And with that, I turned my blue roan, Grizz, in a tight circle, put the spur to his flanks, and kicked for Uvalde.
25
“... DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’, AIN’T SEEN NOTHIN’ . . .”
DAMN NEAR RODE Grizz slap into the ground on that trip. The promise I’d made Clementine Webb, at the foot of her entire family’s pitiful grave, rang in my heart like Sunday morning church bells with every step that animal took.
Got to Uvalde in what had to have been record time. It was already good and dark when I reined up out front of a noisy, busy-looking watering hole that had a barely discernable, rough billboard hanging over the batwing doors. Faded, bloodred letters, painted atop the sign’s rapidly vanishing yellow background, identified the joint as Mi Tio’s Cantina.
Didn’t know all that much about the town, other than the fact that I could find my way around easy enough in the daylight. Had conducted a bit of business there a time or two before, but not enough to be completely comfortable wandering the streets at night.
I remembered as how Clementine had mentioned the exact address of her home, when we’d talked out on the banks of Devils River, but the specifics had pretty much escaped my memory. Figured there was no point fumbling about in the dark in what would likely prove a futile effort to find Senator Webb’s place somewhere on Pecos Boulevard.
So, I tied up to the nearest hitch rack and strolled over to Mi Tio’s entryway. Took the time to peer over the batwings for a spell just to get the lay of the land. Didn’t spot anything wayward. Pushed through a set of café doors that complained like a flock of squawking ducks. Felt as though every head in the place turned to get a good look at the stranger who’d just crossed the bustling joint’s rude threshold.
The cow-country oasis was jammed wall to wall with people—vaqueros, businessmen, gamblers, loose women, railroaders, cowboys, pimps, cardsharps, and cattlemen. They were packed into that roadside establishment elbow to elbow and, in places, damn near nose to nose. I fought a crooked path through the crowd and bulled out a reasonable good spot to stand at the bar. Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, Mi Tio’s had folks crammed all around me like a fat woman’s tightest pair of stockings.
A muscular bartender, who could’ve easily been mistaken for a carnival worker that made his living driving stakes and erecting tents, cast a decidedly unconcerned glance my direction. He was working as though his life depended on swabbing out the bottom of a shot glass with a damp towel when he said, “You want something to drink, mister, or’d you just come in to stand at the bar and take up space?”
I motioned him closer, leaned over, and said, “Be most grateful if you’d pour me a shot of whatever you got in the way of decent Tennessee sippin’ whiskey, friend.”
The moustachioed bruiser slopped the drink into a freshly cleaned glass, then shoved it my direction. “Ranger, ain’t you? Sure as hell have the look,” he said.
“Yeah. Texas Ranger Lucius Dodge.”
“That right? Well, sorry, but I ain’t ever heard of you. ’Course that don’t mean much ’cause I just got to this part of Texas a few weeks ago. Not sure what you want, but whatever it is, I cain’t help you.”
I twirled the glass around in a circle of the spilled liquid atop the bar. “Well, be that as it may, I could sure enough use a tiny bit of information with my drink. That is if you could bring yourself to help me out.”
I threw the whiskey down ’bout the same time the drink slinger said, “Already told you. Ain’t in the information business, Ranger Dodge. Don’t do nothin’ but sell whatever people want to drink. Other’n herdin’ liquor bottles and cleanin’ glassware, I don’t know nothin’, ain’t seen nothin’, and don’t wanna know nothin’ or see anythin’. Kinda stuff you might want to know could easily get a man kilt deader’n a rotten fence post around these parts.”
I forced a tight smile and tried my level best to keep on looking and sounding friendly, rather than reaching over the crowded countertop and snatching his nose off. “Look, all I need is for someone to point me toward Senator Nathan Webb’s house. Get me goin’ the right direction, figure I can find it on my own.”
Bartender’s face twisted into a mask of obvious displeasure. “Don’t have a single clue. Like I said before, ain’t been in Uvalde that long myself. Couldn’t find Senator Webb’s house for you with a weepin’ willow divinin’ rod and a week to do it.”
Bearded man beside me, who looked like a Mexican version of Father Christmas, turned my direction. He flashed a liquor-fueled, cherry-cheeked grin. He drained a doubled-up glass of tequila, thumped the empty beaker onto the bar, and ran his sleeve-covered arm across wet lips. “I know thees place you speak of, senor.”
“Ah. That a fact? It’s nearby, I hope.”
“Oh, yass, senor. Ees very close.”
“Senator Webb’s hacienda? You’re certain about that?”
“Sí, senor. I know it well. La casa de las muñecas.”
“Muñecas? Muñecas?”
“Sí, senor. How you say it? Ah, house of dolls.”
“House of dolls?”
“Yass. The senator, his casa filled with children ever since he arrive here. They collect many dolls over the years. All kind. Hang them from the walls, trees, bushes. In the courtyard. Very beautiful.”
“Beautiful?”
“Oh, sí. Until they suddenly leave, that is. Now, there are many peoples who say the hacienda she ees haunted. Many peoples think that Senator Webb and hees family all muerto. Dead. They see strange lights there at night. Strange mens come and go.”
I couldn’t believe how, with no hard evidence, the man had hit on the exact way of things. Stared into the quarter of an inch of whiskey left in my glass and said, “Can you take me there right now?”
“Absoluteamente, senor. Ees no problema. Be most happy to guide you there myself, senor. Have to walk right past the senator’s deserted casa on the way to my own home.”
He grabbed me just above the elbow. The man might have looked like a fat gob, but he had an iron-fingered grip. If I put my mind to that particular event, pretty sure I could still feel his fingers wrapped around my arm to this day.
The friendly tippler damn near dragged me through the dense crowd and back onto the street. Once outside, he made a flamboyant, one-armed sweeping motion off to our left. “Come. Mount your trusty caballo, amigo,” he said, then let out a belly-shaking laugh. “Jesus de Sangre weel gladly lead the way. Eees but a short distance from thees place of drunkenness and carnal pleasures, I assure you. Eees not far at all.”
I had to hustle over and hop on Grizz’s back quick as I could. My newfound friend might well have been the size of a Concord coach, and obviously close on to being knee-walking drunk, but he proved light on his feet as well. He almost disappeared into the dark before I could get myself mounted.
Jesus de Sangre staggered some as I followed and talked to himself with almost every stumbling, booze-belabored step. Even talked with people who weren’t there, or within shouting distance, near as I could tell.
He led me down a number of smelly, garbage-littered alleyways. Unseeable dogs prowling through the trash yapped and snarled at our passing. In several places we had to pick our way around crude houses, or jacales, made of little more than a series of sticks jammed into the hard ground. Most appeared to be filled with laughing children and busy women. After a spell, I came to feel as though we were doing little more than traveling in a big circle. Then, of a sudden, we hit a spacious, tree-lined boulevard of impressive haciendas, each surrounded by its own ten-to twelve-foot-high stucco-covered adobe wall.