The Vanquished (26 page)

McDowell hunkered on his haunches, glowering at the floor in the center of the little circle of officers. Crabb's indecision so irritated him that he wanted very much to wring the man's neck. On the one hand Crabb was listening to McCoun, who wanted to retreat immediately to the border and give up the whole project. On the other hand he was listening to Holliday, who thought they ought to abandon Caborca and head downstream along the Rio Concepcion to meet Cosby's troops, which by now must be on their way upriver not far away. McDowell's own feeling was that they should storm the church and rout the Mexicans. They had only an inexperienced lieutenant to lead them now that the captain, Rodriguez, was dead on the road between the wheat fields, and the lieutenant obviously had no imagination, since he had done nothing but fort his men up and shoot petulantly across the square. And Crabb was also listening to Colonel Johns, who thought it might be a good idea to wait here for Cosby's army, meanwhile hoping a higher-ranking Mexican officer might arrive and indicate the real intentions of Pesquiera's government. The soldiers in the church were apparently local militia, and had perhaps reacted out of suspicion and unknowing fear. It was not possible to be certain they accurately reflected Pesquiera's own frame of mind.

Crabb sat and talked, and talked. He had an irritating way of going off the subject, and then of returning to it and methodically listing all the advantages and disadvantages of each alternative plan. McDowell had to put down the impulse to shout at him.

For a while Crabb quieted down. McDowell looked bleakly at Lieutenant Will Allen, who answered his look with a dour downturn of his lips. Finally Crabb shook his head, tugged his beard, and said, “Gentlemen, we did not anticipate a reception anything like what happened this morning. I am certain that today's violence was caused by the blundering inexperience of the local officers. I do not believe this hostility represents the feelings of the government. After all, we have a written agreement with Pesquiera, and I have always regarded him as a man of his word. But in spite of that, we are faced with a situation that is patently military in nature. Frankly, I suggest under the circumstances that we allow the military minds to guide our actions. Captain McDowell, what is the West Point answer to our predicament?”

“Attack,” McDowell said immediately.

“I tend to agree,” Crabb said. McDowell looked at him. Every once in a while the general surprised him. Crabb said, “After all, no matter what the larger picture may be, we have been attacked belligerently and besieged. We are certainly within our rights to retaliate.”

“I don't like it,” McCoun said flatly. “Men are bound to get hurt, perhaps killed—no, I'll make that stronger: they are bound to get killed.” McCoun always talked like the captain of a debating team. No set of circumstances seemed adequate to shake him. He said, “Obviously Mexico is hostile to us. Obviously Pesquiera does not intend to keep his bargain. We have nothing to gain by staying here, except perhaps the satisfaction of stubborn pride. It's folly to do anything but retreat; it's more than folly to attack—it is criminal negligence.”

“You are free to voice your opinion,” Crabb said coolly. “I for one do not intend to let these people get away with the affront they have presented to us.”

“Oh, God,” McCoun said softly. McDowell glared at him.

“We are considered enemies here,” Crabb said. “None of us can doubt that. We must act accordingly.” He stood up and walked to the center of the room, by the piled supplies. He said, “I want your attention.”

Men turned to face him, all but those who guarded the windows. Crabb said, “The natives here have seen fit to treat us with malice and violence. They must be taught that this is not acceptable conduct. I propose to lead an attack against the troops in the church. We will charge the convent and gain entrance through that side of the building. I now call for volunteers.”

Men looked at one another. McDowell shouldered his rifle and stepped forward, looking around the room with measured contempt. Norval Douglas came away from his post and stood beside him. Jim Woods came up. William Chaney, Clark Small. Bill Randolph came over. Lieutenant Will Allen walked across the room to stand by McDowell. McDowell looked at them one by one. Randolph—that one would go anywhere to find violence. Allen, a good soldier. Chaney—a Nevadan with cool gray eyes and a crippled shoulder. Woods—an ex-saloonkeeper with leather skin and a sure grip on his gun. Clark Small, a nondescript man with a nondescript expression. Norval Douglas—tough and proud. Others came over, some of them reluctantly. He had a glimpse of the boy, Charley Evans, posted by a window with his rifle, looking at Norval Douglas in a strange, uncertain way; but the boy did not move.

“Is this all?” Crabb said.

“I count fifteen of us,” McDowell said. “It should be enough.”

“All right. Come on,” Crabb said.

McDowell pointed to Bill Randolph. “You—bring one of those powder kegs and a slow-match fuse.” Then he turned and followed Crabb to the door.

Crabb was businesslike. He took out his revolver and inspected its load, then said, “Give me a hand here,” and helped lift down the heavy timber that barred the door. It was a massive wooden door; musket balls would not penetrate it. Crabb looked around. “Is everyone ready?”

“All set,” McDowell said. Just before he flung the door open, he had a swift contemptuous look around the room at the fifty-odd men who had not volunteered. They sat packed along the side walls, crouched behind the supply piles, crowded into doorways. He said to the men at the windows, “Lay down a heavy fire against the church to keep their heads down until we're across the plaza.” Men came forward out of the shadows and crowded against the windows, some of them looking half-shamefaced but aiming steadily enough through the openings. McDowell said, “Keep your eyes open,” and pulled the door open.

A flurry of shots issued from the windows of the long, low-roofed house. McDowell plunged through the doorway, broke out into the sunlight and ran with legs pumping toward the convent. He saw no one in the church windows; the heavy fire had driven the Mexicans back. It was a long run. He slammed up against the convent wall, his back to it and his chest heaving. Crabb and Allen and Randolph were close on his heels; the others were strung out across the square. He whirled and made a low dive through an open window. A woman screamed; there was a succession of gunshots loud in his ears. He saw a Mexican soldier looming with a big-bore musket, and shot the man down point-blank. Someone came in through the window behind him and knocked him down. Women and loud little children were squeezing in panic through a back door. A nun in black stood calmly by the wall, her arms folded. Bill Randolph was standing with his feet spread, leaning forward, pumping shots out of his revolver. McDowell scrambled to his feet, drawing his pistol. A soldier swung through the church door to investigate, wheeled back and pushed the door shut. McDowell ran to it but the door was barred. He heard crashing noises beyond the door—the Mexicans were barricading it with furniture. A little girl ran past him, crying. The nun stooped and picked up the child and carried her outside through the back door. Crabb and Will Allen had crossed the room to guard that door. Bill Randolph was trying to hold onto the powder keg and reload his pistol at the same time. A group of soldiers plunged in through the back door, forcing Crabb and Allen back, firing savagely. McDowell emptied his gun into them and felt his body lurch and buck. The Mexicans retreated and Jim Woods sprang forward to shut the door, but just as he reached it a bullet caught him in the throat and he pitched outward through the doorway. One of the men dragged him back and slammed the door and barred it. When McDowell looked down he saw that his right arm was bleeding profusely; later when he counted the wounds he found that he had been hit nine times in that arm. Most of the wounds were superficial; one bullet had sliced through a muscle and he could not move the arm. He shifted the revolver to his left hand and grimly tried to reload.

Smoke settled down in the convent. Small and Chaney and two others were making a rapid investigation of the rooms. They flushed two children and four nuns and drove them out of the place. Crabb was talking: “Randolph—set that powder keg by the door to the church.”

Crabb came across to that door and used a knife to poke a hole in the keg. He inserted the slow-match and tried to ignite it, but by some curious twist of fate it was wet with blood and would not light. Crabb sat down and wrote a note on a leaf of his notebook. Clark Small and Norval Douglas came out of a corridor with a small boy they had caught hiding somewhere. Crabb waved them over to him and said to Douglas, “Tell the boy to take this note across the square. I'm asking them to send back another slow-match fuse for the powder.”

“He may not go,” Douglas said.

Crabb spoke in the same businesslike tone: “Tell him he'll be shot if he doesn't obey. Tell him to bring back the fuse as quickly as he can.”

Douglas relayed the instructions to the boy in Spanish. The boy looked around helplessly with the wild glance of a trapped animal; he took the note and waited by the front door until Douglas opened it for him, and then bolted across the square. Watching all this, McDowell had sunk down with his back against a wall. Waves of weakness came upon him. He looked across the room at Jim Woods, but Woods was dead. Norval Douglas crouched down beside McDowell and ripped off his shirt and made a bandage for the wounded arm. McDowell said weakly, “Thanks.”

There was a rending sound in the back of the room. The Mexicans were breaking down the door. Crabb and Douglas wheeled to face that attack and then the splintering door crashed downward, falling on top of Jim Woods's body. Troops rushed in, trampling the door. McDowell grimaced, lay still, and pointed his freshly loaded revolver at the charging Mexicans. They spilled into the room like an overflowing stream of water. Will Allen spun back, wounded somewhere, and fell to the floor. When McDowell lost sight of him in the tangle, Allen was crawling toward the front door.

The Mexicans were shouting like Indians. Powdersmoke made a heavy fog in the room. A small wooden cross was smashed by a bullet and tumbled off its hook on the wall, glancing off McDowell's shoulder. He took aim on a shouting open mouth and fired. The mouth disappeared.

William Chaney, the gray-eyed Nevadan, plunged into the fight with knife and fist, having exhausted his ammunition. Norval Douglas was braced against the wall wielding his reversed rifle like a club, batting Mexicans away with great sweeps. Chaney went down under half a dozen men and died with a knife in his chest. The front door came open, admitting a band of light, and McDowell saw the wounded Allen tumble out through the opening. Crabb, his gun empty, sat down deliberately at the church door and proceeded to reload. McDowell saw a man taking aim on Crabb, and he brought his gun around, but not before the Mexican fired. Crabb took the bullet in his right elbow. McDowell shot the Mexican. Clark Small wheeled and screamed and fell over, his head almost severed from his body by a sword thrust. McDowell glimpsed big Bill Randolph, shouting with huge oaths, wading through the crowd and batting heads together. A dead Mexican fell across McDowell's legs. He grunted and crawled away toward the front door. Crabb was coming that way, backing up slowly, firing at the Mexicans. Individuals were lost in the slurred outlines of the fight. Noise and stench and carnage filled McDowell's senses. Bill Randolph and Norval Douglas stood back to back fighting off attackers. A gun went off and Randolph sagged at the waist; McDowell knew he was dead by the way he fell.

A young Mexican soldier loomed before McDowell. Fear was a glaze on the youth's eyes; his mouth hung open, dragging in air, and a gun hung empty in his hand. McDowell killed the youth with his last shot, and backed out through the doorway. Crabb and Douglas were with him. They picked up Will Allen. Other Americans, pitifully few in number, spun onto the square, coming out through windows and the door. McDowell turned and walked on wavering legs toward the house. The men in the windows there kept up a savage fire, pinning the Mexicans down, preventing pursuit. Crabb and McDowell, with one good arm each, carried Will Allen between them. Guns roared. McDowell looked dismally at Crabb, who had surprised him by his cool display of courage under fire. When they re-entered the big house, someone barred the door behind them. McDowell released Allen to abler hands, and sank slowly to the floor in great weariness. His arm throbbed and he felt an overpowering hunger.

CHAPTER 21

The last thing Charley recalled about Jim Woods was the good-humored remark Woods had made about it being April Fool's Day. He looked out through the window; in the night he could see the outline of the church. The Mexicans had stopped shooting, either because their ammunition was running low, or because they knew that in the dark their muzzle-flashes gave away their locations to American riflemen who were quick to shoot back. And so a cool and threatening truce had settled down. It was past midnight, and Charley's eyes ached. His shift would last another hour before someone would relieve him.

He remembered standing in front of Jim Woods's saloon on a cool rainy morning, just before he had met Norval Douglas. He found himself wanting to know, with a savage desire, what trick of fate it was that had brought such men to this place far from home and killed them without purpose. None of it was fair. He remembered that rainy morning's conversation with Woods; it had been months ago; the words and the voice tones came back to him.

All packed.… Going somewhere, Charley?

Back East
.

You're doing the Triple Ace out of a chore boy, then
.

They'll find another one
.

I reckon.… Funny-looking moon, all by itself. Tired of the job, Charley?

You might say
.