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“Those buffalo soldiers were flashing a heliograph,” Hackberry said. “Those are General Pershing’s boys. He’s going to be pretty upset about what y’all have done here.”
The general was straining to keep his weight off his wounded leg, the pain starting to take its toll. In the brilliance of the day, his face was shiny and yellowish-brown, like worn saddle leather, dented with scars; sweat was leaking from under his hat. “Watch and see what we can make happen with the gifts of the Germans.”
He said something to a Mexican soldier squatting behind him. Then Hackberry saw the detonator box and the wire leading away from it on the hardpan. The soldier clasped the plunger with both hands and pushed it down.
The wagon exploded in a mushroom of gray and orange dirt and splintered wood and tack and mules’ hooves and viscera and spoked wheels and wagon springs and shattered axles and pieces of uniform that floated down like detritus from an aerial fireworks exhibition.
The rider on the buckskin was thrown to the ground. He got up and began running, trying to free his revolver from the holster. Just as he got to the top of a rise, a fusillade from the general’s soldiers seemed to freeze and impale him against the sky.
The reverberations of the dynamite rolled through the canyon.
“Now we can talk, amigo,” the general called. “You like a cigar? Come down. It is not good we shout at each other like this.”
While the general offered his invitation, two enlisted men on one flank and two on the other began laboring their way through the boulders and slag toward Hackberry’s position. Hackberry tracked the soldier nearest him with the Krag’s iron sights and squeezed the trigger. The soldier grabbed his side as through his rib cage had been struck with a hammer; he sat down heavily in the rocks, breathing with his mouth open, staring woodenly at Hackberry as though he could not understand what had happened to him.
Hackberry ejected the spent casing and sighted on the Mexican directly behind the wounded man. The Mexican was trying to aim his rifle into the glare, his eyes watering. The metal-jacketed .30–40 round cored through his forehead. His knees buckled and he went straight down, as they always did, their motors cut.
The soldiers advancing on the opposite side of the canyon were obviously stunned by the fact that the man they’d tortured had acquired a high-powered rifle. They were caught on top of a great round rock with no cover, staring directly into the sun, when he shot one of them through the chest and the other one in the face.
Hackberry swung his rifle on the general and sighted on the exposed skin between his throat and the white flash of long underwear showing at the top of his coat. Hackberry tightened his finger inside the Krag’s trigger guard.
“Does this mean we’re not amigos anymore?” the general said. “Tell me, killer of my son. Tell me, man who kills the poor.”
The general’s image seemed to blur inside the rifle’s iron sights. Was it the sweat in Hackberry’s eyes or the sun’s glaze on the rifle barrel? Or maybe the hunger in his stomach or the drain of his energies from the pain the Mexicans had inflicted upon him? Or was the problem in the sting of the general’s words?
Hackberry pulled the trigger and saw the general’s coat collar jump. The general pressed his hand against the red stripe where the bullet had grazed his neck. He looked at his palm. “I think your aim is slipping, amigo. Bad for you but good for me, huh?”
Hackberry fed five fresh needle-nosed rounds into the rolling magazine and worked the bolt. “The next one is coming down the pipe.”
“Chinga tu madre, old maricón.”
“I look like a nancy?”
“Shoot me. I’m not afraid. I urinate on you. I urinate on your family. Me cago en la puta de tu madre.”
The junior officer and the two surviving enlisted men had taken up a position behind a pile of rocks and dead cypress trees. The enlisted men carried bolt-action rifles, probably Mausers, and wore black leather bandoliers with pouches that looked stuffed with ammunition clips. Hackberry backed out of the crevice and crawled across a table rock in full sunlight, beyond the Mexicans’ line of vision. Then he ran for the canyon wall, squatting low, disappearing inside the shade and a clump of willow trees next to a sandy red pool, his head swelling with a thick roar like a kettledrum’s.
He could see the general and the junior officer and the two enlisted men, but they could not see him. With the echo of the rounds, he could probably pot them one at a time before they figured out where he was. There was only one problem: He could not get the words “man who kills the poor” out of his ears.
THE ATTACK ON the train was payback for Villa’s raid on Glenn Springs, in Brewster County, just across the Rio Grande, where a four-year-old boy was murdered. The train had been a military objective. The freight cars were filled with soldiers, some riding the spine, some in uniform, some wearing peaked straw sombreros and cartridge belts that glimmered like rows of brass teeth crisscrossed on their chests. There were .30-caliber machine guns set up behind sandbags on the flatcars. No one could say this was not a troop train, nor claim it was not under the command of Pancho Villa.
But there were others on the train as well. Hackberry saw them when the Rangers first attacked, all of them riding hard out of an arroyo, the sun no more than a dying spark among hills bare of grass and trees, the sky a chemical green. He saw the faces of children and women in the open doors of the cattle cars and behind the slats in the sides, all of them seeming to stare directly at him. Hackberry felt trapped inside a macabre oil painting depicti
ng humanity at its worst. The air was cold and smelled of creosote and the soot and smoke blowing from the engine. The women and little girls wore scarves and blankets and coats that had no color, as though color were a luxury that had never been their due. He saw a fat woman holding her hands to her ears, as though self-imposed deafness could protect her and her children. Hackberry heard a machine gun begin firing from a flatcar, then the captain drew his Peacemaker and aimed it down the line and pulled the trigger. The flame that leaped from the barrel into the gloom somehow released the rest of them from the consequences of their deeds, and at that moment each convinced himself in the quickening of his pulse that bloodlust in the service of a higher cause was no longer bloodlust.
Hackberry held his horse’s reins in his teeth, at a full gallop, and fired his pistols with both hands. He heard the rounds from the Rangers’ guns slapping into wood and metal, the labored huffing of the horses, the locomotive whistle screaming, the steel wheels screeching on the incline, the dull knocking of the machine gun. But those were not the sounds that would take up residence in his head for the rest of his life. The screams of the children and the women were like sounds one hears inside the wind. Or in a dream. Or in a burning building about to collapse. Or in a universe where you helped dim the stars and murder the voices of charity and pity that should have defined your soul.
Man who kills the poor.
He picked up a rock and flung it in a high arc so it struck the opposite wall of the canyon and clattered loudly down the grade. The Mexicans turned and stared at the place where the rock had landed. Hackberry stepped out on a stony plateau in the sunlight, the Krag cradled across his chest. “I’m still here,” he said.
“You are a crazy man, but one who has cojones, hombre,” the general said.
“Put away your guns and I’ll set down the Krag.”
“Why do you make this strange offer, one that you know is silly and stupid?”
“Because I don’t like a big, fat shit-hog thinking he’s my moral superior.”
