to translate.

“These men who burned your town,” Sam said, “were they young men dressed in buckskins—lots of breastwork on their shirts?”

“Ah yes,” the old man said. “They rode in and took up with the bad element of our village, the Perros Locos. They eat much cocaine and drink much whiskey. Then they burn our town and leave.” He shrugged as if struggling with the random insanity of it. “What did we do to them?”

“You did nothing,” Sam said. He swung down from his saddle, his rifle in hand, and walked forward carrying a canteen of water he’d taken from its loop around his saddle horn.

The old man took the canteen as Sam held it out.

“Gracias, señor,” the old man said, eyeing the badge on Sam’s chest behind his open duster lapels. “I am Ramon Decarias.”

“I’m Arizona Ranger Sam Burrack,” the Ranger said. He knew the village still had water—he saw a waterwheel and a donkey twenty yards away. Yet his was a gesture of kindness, and the villagers knew it. They stood up slowly and drew closer to the canteen as the old man drank and passed it around.

“You can fill your canteens at the well,” the old man said, pointing off to the low stone wall where the donkey stood at the wheel. The animal had gone back into harness the moment the fire and smoke died down.

“Gracias,” Sam said. “These Perros Locos,” he asked, “how many are there?”

“Six . . . no, wait, five,” Ramon said. “It is said that one of the gringos—I mean the americanos—killed the leader of the Crazy Dogs and left his body to burn in the flames.” He pointed off to where a spiral of thin smoke still swirled above a pile of rubble that had been the women’s cubicles.

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