As you may have gathered from the pictures on the main page, I
am a huge fan of Westerns, both in
prose and on the silver screen, and an admirer of the Southwest, particularly
the state of Texas and the great nation of Mexico.
The following is excerpted from my novel The Pirooters, basically meant as an extended love letter to the genre and the region. In the excerpt, the three chief characters, Heck Pargrew, his brother Virge, and their ex-slave Old Moze, on the run from the law in Reconstruction Texas, try to hole up in a Mexican border town.
The streets of
Guerrero were dusty from the light wind that blew through that late morning. Once an important town, the crossing point
for legal and illegal trade across the
They reached the zocalo or town square. There was a bandstand in the center of the square. Guitarists and horn players had once serenaded appreciative audiences there with the ancient, endless Spanish corridas, but their music was long stilled by war. There was a church at the east end of the square and a cabildo or city hall on the opposite, western side. A cantina stood on the north end, already loud with raucous music and drunken laughter. There was a two-story building near the cantina, a good-sized wood structure. The first floor was a store of some kind. Goods of various sorts were stacked on trays outside the building and numerous handwritten signs hung from the wall advertising bargains. A red, white, and blue barber’s pole was fastened next to the door.
“Me for that there cantina for some Who-hit-John,” said Heck.
“That would be the first thing you think of,” said Virge. “Reckon you want to play faro too.”
“And why not, if I’m
of a mind to?”
“Before you go charging into
that cantina,” Old Moze butted in, “might want to fix yourself so you don’t smell
like something the cat done drug in.
That there barber pole means you can get a bath there and shave off them
devil’s red whiskers of your’n.”
Heck grew thoughtful, an unusual state for him, and ran a hand across his rough and greasy beard.
“You got a point there, Old Moze, I will admit. Seems to me your old hide could use a wash as well. Get some of that river silt off you.”
“Don’t expect me to wait on you,” said Old Moze. He headed his mule toward the store. “Gonna be first in the horse trough or whatever they call a bath. Y’all can pay too with some of them coins you got off them bandits, help me recoup my losses a mite.”
Don Isidro, the proprietor of the tienda, was an elderly bald man, wizened but still vigorous with many gleaming gold teeth. He was delighted to see new customers and agreed to provide a bath, shave them, cut their hair, and have their clothes washed for two gold pesos. Rather than a horse trough as Old Moze had anticipated, Don Isidro provided an unexpected luxury. In a bath house behind the tienda stood a large, porcelain tub with claw hammer feet of French manufacture, a relic, Don Isidro claimed, of a Napoleonic general in exile who had campaigned on behalf of Santa Anna. Each man took a bath in fresh hot water drawn from a constantly replenished cauldron in the kitchen that boiled throughout the day. Don Isidro had a chair brought into the bath house and shaved Old Moze and Heck with a gleaming straight razor with great ceremony and the extreme care of the aged.
“Think you’re ever going to need to shave, Virge?” said Heck.
“I’m glad I don’t yet,” said Virge. He rubbed his still smooth cheeks and smiled.
Don Isidro’s
servants, girls and boys sold into service by their indigent parents, washed
their clothes in clear well water. The
clothes dried quickly in the brilliant sunlight. They left the tienda clean and refreshed, hungry for a meal at
the cantina. It was a poor thing
compared to
“Well, I wished I was in the land of cotton
Old times there are not forgotten-“
“Dang, if there ain’t some other good old boys here,” Heck exulted. “Now we’ll have ourselves a real good time.”
“Yeah, reckon you will,” said Old Moze. “Guess I wait out here for y’all. Have ‘em send out beans and tortillas, and scrambled eggs if they got any.”
“Stand out here in the hot sun with all the dust? Old Moze, what do you want to do that for,” protested Virge.
“Yeah, shoot, come on in,” chimed Heck. “I still got me some money and it’s just burning a hole in my pocket.”
Old Moze shook his head and went in against his better judgment. It was cool and dim inside the cantina, a relief after the square's heat and blinding light. Four men slopped down mescal at the bar, a crude thing made from the house’s original door propped on two empty whiskey barrels. An obviously frightened boy with a thick head of spiky black hair waited on them. Plainly Texans of the roughest frontier sort, they were dressed in buckskins and homespun, armed with huge Bowie knives and at least one revolver apiece. Two were big and beefy, the others of average size. It was evident they were already very drunk from the way each man steadied himself with one hand flat on the bar. One big man turned and saw them outlined by the sunlight streaming in from the open doorway.
“I do declare,” he slurred, “what do we have here?”
“Couple of greener kids and a damn slave s’what, thass all,” said another.
“Howdy, how y’all fellows keeping today?” said Heck. “Sure is a pleasure to meet some other Johnny Rebs down in this here godforsaken place. Let me stand you gents a round.”
The other big man turned to look at them. Black-haired and shaggy, it’d been a least a couple of weeks since he’d shaved. He bared strong, irregular yellow teeth in a sardonic smile and bellowed, his voice too loud and deep to be believed:
“Reckon we don’t want a stinking round from you, you little pipsqueak greener son-of-a-bitch! This here cantina’s for men. Not some God damn pair of wet-nosed kids. And we sure as hell don’t want no God damn stinking black in here either. Bad enough being waited on by Meskins. Get on out of here! Get, you hear me.”
Old Moze turned to leave but Heck stopped him with an outstretched hand. He looked at Virge.
“You want to handle old Bull of the Woods or shall I?”
“Let me deal with him,” Virge replied. He took a few steps forward and said, sombrero in his hands:
“Look, Mister, you got us all wrong. We were with the Texas Cavalry Brigade to the bitter end. Heck here even got written up in dispatches a couple of times.”
“You’re a bunch of God damn liars,” sneered the black-haired man.
“Tell you what I am, boy. I’m half alligator and half rattlesnake and half kicking jackass mule and all man. If y’all don’t get the hell out of here, I’m gonna stomp the living daylights out of you.”
Virge sighed.
“Well, come on, if you’ve a mind to.”
The black-haired man put his head down and rushed Virge roaring. Virge neatly sidestepped his blind assault. A rock-like fist caught the man hard in the side of the head as he passed. The blow sent him reeling sideways headfirst into the wall. The black-haired man moaned with pain and cradled his head. Mounting rage got him on his feet. He made another mad bull charge. Virge ducked again. A half-full mescal bottle stood opportunely at a nearby table. He smashed it onto the man’s head with sickening force. Unconscious, the man collapsed before the bar. Blood streamed from his matted black hair.
“Any more half-alligator, half-rattlesnakes looking for a scrape?” Virge inquired, not even out of breath.
“Why you little sumbitch,” muttered the other big man. He reached for his pistol.
Before he even touched the handle, Heck stepped up and neatly buffaloed him, a smart blow of his new .45 pistol barrel to the man’s high forehead, just enough to knock him senseless, but not enough to crush his skull. He collapsed to the floor where he joined his comrade in coma. Heck pointed the pistol at the two conscious men and fully cocked the hammer. The two men stared into the black hole at the barrel’s long end. Death waited there, sure as sunset.
“Y’all wanna sass us too?”
The more sober of the pair replied:
“No, sir. I reckon not. Guess me and Stan’ll be leaving about now.”
“Right sensible of you. Drag them no-account pissant friends of yours out along with you. Hope they learned not to mess with the Pargrew boys. When they come to, if they want a difficulty again, I’ll plug ‘em!”
The men grunted as they dragged their unconscious friends’ dead weight from the cantina. Old Moze and the brothers were left the undisputed victors. There was loud applause from a dark corner of the room.
“Bravo, bravo. Very good. Magnificent!“
A man stepped into the light. Of medium height and a compact build, he wore a splendid uniform: baggy red trousers, an elaborate dark blue cummerbund and a well-tailored coat of the same hue, its sleeves embroidered with curling gold braid. Except for its square bill, his gold-braided blue cap resembled a Union Army hat. A full, dark brown imperial punctuated his round face in emulation of Napoleon III, his commander-in-chief.
“Ah, brave ones, such a sturdy
display of valor and resolve,” he said, his heavily-accented English peculiar
in the extreme to their
“You sent those cochons with tails between legs, mais non? Vraiment, the Confederacy did not lose for lack of courage, to judge by you.”
“Well, thank you there, general,” Heck replied.
The French officer chuckled.
“I am not of such exalted status. Capitaine Lyautey of the Deuxieme Regiment du Legion Etrangere, currently in the service of His Majesty Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico. Who do I have the honor to address?”
“My name’s Virge Pargrew and this is my brother, Heck. This is Old Moze.”
“Enchantè. Would you give me the privilege of toasting you at my table?”
“You mean, buy us a drink?” Heck piped. “Shoot, privilege yourself all you like”
There were two tables in the corner. Four men with muskets sat at one table. They wore simpler versions of Lyautey’s uniform. Enlisted men, they kept guard and drank water while their superior indulged himself. Lyautey took a chair at the empty table and gestured to them to do likewise.
“Your man sits with us as well? You are, how you say, unusual for men of the American South. Eh, it is of no matter. I am not so delicate as some of my comrades in the Legion.”
Grateful to Heck and Virge for ejecting his tormentors, the boy barkeep eagerly fetched small clay cups brim full of mescal. Lyautey raised his high above his head.
“To the modern day Davids who smote
two Goliaths on one day. To your health.”
”Like you said there. Right, Virge?”
“I reckon.”
They knocked down their drinks. Each man grimaced and recoiled from the raw cactus rotgut’s powerful kick. Old Moze bit into a lemon wedge to cut the taste, one of several on the table. Virge followed his example.
“I am the commander of the Legion company stationed in the Presidio. With the help of some loyal Mexican troops, we must hold our post and make sure no Juarista bandits cross the river to carry out their miserable depredations against an innocent populace. Needless to say, I am desperately short-handed.
“I was about to lower my standards and recruit those degenerates when you walk in and send them packing. Your arrival is, how you say, providential, no?”
“You’re talking about a job?” asked Virge.
“Exactly. Did I not hear you say you were with the Confederate cavalry?”
“Sure as shooting. Virge and me done seen the elephant a right smart of times.”
“Ah, yes, this old
soldier sees the mark of
Virge darted a glance over at Old Moze. He kept his usual poker face, but Virge could tell he wasn’t one bit taken with Capitaine Lyautey.
“I need men like you to lead my Mexican scouts. They ride the countryside, on patrol for Juarista bandits. You will each have the rank of lieutenant and lead a squad of fifty man. With men like you in command, I know that once a bandit is caught, he’ll be dealt with appropriately, with a bullet or a rope.”
“Oh, no, sir, Capitaine,” Heck assured. “Taking care of bandits, that’s no problem atall. Why, just today we put paid to three of them on our way up here.”
“Really?”
“Iffen you done it, t'ain’t bragging. Them sumbitches thought they’d crowd us but they’re buzzard meat now.”
“Eh, tres bien, you are plainly what is needed. The pay is generous, fifty gold pesos a month. You’ll have your own rooms in the Presidio. Women, wine and song are all readily available in Guerrero. What do you say? Will you join up, vow allegiance to the Emperor Maximilian, swear to protect him and his lovely Imperatrice, Carlotta?”
“You mean get to wear a fancy uniform like yours and be soldiers of the Empress? And get paid to boot? Dern, yeah, Capitaine, me and Virge fancy that idea right fine.”
Virge sighed. Heck had always been too fond of Sir Walter Scott. Nonetheless, Lyautey was offering good money and a roof over their heads and the trade was one they knew.
“Capitaine, I’m your man,” he agreed.