Meanwhile, the others had built a fire from pieces of the buckboard. When the fire was going well, they removed one of the wheels, lashed the screaming Felipe to it in the form of a St. Andrew’s Cross, and roasted him alive. All because they belonged to Rivera.
As the sun rose, the stench of burning flesh became unbearable. Fallon hung there, waiting for his turn to come, and his head dropped forward on his chest.
A thunder of hooves caused him to look up as Ortiz rode into the bowl followed by a dozen warriors. Ortiz dismounted and walked forward, pushing aside those who crowded around him excitedly. Unlike the others he wore no war paint, but Fallon took in the red flannel shirt and headband, the rawhide boots. It was enough.
He tried to moisten dry lips. “Juan?” he said. “What is this?”
“No more Juan Ortiz,” the other said. “You see only Diablo now. You understand me?”
“Diablo?” Fallon croaked.
“That’s right,” Ortiz said. “Now say it again. I want you to know that Juan Ortiz exists no longer.”
“Diablo,” Fallon whispered.
“Good,” Ortiz said, and he took out his knife and sliced through Fallon’s bonds.
Fallon swayed slightly, dazed and stupefied, and they brought a pony and pushed him onto its back. He groped for the halter, and Ortiz put a hand on his arm.
“You will tell Rivera I hold his daughter, old man. For that I will let you live, understand?”
Fallon lashed the pony and galloped away.
Eleven
When Dillinger went out on the balcony, the sun was just beginning to appear over the rim of the mountains. Rose had let him stay the night, but on the couch in her sitting room. He stood there breathing in the freshness of the morning for a while before going downstairs. He had understood love when he was a boy in Indiana because he had loved his dog. But the feeling he had now was different from the feeling he had had toward the many other women. He was happy, yet his heart hurt with the pain of his happiness.
The bar was empty, but there were sounds of movement from the kitchen. He leaned in the doorway. Rose stood at the stove, dressed for riding.
“Whatever it is, it smells good.”
She smiled over her shoulder. “I’m short on eggs this morning. You’ll have to make do with refried beans. There’s coffee in the pot.”
He found a cup and helped himself.
“Are you going out to the mine?” she asked.
“If Rojas or Rivera tries to grab me again…”
“I saw you had a gun last night.”
“It belonged to Rojas. I’m sure he has another by now. Rose, I want to trust you with something.
“My uncle says never trust a woman.”
“I trust you. When I was a kid, I landed in reform school. That’s a jail for kids. And then I was transferred to a worse place. I put in nine years, do you know how long that can be? I didn’t hurt anybody. I didn’t steal much. But I swear to you, I am not spending nine years or nine days in anybody’s jail anymore. Rivera knows who I am.”
“Better than I do?”
“He knows my identity. Which is why if he and I can’t live in the same place, I’ve got to move on.”
“That will be sad for me.”
“Unless you decide to come with me.” It was out of the bag. He watched her eyes, those beautiful, slightly slanted eyes, larger than any he had ever seen.
“This hotel,” Rose said, “is all I have in the world. If I cannot move the hotel, I cannot move. I am like a prisoner, too.”
Just then Chavasse came in and placed a large stone pitcher on the table. “I don’t know what is happening. There is not one Indian left in the place. I had to milk the cow myself.”
Rose turned. “What are you talking about?”
“They’ve all moved out. Only the mestizos are left and they seem to be frightened out of their wits.”
“What have they got to be frightened about?” Dillinger demanded.
Rose frowned. “I thought it was strange when Conchita didn’t bring me any eggs this morning.”