The Guns of Santa Sangre (3 page)

“Don’t bet on it.”

“Put me in jail and throw away the key,
senors,
it would better than what attacked us. Here I am safe.”

“Go on. Finish your story.”

“The stagecoach did not come. Something else did.”

“Is that what happened to your arm?”

Alvarez winced, clutching the gruesome bandaged wound in his bicep. “I need a doctor.”

“That depends on your story.”

“May I have a cigarette at least?”

One of the
policia
pushed over his fixings and matchbox. The thief spat on a piece of rolling paper, added a pinch of shag tobacco, closed it, licked it and put it to his lips. He struck a match and sucked smoke, coughing. “Maybe two hours passed. We looked out the window for any sign of the stagecoach. We would have surely seen its approach for the moon was full and very bright. You could look out and see the whole desert for many miles. But there was no dust on the horizon. And it was so quiet,
senors
, no desert sounds, no
insectos
, not even wind. No sweet music of the night.
Niente.
That is how I knew, how we all knew, something was very wrong. I admit I was very scared,
senors
.” His eyes widened in horror. “We heard them before we saw them. Howls, many howls, like wolves but not wolves. From everywhere.”

The Federales exchanged dubious glances.

“It was an unholy sound that filled our hearts with fear. One of the
vaqueros
saw the first one through the window and when we rushed over there were many more, circling. Big, black shapes. Hairy. The ticket man took his rifle and fired into the things, shot many times, cocking his Winchester again and again but the bullets did not kill them and did not scare them off. So we locked the door and bolted the window shutters. That was when we heard the horses in the corral being killed. These were big horses,
senors
, but you should have heard their cries of pain and terror and the
repungante
sounds of meat being ripped from their bones and savagely devoured
. ¡Qué horror!
What kind of animal is powerful enough to kill a full-grown horse and tear it to pieces, I ask you?”
 

“They were coyotes, you ignorant peasant!” The fat Federale glared in disgust at the bandit. “
Mira!
Have you never seen a coyote before?”

Alvarez shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog drying itself. “No, no, no. These things were big and fast,
muy grande
like coyotes but larger than men and their
teeth
,
senors,
such huge fangs! We pushed the stove and table against the door and windows but
los bestias
smashed and tore at the building with such force we felt the whole place shake. The little girl, she was screaming and her mother held her, but her mother she was hysterical too. I saw one
vaquero
get his head ripped off as a shutter caved in and a huge paw broke through the wood and those claws peeled the man’s face from his skull like a banana and there was blood everywhere. The other
caballero
pissed himself when he saw his friend die in this way. You can bet I had my gun out by now and
bang,
I shot one of the claws off the monster and then I was at the window and fired right into its face,
bang bang bang
…”
 

Alvarez’s eyes suddenly went glassy and unfocused. “I saw its
face
. It was not wolf and not man. It had jaws like a wolf and ears and fur like
el lobo
but the eyes,
senors
, its
ojos
were those of an
hombre
.
Sus ojos eran come rojos carbones
. I shot it in the face five times, not thinking I was wasting my bullets because there were so many
bestias
. The shots blew pieces off the monster’s head, putting a hole in its skull and I saw the bloody brain.” The thief’s voice fell to a whisper. “And it grinned at me. A mocking grin, ear to ear. The bullets did not hurt it,
senors
, and in the ten seconds this happened, I saw its face grow back.”

The fat Federale rolled his eyes and groaned as he listened but his partner was riveted, hanging on the bandit’s every word. “What did you
do
?” He asked breathlessly like a small child. “What happened next?”

The storyteller went on with his tale, emboldened by the attention. “The shutters were being broken to pieces by the blows of the creatures. And their claws sheared through the wood. The ticket man was reloading his repeater when one of the beasts stuck its snout through the window and took the man’s arm in its jaws and with one bite snapped it clean off.
Snap!
It
ate
the arm! So much screaming, so much blood. I was out of bullets and was going for the fallen
vaquero
’s gunbelt to get ammo to reload but at the same time keep my head down and duck the bullets his friend was shooting at the monsters, and that’s when the damn kerosene lamp fell and the place caught fire. We had no choice but to flee.”

Alvarez began to weep, recalling the horror that followed. “The rest happened very fast. As soon as we were out the door, one of the monsters grabbed the little girl right from her mother’s arms in his teeth and swallowed the child in a single gulp. Then
su pobre madre
had her head ripped off. Another monster tore her headless body in half like a rag doll with meat inside. Everywhere, it was fur and claws and blood and arms and legs flying and guts all over the ground. I just ran into the darkness,
rápido como mis pies se iría
, to get away. Something bit my arm, crushed down on it like a bear trap right to the bone so I shot my last bullet into the red mouth and the jaws released me. I fled into the desert and heard the others’ dying screams behind me and…this is all I remember,
senors
. When I awoke I was lying in the desert. And later you found me.”

There was a clap. Then another. The Federale behind him was clapping his hands slowly and deliberately. “That’s quite a story.” The thin man nodded at his partner, impressed.

“Wolfmen.” The fat one fingered one of his chins. “That explains everything.”

“Yes, yes!
Gracias a Dios
you believe me!”

The cop leaned forward across the table, gaze dripping with contempt. “We did not say we believe you. In fact, we think you are a lying thieving piece of shit trying to bullshit us to save your sorry ass. Do you take us for fools?”

“Do you think we are assholes?”

“I think he’s calling us
culos
.”

“Insulting an officer is a crime.
Muy malo.
We can lock you up for a very long time. A very, very long time.”

Alvarez did not like the way the obese cop was fingering the bag of silver. Or the knowing looks being exchanged between both the dirty
policia federal.
The fat, lazy Federale took a swig of whisky from the bottle. “Maybe I should ride over to the stagecoach junction and see if this
hombre
’s story checks out.” He scratched his stomach. “There must be bodies all over the place,
si
?”

“If the vultures haven’t eaten them,” the thief said, worried no evidence might remain.

The thin one yawned, bored. “We’ll go in the morning. My ass hurts and I want to take a nap. Then we’ll get drunk and play cards.”

“But
senors
, please!
Mi brazo
!” Alvarez pleaded, the throbbing agony of his mangled arm getting worse. Stabbing pain traveled through his shoulders and chest, like a hideous infection spreading through his bloodstream.
“Dijiste que me recibiría un medico.”

The thin Federale clicked his teeth. “Tsk. Tsk.
Si
, that bite is very bad. It already looks badly infected. I smell the gangrene.” He sniffed like a rat. “You don’t want
el doctor
, amigo. He will just take the arm. Cut it off.”

“I need a doctor. We had a deal.”

“You are a hard
hombre
, a
bandito
, tough it up!” The Federales laughed at each other, gold teeth glinting, and the thief understood there would be no doctor and he would die in jail. The
policia
federal
meant to keep the silver and when he died from gangrene tomorrow or the next day they would bury his corpse in a shallow grave where the body would never be found. This was Mexico and that was how things were done.
 

“Fuck your mothers.”
 

“Lock him up.”
 

The thief was grabbed by the collar. The thin cop hauled him into the next room, a small chamber with two jail cells side by side. There were two occupants. An old sleeping drunk under a weathered brown sombrero and orange poncho was curled on the cot in the far cell. A filthy, muscle-bound laborer stood in the closer pen. The cop pulled out his keys and unlocked that cell, shoving Alvarez inside.

When he hit the floor, the shooting pain in his arm nearly caused him to pass out. When the thief looked up, his cellmate was giving him the stink eye. Alvarez was too wounded to resist as he felt the rough hands rummage through his pockets, stealing his last few pesos.

Alvarez was born poor and knew he would die in a pauper’s grave.

The
borracho
stirs in his cell.

The drunk old man is eighty-five, dressed in rags, sombrero resting over his face on the hard cot that hurts his brittle bones. But it is not the
clang
of the next cell door slamming shut that awakens him, although he is a light sleeper.
 

He knows by his smell the new prisoner is one of
them
.

The Men Who Walk Like Wolves.

The bum has met them before, long ago, in a life spent in the shitholes of Durango. While the old man’s eyes aren’t good and his hearing is failing, his nose works just fine and the distantly remembered stench comes back to him instantly. Once smelled, the odor of the werewolf is never forgotten.
 

He tilts the sombrero back from his eyes and studies the newcomer.

The wretch lies on the stained cement floor where the Federale who now locks the cell has brutally pushed him. His wound, a savage raking bite on his arm, festers yellow pus through the bandage the
policia
have carelessly applied. That explains it. The unfortunate has suffered the bite of the werewolf, and already the curse is in his bloodstream. Hence the smell, the acrid angry tang of bad blood, in the aged drunk’s nostrils.

The attack must have happened last night, the
borracho
reckons, for the moon was full then as it will be again this evening. Casting a glance through his cell window, the old man sees the lowering sun in the sky. He knows in scant hours when the moon has risen the cell bars will no more hold the werewolf than tissue paper.

It will eat every human being in the jail.

After ripping them limb from limb.

Except the
borracho
.

No, it will not touch him.

For he has protection.

Even now, he feels its protuberance inside his worn boot beneath his foot, the obstruction pressing against the sweaty flesh of the arch. He always keeps it while traveling in these parts as a precaution. Nobody, not even the Federales who have him in custody, ever search his boots.
 

Few men trapped with a werewolf would see that as an opportunity, the old man muses. But if his eighty-five years have taught him anything, it is that any situation can be turned to a man’s advantage and in every problem there is an opportunity.

One must just have patience.

So the drunk bides his time and sits and watches the poor soul in the cell adjacent, waiting for nightfall. Then, he knows, everything will happen quickly. The hours pass slowly.

The
borracho
has his plan all figured out.

Those
hijo de puta
Federales have kept him locked up behind bars for the past month, intending to let him rot and die here. They make no secret of it; the corrupt
policia
laugh when they tell him he will die in jail many times over recent days, tossing him table scraps to eat and not changing his overflowing slop bucket even once. Just because he had been drunk and taken a clumsy swing at one of them. The
borracho
had been riding through the area minding his own business when the bastards had accosted him and asked if he had money. Had he admitted he did, the old man knew those
cabronas
would have stolen it. When he said he had none, they arrested him for vagrancy. That’s when he took the swing. An old man deserves respect. These filthy crooks in their unwashed uniforms are nothing more than pigs, but he is their prisoner. Until right this very moment, the
borracho
had resigned himself to die in this tiny, stinking cell.

Now he has hope.

In the other cage, the laborer who robbed the new prisoner stands by the bars counting a few paltry coins in his hand. The thief is smirking but the old man knows when the moon rises he will lose that smirk and those coins will be on the eyes of his corpse, if his eyes remain in his skull at all.

The last red glimmer of twilight fades on the windowsill.

The drunk stares without blinking through the bars into the next-door cell. The two men inside are now dim shadows in the bluish glow of moonlight. His eyes are not very good anyway, so he hears it first.

A choked cry of pain and surprise.