El Paso Way (3 page)

Pang looked over the doors and with another breath pushed through them. The first to notice him was a dealer at a poker table, then the woman at the piano, who lost her smile and tapped the player on the shoulder. The music stopped and the player turned around. Most of the patrons looked at the player first, but then turned around to see what had captured his interest.

All eyes looked at Pang.

Though they were all interested in him, he was only interested in one man, the sheriff, Chas Dutton.

The bartender, on the other side of the bar, between Dutton and the well-dressed man, reached below and pulled up a short club. Dutton turned from the bar and stood straight. The well-dressed man eyeballed Pang as if waiting for a reaction.

“You're not allowed in here and you know it,” Dutton said.

Pang stood firm. “I wish to speak to you.”

The sheriff glanced around at the crowd then back at Pang. “Yeah, and I wish every time I drank whiskey that I could piss gold.” The crowd guffawed.

“My father was killed by Antonio Valdar. Just now, outside our home. And he has taken my sister and fiancée with him.”

Pang knew that name would get the sherrif's attention, and the crowd's, and it did. They all took turns glancing at one another, and Dutton took a quick look at the floor. Valdar was not just an enemy to the Chinese, but to everyone. He would be gunned down the instant he set foot in town, but he rarely did. He usually only went to the Chinese district, where white men rarely went, and to the lone villages in the wilderness where he'd commit his vile acts and be long gone before a posse could ever form. There were wanted signs up all over Tucson for him, and for his two sidekicks—$500 for Valdar and $100 each for Baliador and Beshkah.

“I can't help you,” Dutton said. “Now, you go back before there's trouble.”

“I will not leave. Valdar is near and I know the direction he went.” Pang scanned over all the patrons. “And I know there are many of you who would like the rewards. Now is your chance.”

He could tell they pondered his words, but no one jumped. The only movement came from Dutton as he stepped toward Pang, his spurs jingling on the wooden floor.

“You're way out of line here, Chinaman.” He stopped only a few steps from Pang, both his hands on his waist. “Now I said git and I mean it!”

To Pang's left, Deputy Bain spun out of his chair and stood. He was simply dressed, in homespun trousers, a gray band-collared shirt, and a battered derby with a star pinned to the crown. He also wore a holstered gun around his hips, the holster tied to the bottom of his thigh with a leather string.

Dutton nodded to the deputy, who went for Pang with his arm raised. Pang reacted with a quick spin, jabbing his hand into the back of the deputy's neck and sending him sailing into a table of patrons. Cards, coins, jewelry, and paper notes flew onto the floor as the deputy sprawled across the table.

Pang stood there in a wide stance, his knees bent, arms raised over his chest, hands elongated, eyes glaring.

The people at the table helped the deputy up. Now hatless, he came back at Pang, only to catch a foot in his chest and another hand across the back of his neck.

“Enough!” yelled Dutton, who now had his gun drawn and pointed at Pang.

The deputy lay on the floor and wheezed.

“This is your final warning,” Dutton said. “Either you leave or you're going down to the jail. And I promise you it won't be a fun night after what you just did to the jail keeper.”

“I'm not going anywhere until someone goes after Valdar.”

Dutton nodded at two more men, who closed in on Pang. The young Chinaman held up his hands as both of them approached. The deputy rose slowly from the floor. Dutton cocked the hammer back on his pistol. “It's your choice. You touch another one of my men, I shoot you where you stand.”

“Then I will go to your jail. I will not leave your presence until you do what you're sworn to do.”

“Now, you listen here and you listen good. I won't tolerate that kind of talk out of no one, I don't care who they are or where they come from. You try any more of that fancy dancin' around me or my men, or keep talkin' that smart talk, and you'll be growin' old in my jail. You hearin' me?”

Pang stood straight and crossed his arms. The two men grabbed him, one at each side, and the deputy punched Pang's stomach. The young Chinaman winced and curled to the floor. The deputy drew a fist and hit him across the jaw, and while he lay on the floor, he kicked Pang in the chest.

“All right, that's enough,” Dutton said.

The deputy looked angrily back at the sheriff, but the men picked Pang up and dragged him out the door. Dutton holstered his gun, and his spurs clanged as he followed them. They had no more than stepped into the street when all the musical sounds of the saloon played again and made Tucson seem like a town of innocence.

Enrique Osorio

Darkness covered the desert when Enrique woke, and he wondered if it all hadn't been a bad dream, but then he smelled the blood of his parents on his hands. He felt hopeless, and though he had never experienced anything so frightening and painful, he always thought of his grandfather during times of loneliness. The father of his mother, a resourceful man, who built their adobe and with a two-wheeled cart brought the pine logs down from the mountains to make their corral. He was the one who taught Enrique most of what he knew about the wilderness and how to hunt, and who always had the right thing to say about anything that troubled the boy. His
abuelo
, Isidro Jesus de la Rosa, was the greatest man Enrique had ever known, and he wished for the warmth of his presence.

Enrique had been told stories of curses on people and that things like this had often happened to those cursed, and he wondered if now his family were suffering such consequences. No, they had done nothing to deserve this. They were good people, who made friends with the Tohono O'odham and certain bands of Apache, and the gringos that came through to California or had now settled in nearby Tucson. Enrique's family were farmers, who irrigated the land to grow their crops and raised livestock that not only fed their families but helped feed others. They were even blessed by a priest, Father Gaeta, from a mission in Tumacacori, who visited often and helped in the fields and took back with him gifts of food from Enrique's mother. They lived a peaceful life, and it was unjust that such tragedy should fall on the family.

A coyote howled and then a pack of them yipped. The coyotes had long been neighbors to Enrique and his family, and their cries were like nighttime music. It was nice to have that familiar sound, but it was not nearly enough to ease the hollowness he now felt.

The boy lay on the cool ground and tried to imagine what he would do after this great tragedy. He kept thinking about Amelia and wondering if she had escaped that ugly man. Maybe she got away and ran back to their home and found their parents dead, and the dead Apache. Did he really kill him? Maybe she got scared and was now out in the desert hiding or looking for him. But what if the ugly man killed her? The thought made Enrique close his eyes tight and hold his breath, trying to keep back the emotion that swelled in his chest.

It had been more than two years since his grandfather had left for El Paso, where he went to care for his ailing brother. He told Enrique that he would return very soon and that he would take him up to the mountains to camp and hunt the black-tailed deer. He had anxiously awaited his elder's return, wanting to show him how accomplished he had become as a man of the wilderness. But his longing was different now. Because he did not know the fate of his sister, his grandfather might be his only living relative, and he was so far away.

Enrique drifted to sleep again and in his dreams saw the faces of the desperate, merciless men. He saw them so clearly, as if he were nose to nose with each of them, the sweating face of the man who hurt Amelia, the man with shiny shoes who chased him with a knife, and the bare-chested Apache with his rounded eyes and screaming, blood-soaked face. It was that man in his last, dying breath who grabbed the boy by the throat and squeezed until he could not breathe. Enrique grabbed the man's wrist, but it was as if an iron claw had hold of him and the only existence in the world was blood, fear, and death.

He woke sitting upright and holding his throat with his own hands. He let loose quickly and stared at his hands as if they were something not to be trusted. He backed against the rocks in fear and crossed his arms over his chest, hugging himself and wondering when this all would end.

He heard a dove and looked up into the sky and saw that day was breaking. A new day was coming and he knew not how it would begin. On a normal day he would help his father round up the goats for milking. Amelia would feed the chickens while their mother fixed breakfast of eggs cooked with peppers and chicken and wrapped in a tortilla.
Huevos con pimientas y pollo en una tortilla
, his favorite. Normally the thought of it would make his stomach rumble with hunger, but now it felt tightened into a knot and he could not possibly eat. But his mouth was dry, and he decided it would be good to find water. He was too afraid to go back to his home, so he decided to drink from a cluster of barrel cactus, using a method that his grandfather had taught him, of poking a hole with one of the cactus thorns, then curling a yucca leaf and letting the water flow down the furrowed leaf into his mouth.

The water was sweet and refreshing, and it would do for now. The cactus was plentiful in the desert, so he was not concerned about going without. It was not yet time for the summer monsoons, when the Sonora received most of its rain, filling the creeks and rivers, but the winter snow that had melted and flowed down the mountains was still nurturing the ground, providing the necessary nutrition for the spring plant life to bloom. Though the cacti sprouted many flowers this time of year, and it was normally a vibrant image of life in the Sonora, Enrique could only sense the ways of evil. His parents were dead, the whereabouts of his sister unknown, and his grandfather far, far way. He was all alone, and all because of ruthless, desperate men.

He found the trail that led to the area where he'd last seen Amelia, and he walked cautiously. He looked for footprints and saw where she and the man both had walked into the arroyo—the stirring of the sand where the strange behavior had occurred, and the tracks out, which consisted of one set of large prints and another of drag marks. Though it appeared that the man had dragged his sister, he saw no blood or any other traces that she might be dead, so he could not be certain.

He walked on and followed the trail, fearful that at any moment the man and his sweaty face would look right down at him. When he realized that the trail was leading back to his home, he stopped and pondered getting any closer. He supposed he could approach slowly, creep on his hands and knees, and lie low if he saw movement. He could think of nothing else to do. There was nowhere to go, other than the mountains, to hide, but the nights there would still be cold, and he did not want to build fires that someone could see, or cause smoke that someone could smell. He also thought about going to find his grandfather. Though he did not know how to get to El Paso, he was certain he could find the way. But the one unanswered question was the fate of Amelia. He could not bear to go away without knowing if she were dead or alive. What if she needed help? He would look for her, even if it took his lifetime to do so, and he would find her. If she were dead, he would give her a proper burial, and pray for her like Father Gaeta would do. If he could not find her, he would go to El Paso and find his grandfather, and together they would look for her.

Enrique crawled to where he could peek around an agave plant, and saw a lone chicken pecking the ground. The stable stood distinct and barren, the only dwelling left in its original state. A haze of gray smoke hovered above the roofless and charred adobe, a portion of one wall collapsed into rubble. Flies swarmed and vultures ripped at the flesh of the goat corpses that after a day in the sun lay bloated by the desert heat. From where he lay he could not see the bodies of his parents, and he wondered if the men had buried them. But no, it was not likely that such men would do any honorable thing.

Enrique mulled over what to do, whether to go look through the remnants of their home for signs of Amelia, or to look for her departing trail. He supposed it would be best to search the home area, that if she was alive, maybe she was hiding in the stable, or, God forbid, if she was dead, they might have left her somewhere near the adobe. The thought of it all tore at his emotions. But he was a man now. If he found her dead, he would then make three graves for all his family. Difficult for sure, but it was something a man must do.

Staying low, he crept closer and was immediately sickened when he saw that vultures also perched on and tore at the corpses of his mother and father. He closed his eyes and held his head low, feeling deep sorrow for his loving family. Something he couldn't bear anymore—he stood and yelled. The vultures lifted their heavy wings and glided away, landing only a short distance from the bodies. Enrique picked up rocks and threw them at the unsightly birds.

“Get away, you ugly scavengers! Damn you!”

It felt awkward to curse, especially since it was something that he had never done, and had only heard from the tongues of grown men. But he
was
a man now, on his own, and the world seemed against him. If cursing would make him stronger, he would have to use it.

The air seemed suddenly silent, and Enrique realized that he had exposed himself to anyone who might be around. But no one came about, so he walked into the scene. The vultures didn't go far, but Enrique was certain that with him there they would not return, and that his parents would be buried before they could get to them, so deep into the ground that even the coyotes couldn't get the scent and
Mamá
and
Papá
would rest in peace.

He saw no fresh tracks near the stable, or none that looked like Amelia's. The stable was the only place she could have hidden out of view, but she was not there. He saw a large stain of dried blood in the sand, where he'd hit the Apache with the machete, but the Apache was not there. He saw tracks leading out into the desert and a trail of dried blood. The Apache would surely die, if not by bleeding to death, by an animal that smelled his blood.

He continued looking around and found a square metal blade that his father had tied to a short wooden pole and used as a shovel. The handle was partially burned and charred and difficult for Enrique to hold, but he took it anyway and found a place not far away from the adobe to begin digging.

The sand was hard and crusty on top, and darker and moist as he dug further. There were many rocks that slowed the process. He tried to scoop and pry them out with the shovel, but many could only be loosened and had to be dug out with his fingers. He hadn't dug very much before his arm felt tight and fatigued, and after assessing his work he realized that he knew nothing about digging graves, that this deed was something that would take him hours if not days to complete. But if he was really a man, he would have to do this, so he kept digging, occasionally stopping to rub his arms.

The vultures tried to come back, but he stood and shooed them away, cursed them, then went back to his digging. Eventually he became so tired that he had no more strength to continue breaking dirt. He rested his head against the shovel blade. His blistered, blackened hands could no longer grip the charcoal-laden handle. Feeling defeated, he fell to the ground, but now that he was a man, he would not permit himself to cry.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but he felt disoriented and sleepy. He fell backward and looked up into the clear and pale blue sky, with the rays of the sun making yellow circles that ran back to their origin like a string of glowing beads. He watched the dots change directions, the smaller ones far away, and the larger ones closer, but always staying together. He wondered if they would always be that way, if like humans and some animals they slept at night and came back out in the day to hang down from the sun and spread light over the desert. But then he saw a face appear among the dots, and he wondered if they were really angels, coming down to claim the souls of his parents. He heard the bray of a donkey and felt sure that angels did not ride donkeys. When the face spoke, he wondered what kind of tricks the sky was playing on him.

“Are you okay, son?”

The face came closer, and a hand touched Enrique's forehead. Water was dabbed on his tongue and then arms picked him up and carried him. It was all making sense now. The circles of light
were
angels, and this one was taking him to heaven to be with his family.

* * *

Enrique hadn't seen Father Gaeta in several months. It was winter the last time the priest had made his rounds to spread the love of God along the foothills and the bank of the Santa Cruz River. Enrique's father didn't pay much attention to him—thought of him more as a nuisance than anything, coming around distracting them with silly talk when there was much work to do. But his mother adored the young priest. Being a descendant of Spanish conquistadores, she decorated a wall of their home with a cross, and a rosary was always close at hand.

Even though Father Gaeta wasn't a Catholic, Jesuit, or even a Franciscan, but a priest who followed his own unique faith, Enrique's mother felt especially blessed when he came to see them; as if God Himself were now closer to them. But the boy's
papá
, a Tohono O'odham, would never be converted. He would say, “If God is only present when the priest comes around, then we are as doomed as a lame rabbit.” His
mamá
would make the cross over her chest then shoo him away from her. He would grin and wink at Enrique.