“That place isn’t fit for a dog to live in,” he said to Fallon as he climbed back into the car. “Isn’t anyone doing anything for these people?”
“Rose does what she can. So does Father Tomas. He’s the best friend they’ve got, but they’re like zombies. Rivera has the men doing a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day. They’re worked so hard they don’t give a damn about anything anymore.”
Rose’s horse was tethered beside a buckboard outside a house at the other end of the village, and Dillinger braked to a halt.
“Is the mine far from here?”
“Just over the rise, three or four hundred yards.”
“You walk on up. I’ll join you later.”
Fallon trudged away up the street, and Dillinger approached the hut just as Rose, hearing the car, came out. She looked tired and pale, and there was sweat on her face. Dillinger took the canteen from the Chevrolet and handed it to her. “You don’t look too good.”
“There’s not much air in there, that’s all.” She poured a little water into the palm of one hand and rubbed it over her face.
“Who’s inside?”
“Father Tomas. I’d like you to meet him.”
Dillinger followed her inside. The place was exactly the same as the other, the room half-filled with acrid smoke from the fire of dried dung. A man lay on a filthy blanket in the corner, an Apache woman crouched at his feet.
A white-haired old priest sat beside him on a small stool, gently sponging the damp forehead. Dillinger leaned closer. The skin on the man’s face was almost transparent, every bone clearly defined. He was obviously very ill.
The priest clasped his hands together and started to pray, his face raised to heaven, a single shaft of sunlight through the smoke hole lighting upon the white hair.
Dillinger made his way outside, Rose following him. From his pocket he took the flat bottle of tequila that Chavasse had given him against emergencies. He unscrewed the cap and swallowed.
He turned to look at her. “Can’t anything be done?”
“My father had a plan, a wonderful plan. At the far end of the valley, above the hacienda where the streams run down from the snows of the sierras, he wanted to build a dam. With its waters, the whole valley Would have flowered.”
“And your uncle doesn’t see things that way?”
“I’m afraid not, senor,” Father Tomas said, emerging from the house behind them. “Don Jose is interested only in obtaining as much gold as these wretched people can squeeze from the mine. When he is satisfied that the well has run dry, he will leave for what to him is a more favorable climate.”
“This is Senor Jordan, Father,” Rose said. “The one my uncle forced into coming here.”
The old man took Dillinger’s hand. “I heard what happened in Hermosa last night, my son. God moves in His own good time. Perhaps Don Jose made a mistake when he tricked you into coming here.”
Before Dillinger could reply, two horsemen galloped down the hill, one behind the other, and turned into the street. Rojas was slightly in front. He reined in so sharply that his horse danced sideways on its hind legs, crowding Dillinger, Rose, and the old priest back against the wall, splashing them with mud.
His companion was a mestizo in a battered red straw hat. A man who had turned against his own people. He had coarse, brutal features, and a hide whip dangled from his right wrist.
Rojas sat there glaring at Dillinger. Two of his teeth were missing, and his lips were twice their normal size. A livid green bruise stretched from his chin across the left side of his face to the eye, almost closing it.
“What do you want?” Father Tomas said.
“I’ve come for Maco. The swine’s not turned up for work again.”
“He’s too sick,” the old man said.
“They’re always too sick.” Rojas dismounted. “They know we need every available man at the mine, and they take advantage of it.”
He took a step forward, and Dillinger put a hand against his chest. “You heard what Father Tomas said.”
Rojas moved back, and his right hand dropped to the butt of his revolver.