He waited for him to reach the corner. “Hey, Diego, what you got there, your laundry?”
The Mexican looked funny, surprised, like he’d been caught stealing chickens. Then he gave a big smile and waved, like R. L. Davis was his best friend and he was really glad to see him.
Dumb Mexican. He was all right; just a dumb chilipicker. Christ, R. L. Davis thought, it’d be good to tell him what he’d done to Bob Valdez. And then he thought, Hey, that’s the boardinghouse Bob Valdez lives in, isn’t it?
Each of the seven doors in the upstairs hall bore the name of a girl in a flowery pink and blue scroll – Anastacia, Rosaria, Evita, Elisaida, Maria, Tranquilina, and Edith. The names were a nice touch and Inez liked them, though only one of the original seven girls was still here. Because of the turnover during the past two years, and because the Mexican sign painter had moved away, Inez had not bothered to have the doors relettered. Maybe she would sometime, though none of her customers seemed to mind that the name on the door didn’t match the girl. They didn’t care what the girls’ names were, long as they were there.
Inez tiptoed down the hall, but the floor still creaked beneath her weight. It was semidark, with one lamp lit at the end of the hall and a faint light coming from the stairway landing. Polly followed her, carrying a tray of ham and greens and fried potatoes and coffee: Bob Valdez’s supper if he was awake and felt like eating. He had been here since yesterday morning: two days and going on the second night, sleeping most of the time and sitting up drinking water out of the pitcher when he wasn’t sleeping. She had never seen a man drink so much water. Diego Luz had come yesterday afternoon with a bundle of clothes – at least what looked to be clothing – and hadn’t been back since then. Diego Luz never came here ordinarily, unless he was looking for someone for Mr. Malson, so it would seem strange if he were seen coming in and out. This was why Bob Valdez told him to stay away. No one was to know he was here. “As far as anybody thinks, I have disappeared,” Bob Valdez had said. He had told Inez what happened to him, but she had the feeling he didn’t tell her everything. That was all right; it was his business. He told what he wanted, but he always told the truth.
At Rosaria’s door Inez paused, listening, taking a key from the folds of her skirt. She turned it in the lock and opened the door quietly, in case he was asleep.
She was surprised to see light from the overhead lamp; she was even more surprised to see Bob Valdez standing by the dresser. She got Polly into the room and locked the door and saw the look on Polly’s face as she stared at Bob Valdez.
“Put it down,” Inez said. “Before you drop it.”
“Over here,” Valdez said. “If you will.”
Crossing the room, Polly kept her eyes on him as he moved aside the newspaper and oil can and revolver so she could place the tray on the dresser. He was holding his sawed-off ten-bore Remington shotgun, wiping it with a cloth that two days before had been his shirt.
Inez smiled a little watching him, noticing the shotgun shells now on the dresser, the shells standing upright with their crimped ends peeled open. “Roberto Valdez returned,” she said.
He smiled back at her. “Bob is easier.”
“Bob wears a starched collar,” Inez said. “Roberto makes war.”
“Just a little war, if he wants it,” Valdez said.
“You get crazier every day.”
“I ask him once more; that’s all.”
“You’ve asked him twice.”
“But this time will be different.”
“You expect to fight him?”
“If he wants a little. We’ll see.”
“We. There’s one of you.”
“The ham smells good. Potatoes, fresh vegetables.” He smiled at Polly, then moved his gaze back to Inez. “You got any beef tallow?”
“I’ll look,” Inez said. “Or maybe you can use ham fat.”
“I cut lean slices specially,” Polly said. She was frowning, trying to understand why a man would want beef tallow when he had a plate of baked ham in front of him.
“He doesn’t want it to eat,” Inez said, watching Valdez. “He puts the tallow in the shotgun shell; it holds the charge together so it doesn’t fly all over the place. How far would you say, Roberto?”
Bob Valdez shrugged. “Maybe a hundred and fifty feet.”
“Boom, like a cannon,” Inez said. “His own army. Listen, we’ll give you food to take, whatever you want.”
“I’m grateful.”
“When are you going?”
“When Diego brings the horse.”
“You’re not taking him, are you?”
“No. One is as good as two.”
“But not as good as two dozen.”
“Maybe a little whiskey with the coffee, if you got some.”
“And some to take for your nerve,” Inez said. “When do you plan to be back?”
“Two days, three. I don’t know.”
“So if you’re not back in three days-” Inez said.
Valdez smiled. “Pray for me.”
A little while later they watched him leave to begin his war: the Valdez from another time, the Valdez in leather chivarra pants and the long-barreled Walker Colt on his right thigh, carrying his shotgun and a Sharps carbine and field glasses and a big canteen and a warbag for the ham and biscuits, the Valdez no one had seen in ten years.
He reached the birch forest before dawn, dismounting and leading his buckskin gelding through the gray shapes of the trees to the far side, to the edge of the meadow that reached to the slope where Tanner’s lookouts were stationed. The night was clear and there was no sign of life on the hill. But they would be there, he was sure; how many, he would have to wait and see.
In the first light he moved along the edge of the thicket to the place where R. L. Davis had crowded his horse against him and pushed him over. Valdez did not leave the cover of the trees; he could see the cruciformed poles lying in the open; he could see, at the ends of the crosspole and in the middle, the leather thongs that had been cut by someone in the darkness, a shape close to him, an arm raising his head to give him water, hands helping him to his feet. He must have been out of his head not to remember; he must have been worse off than he imagined. Three days ago he had been lying here in the sun. Already it seemed as if it had happened in another time, years before. He moved back to a place where he would have a good view of the slopes across the meadow, and here he dropped his gear and settled down to wait, propping his field glasses on his warbag and canteen and lying behind them to hold his gaze on the slope.
About six o’clock, not quite an hour after first light, three riders appeared against the sky at the top of the slope. They came down into the deep shadows, and shortly after, a single rider passed over the crest going the other way. One at night, Valdez marked down in his mind, and three during the day. Though maybe not all day.
But it did turn out to be all day. Valdez remained in the thicket watching the slope, seeing very little movement; no one came down the trail or crossed the meadow toward the slope; the lookouts remained in dense brush most of the time, and if he did not know where to look for them through the glasses, he probably wouldn’t have noticed them. At about five o’clock in the evening a rider came over the crest of the ridge, and soon after the three lookouts climbed the switchbacks and disappeared.
There you are, Valdez said to himself. How do you like it now? It doesn’t get any better.
He had not eaten all day and had taken only a few sips of water. Now he ate some of the ham and biscuits and a handful of red peppers; he took a sip of the whiskey Inez had given him and a good drink from the canteen. Valdez was ready.
Crossing the meadow, he let his hand fall to the Walker Colt and eased the barrel in its holster. The stock of the Sharps carbine rested against the inside of his left knee, in the saddle boot; the sawed-off Remington hung on the right side, looped to the saddle horn by a short length of suspender strap. By now the lookout would have seen him and studied him and would be ready. Three of them yesterday came down to meet R. L. Davis, but one up there now would stay put and plan to take him by surprise. Valdez let the buckskin walk, but nudged his heels into its flanks as they reached the rocks and brush and started up the trail.