Borderlands by James Carlos Blake Read Free Book Online

Rojas thought they might be worth ransom, or be valuable as hostages if the rurales should catch up to them—both possibilities depending on who their fathers or husbands might be.
    In response to my next question, he grinned and said, “ Molested? ” as if he found the word amusing. “Damn right they’ll be molested . Rojas himself will molest each one till her nose bleeds!”
    I kicked him in the mouth so hard I was afraid I’d broken his neck. Ochoa tugged on his ears to revive him and pulled him back to a sitting position. Speaking in a thickened voice through raw bloated lips, he said yes, they’d headed west, toward the sea, but whether they would turn north or south he didn’t know. He thought maybe there were ten or eleven of them left, he wasn’t sure. He was sure they had taken four women.
    When I was satisfied the prisoner had given me all the information he could, I told Ochoa to see that he was given his fill of water and that his tourniquet was sufficiently tight. I did not want him to pass out from thirst or bleed to death. I wanted him taken to the arroyo and staked down naked among the dead.
    Ochoa glanced toward the buzzards and vultures flapping heavily into the arroyo and gave a small snort of unmistakable disdain—as if he found my mode of punishment too elaborate, too much an excess of the rich. The rurales preferred to shoot a man and be done with it. Impudent mestizo bastard! His barbarous Indian ancestors cut the beating hearts out of sacrificial victims—women as well as men—and then ate their flesh. He would take exception to my means of executing this filthy vermin who’d ridden with the kidnapper of my wife? I dared him with my eyes to speak his objection, but he only shrugged and turned to relay my order to his men.
    We set out to the west shortly before sunset, following the route taken by the rurales Ochoa had dispatched in pursuit of Rojas before my arrival. His orders to them had been to split up if they reached the coast without having spotted him. One bunch would go north to the village of San Andrés, the other head downcountry to Puerto Lobos. Rojas would have to go to one place or the other. There was nothing else in any direction but desert or the Sea of Cortez.
    At dawn we arrived at a rocky escarpment within sight of the sea and stopped to rest the horses. “Here’s where my boys split up,” Ochoa said. “Which direction do you want, Don Sebastián?” I went south with six rurales and he went north with the other five.
    There are no words to describe what I was feeling as we rode. Every phrase I fashion has the sodden impact of banality. Every description I attempt sounds like cliché from some foolish romance. Nothing, nothing ever said by anyone anywhere can convey what I was feeling. Christ , what pathetic things words are! Their insufficiency is as smothering as a lack of air. The congestion of wrath and anguish throbbing in my veins could never be expressed by words. It could only be felt. It could only be dealt with.
    Late that afternoon, we met a half-dozen of Ochoa’s advance rurales on their way back from Puerto Lobos. No one had seen riders anywhere in the vicinity. Rojas had to have gone north, to San Andrés. The advance rurales led a string of fresh mounts, having expected to meet some of their comrades coming from La Querencia to assist them. We switched our saddles to the extra horses and galloped off to the north.
    As we rode hard to catch up to him, Ochoa met with the other rurales he’d sent ahead. They’d been waiting for him a mile south of San Andrés. Scouts had confirmed that Rojas and his men were in the village and unaware of the rurales’ nearness. Ochoa didn’t want to lose the advantage of surprise, so he didn’t wait for the rest of us to get there before he attacked. But even though the bandits were caught off guard, they put up a fierce fight, killing two rurales and wounding several more. Ochoa’s boys killed six and took two