Good Water Page 15

  Lockwood let out a low whistle. “That’s sure a whole different story. I didn’t believe what I heard, but I had no idea it was this bad.” He poked his cheek out with his tongue. “This fella’s rotten. Not that I ever thought he was any good, but he’s gone way out of his way, and to do something like this.” He raised his eyes. “Raimundo, I came here to tell you what someone was sayin’ about your people, and I thought I’d offer my help if you need it. You can decide.”

  “You come a long ways. You better get something to eat.”

  Lockwood took off his gloves, shook them, and tucked them under his gunbelt. He smiled and said, “Sounds good to me.”

  Raimundo turned and spoke to Tommy. “You take care of his horse, eh? Then you come back and sit with us.”

  Tommy unsaddled the grey horse and set him out to graze near Pete. Then he stowed Lockwood’s saddle, blankets, bedroll, and duffel bag under the wagon, next to his own.

  Inside the camp, Lockwood was seated on a wooden box with his hands on his knees, holding his back up straight. Raimundo sat on a box near him. Without saying anything, Tommy took a seat on the ground.

  Raimundo was telling Lockwood about the goat he had lost at the previous camp. “He was a good goat. Big one. Brown and white, maybe you remember him. I was gonna make him a leader. You know, he leads the sheep.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen that. They’ll lead the sheep right into the slaughterhouse.”

  “Hah-hah. Yeah, they do that, too.”

  “They call ’em a Judas goat.”

  “What kinda goat?”

  “A Judas goat. For Judas, the disciple who betrayed Christ.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. That one.” Raimundo shook his head. “Well, I was gonna have him lead the sheep when we move ’em. But I didn’t have time on this trip. Everything in a hurry.”

  Milena appeared with a plate of meat in red chile sauce. From the aroma, Tommy guessed it was lamb, the first of the fresh meat from that morning.

  Lockwood took the plate and gave Milena a full look of appreciation. He smiled and said, “Gracias.”

  “De nada. Provecho.” Then with a smile she produced a spoon from her apron and handed it to him. “No hay tortillas,” she said.

  “Está bien.” He gave her another smile, and his glance lingered as she walked away.

  Raimundo did not speak as Lockwood put away the food. Smoke drifted from the cookfire, and a frying pan sizzled.

  “Here’s what I think,” said Lockwood. He moved some small chunks of meat together on his plate. “I think Cushman and his men will go back and lick their wounds, but I don’t believe they’re done. They come all this way to torment you, and it looks as if his men have orders to shoot. I expect they’ll be back.”

  “I think so, too. He hates us too much. Like I say to Tommy. But we don’t ever do anything to him. He just hates us because we’re Mexican.”

  Lockwood continued to eat as he talked. “I think that’s it. He comes from that part of the country where they used to have slaves. Some of those people hate black people, Indians, Mexicans, anyone who’s not white. You know they’ve got laws in some of those states that make it illegal for people of different races to marry each other.”

  “¡Válgame! And these same people, they have a white cat and a black cat, or a white horse and a brown one.”

  “That’s right. And they think nothin’ of it. But when it comes to people, it makes their blood boil. They can’t stand it. None of their business what goes on in another man’s house, but they want to have a law against it. They’ll hang a black man for lookin’ at a white woman. You know that.”

  “Oh, yeah. I heard that. But they do it with a black woman if they get a chance.”

  “Some. But they still hate the idea so much, they have a law against it.”

  “They must be afraid of something.”

  “That’s just it. They’re afraid of the thing itself. And that’s why they hate it.”

  “¿Más?” Milena had appeared to ask if he wanted more.

  “Sí, por favor.”

  Tommy was amused, as he had been on an earlier occasion, by Lockwood’s quaint pronunciation.

  Lockwood resumed speaking in English. “I think he hates any idea of anyone who isn’t white, doing it, like you say, with anyone else.”

  “Well, he’s crazy. There’s a lotta people on this earth. They all got a right to have a family.”

  “Of course there is, but he can’t see that far. All he can see is his own world around him. And he hates everything that isn’t like him. And you know what else I think? I think he hates it because deep down, he’s afraid it is like him.”

  Raimundo sat straight up as he took in a breath. “Well, I say he’s crazy.”

  “You bet he is. He’s sick as a poisoned dog. But that’s what we’re up against. Gracias.” Lockwood smiled at Milena as she handed him his refilled plate.

  “De nada.”

  Lockwood’s eyes lingered again for a few seconds until he returned to his plate. “This is good grub,” he said to Raimundo.

  “¿Borrego?”

  “Yeah, it’s lamb. From the ones they killed. We get something out of it.”

  No one spoke as Lockwood finished his second helping. He set his plate on the grass and took out his sack of cigarette makin’s. He shook tobacco into a paper for himself and passed the bag to Raimundo.

  At that point Gabriel joined the group, but before he could sit down, his father spoke to him in Spanish. He left, but he came back in a couple of minutes with a bottle and two small glasses.

  “Una copita,” said Raimundo as he took the first puff on his new cigarette.

  “Muy bien.” Lockwood blew away a cloud of smoke.

  The afternoon mellowed out, with no further talk of bloodshed or hatred, as the men stayed close to the shade and sipped from their glasses. Tommy and Gabriel sat by and kept quiet as the men chatted in a mixture of Spanish and English.

  The sand-colored burro with the striped cross wandered in, and Lockwood rubbed him on the nose and patted him on the forehead. Milena handed Lockwood half of a scorched corn tortilla. He held it out, and the burro took it and shattered it with his teeth. Fragments fell on Lockwood’s shirt, and he brushed it off. Everyone smiled, and the atmosphere felt so relaxed that Tommy felt as if he had had a shot of tequila himself.

  When Raimundo drained the last drops into the two glasses, he capped the bottle and tossed it on the grass.

  “Another dead soldier,” said Lockwood. “The empty bottle.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  The sound of footsteps caused everyone to look up. Faustino Romero, wearing his straw hat and his two-gun outfit, stood with his chin lifted.

  Raimundo spoke in English. “Our friend has come back to help us.”

  “I can see that.” Faustino cast a glance at the empty bottle. “Who knows if he brings trouble with him.”

  “He came to help. And to tell us what Cooshmon is saying about us. Cooshmon, the big liar, says we attacked his camp.”

  “I have already heard that. Who cares what lies they tell? But here is the thing. No one wants to listen to me. I wanted to leave from the beginning. Everyone said no, and we had to leave anyway. And we had none of this trouble until the two young Americans came. Since then, Cooshmon has done one thing after another to punish us. I believe this one is to blame.” He pointed at Tommy. “And who knows what will happen now, with this other one here?” He waved at Lockwood with the back of his hand.

  Lockwood stood up, set his hat back on his head, and rested his hands on his hips. “You’ve got it all backwards, friend. You’ve got the cart before the horse.” Faustino gave a blank expression, so Lockwood said, “You’re gettin’ the causes and the results all twisted up. This fellow Cushman had it in for all of you before these boys ever showed up. If he has a reason to pick on this boy, it’s because he associates with you people, not the other way around. Same with me. He doesn’t have a thing against me, or at
least he won’t until he finds out I’ve come over to your side.”

  Faustino had regained his superior pose. “How do you know what he thinks? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I know his mind, and I know his kind. He’s vicious, and he’s dead wrong. He wants to tell other people how to live and where, what they may or may not do. He’s got an old and ignorant way of thinking. This is the Age of Steel, not the Stone Age, but he won’t give up. You people have rights, and he doesn’t want you to.”

  Faustino sneered. “Who are you to tell us about ourselves? You’re an outsider. You’re not Mexican. We don’t know who you are or what you are.”

  “I don’t think I’ve hidden anything. My name’s Bill Lockwood, as these people know, and I’m a typical American white man, as anyone can see. A gringo, to use your language.”

  Faustino laughed. “A man is a gringo when he’s in Mexico. Over here, he’s a gabacho, an American in his own country.”

  “Then I guess that’s what I am.”

  “Very good,” said Faustino, dragging out the second word. “Then what do you come here for? Are you like these others, another coyote in the chicken house, that you just want a girl?”

  Now Lockwood laughed. “If there’s a girl in it for me, I’m yet to know about it.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  Lockwood patted the six-gun that rode in the holster on his hip. “I came to help. With this, if necessary. Now, if you want to keep crowin’ like a rooster, you can tell me you don’t need my help.” He nodded at Faustino’s matched pistols. “Maybe you can do it all yourself, and win a girl that way.”

  Faustino blanched, and then the color came back into his face with no expression.

  Raimundo spoke. “Look, Faustino. I know this gets you in the liver, but leave him alone. You and your brother are going to leave. If this man is here, we have one more gun. You be crazy to run him off.”

  Tommy found it incongruous, and a little humorous, to hear the men speaking to each other in English, but the atmosphere was serious. Faustino’s face remained impassive. As the man turned away, Tommy imagined, as before, that he would come back later with an answer.

  A couple of men and a couple of women had formed a small audience on opposite sides of the little theater, and they now dispersed. Milena moved in and picked up the empty bottle. As she stood up, she smiled at Raimundo and said, “Ay, cómo quedó con el ojo cuadrado.” After a small laugh, she shared her smile with Lockwood and walked away.

  Tommy suppressed a smile as he asked Gabriel, “What did she say?”

  “She says Faustino stood there with his eye like a square.” Gabriel was almost laughing as he held his thumb and forefinger up by his eye, making a square shape.

  “I’m sure he’s mad.”

  “Oh, yes. But he knows my father is right.”

  Tommy thought, Lockwood is, too, but he left it at that. And now that he considered it, even Faustino had some grounds, or at least authority, for an argument. When the fight was on, he had stood up and taken his shots.

  Movement around camp was slow and quiet when Tommy woke up from a short nap. He gathered his senses as he took in his surroundings. It was late afternoon. Faustino and Emilio had left earlier with two packhorses, and three men and a boy had been out tending sheep. Raimundo and Lockwood had each stretched out for a nap before Tommy did, and they were still snoozing. Voices came from Alejo’s wagon, where it sounded as if Eusebia was trying to console her sister. Milena was sitting on a canvas tarpaulin with her two children and was combing the little girl’s hair. Anita came around from in back of her family’s wagon with two empty buckets and was headed toward the creek.

  Tommy stood up and put on his hat. He brushed off the front of his shirt, stepped forward, and intercepted Anita at the edge of the camp. Nervous at the risk of being turned down, he said, “I’ll be glad to carry the buckets for you.”

  “That’s all right. I can do it.”

  “I meant when they’re full.”

  She smiled. “You don’t have to.”

  “Well, I’d like to. Unless you don’t want me to help. I don’t want to—”

  “You can help,” she said.

  They walked together for a minute without saying anything until he spoke. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but I’m sorry for what has happened. I know it’s very hard for your family. First Elsa, then her father.”

  Anita kept looking ahead as she said, “Yes, it is sad. Very sad. Elsa was like a sister to me, as I told you before. Our families are very close.”

  “I feel as if there’s something I should do, but I don’t know what.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. No one can change what has happened.”

  “I know. But I still feel guilty, or responsible, or, I don’t know. Not helpless, but . . . inadequate. I guess that’s a word for it.”

  “I don’t know if you should feel inadequate,” she said, swinging a bucket about a foot in front of her. “But there’s nothing to feel guilty about. You didn’t cause anything. And my father says you even helped. You might have kept one of the men from shooting Faustino.”

  “I can’t say how much I did, but I tried.”

  “You won’t get a word of thanks from Faustino. To the contrary, he tries to put the blame on you. We can see it. Don’t take it to heart, as we say.”

  Tommy could feel his heart beating, but not for anything Faustino might have said. “Thanks for saying that. All of it. It makes me feel better. There just hasn’t been much to feel good about.”

  “It has been hard for everyone.”

  The air became cooler as they walked down the hill to the water. The stream had a faint lapping sound and no more.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ll fill the buckets. You’ve done all the work of carrying them down here.”

  She smiled and handed him one bucket.

  He held the handle and the rim together as he pushed the bottom of the bucket into the current and faced the mouth of it downstream.

  “Why do you put it in backwards?” she asked. “You don’t get any more, do you?”

  He pulled the dripping bucket up out of the water. “No, you get the same amount either way,” he said, “and just as fast. But if there’s anything floating on the surface, little bits of junk or anything, you’re less likely to get it in the bucket.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I learned it. Someone told me, and I experimented. It seems to be true.” He handed her the full bucket and took the empty. When he had the second one filled the same way, he faced her and motioned with his free hand. “Let me take it. It’s easier to carry two. Better balance.”

  She held onto her bucket as he laid his hand on the bail handle.

  “Let me have it,” he said. He felt her hand against his. It was the first time he had ever touched her, and she was not moving away. He smiled as he drew half a step closer and brought the other bucket near her. “Maybe I should let you hold this one, too.” She put her free hand next to his on the handle. He was facing her, very close. Their bodies were almost touching. He saw her close her eyes as he closed his and moved toward her. She was the first girl he ever kissed. Everything around him swirled in near silence, with only the sound of lapping water and the perfect breathing of a beautiful girl.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tommy ran the brush down the side of Pete’s neck and across his withers. He held his left hand against the horse as he worked the brush with his right. The horse’s coat was warm and shiny in the early afternoon sun, and the animal stood still. Sounds drifted from the camp. After a somber beginning to the day with Alejo’s burial, life had picked up little by little. Tommy heard the bang of a pot, the voice of a woman, and the chattering noise of children as they ran in and out of the enclosure of wagons.

  Tommy kept an eye on camp, wishing Anita would walk out into the sunlight and wave to him, or better yet, walk across the open distance and visit with him. But it
was only a wish. He knew that Anita and her mother were sitting with Leonila and trying to console her for the loss of her daughter and her husband. He knew he would see Anita again, and he knew he should be patient, but she was all he could think of. His yearning to see her ran through his whole being. Vinch Cushman could have come up behind him and swatted him on the side of the head, and he wouldn’t know it until he felt the blow.

  He turned to look behind him, to see if the big looming figure was there, but instead he saw a party of men and horses. His pulse jumped and then settled as he recognized Faustino Romero on his bay horse with the white blaze and four white socks. On the other side of the party, Emilio rode his brother’s white horse. Each of the Romero brothers led a packhorse with canvas bundles lashed with diamond hitches on top of the panniers.

  In the middle of the group, on a horse that was neck and shoulders behind the other two, rode a stranger. He wore a shiny, black leather vest and a black, flat-crowned hat. He had a slender build and rode with something of a slouch. From the configuration, he could have been a prisoner of the Romero brothers, or they could have been his bodyguards. But from the way the Romeros carried themselves, and the way they held their reins and handled their lead ropes, Tommy inferred that the stranger was not in custody but had no special authority, either.

  The party rode forward, up the slope, and stopped at the opening where the camp looked out toward the creek. Voices and commotion sounded from within the enclosure, and the children quieted down as they stood between two wagons and looked on.

  Tommy continued to brush his horse. He didn’t like to join the crowd, and he didn’t like to gawk. The Mexicans were not so reserved, though. Tommy had noticed the tendency on other occasions, from the public debates that Faustino liked to stage to the club that Gabriel brought in from the field. Now with the arrival of men and horses, supplies from town, and a stranger in their midst, they had something to look at.