The Chase

New Fiction from Dave Kolonich

The following is a chapter from Dave Kolonich’s upcoming untitled novel.

Canon de Halcones, Mexico

1860s

“You sure you’re my brother?”

Juan Ramirez spews a gob of tobacco into the parched shortgrass. Black juice slobbers down his chin. Thick fingers rubbing a sweaty brow, he tips his hat. Sombrero de Charro. Upturned brim. Silver crown winces under a hot Mexican sun.

“‘Cause you’re just about the ugliest bastard I ever laid eyes on.”

Impressed with his put-down. Somewhere between a snort and a gulp.

“You know, hermano, I gotta tell ya’ somethin’. ‘Cause I think by now, you gotta know. It’s time someone told ya’ the truth, and it may as well be me.”

Mateo Ramirez chews on a slow, satisfying yawn. Clasping his hands behind his long neck, he knows what’s coming. Easy drawl. Stringing out the syllables.

“Tell me. I’m dy-in’ to know.”

A curious grimace curls over Juan’s lips. He scratches behind his ear, digging into the trickle of a red, bumpy rash. Scabies. Probably. Working his black fingernail. Down his neck. Into the thin meat. No good.

Now his pistol. Colt 1851 Navy. Walnut grips. Juan glides the blue steel barrel into cool, long strokes. Nice and slow. Heavy eyes rolling back in his head. A low grumble of relief spills out. For a moment, he’s somewhere else.

“What was I talkin’ about?”

Mateo wears a toothy gleam. Long yellow bones busting through his slender jaw.

“How much you love me. How I’m your favorite brother. Somethin’ like that.”

Juan smirks. Maybe a scoff.

“Nah. I was gonna show you somethin’. Somethin’ you ain’t never seen.”

Juan slips two fingers into his deerskin chaleco, searching for the stitched inside pocket. But that’s his other vest. He tries the pants pockets.

“There it is.”

A wrinkled paper. Fat thumbs tremble as he unfolds it. The print is worn, but two words stand out:

Se Busca. WANTED.

Juan reads. Slow. Measuring the words.

“For rob-ber-rey. Juan Ramirez.”

Tapping on the mugshot.

“You see that handsome face, Mateo? I see you squintin’ those beady eyes. Take a closer look. Look at that face right there.”

Juan shoves the handbill under Mateo’s hawk beak. He’s seen it a hundred times, and the artist’s sketch never gets any better. Juan’s eyes roll away from each other, dividing and spilling off the page. Maybe the two sizes too-big head was Juan’s. Could have been anybody. Hard to tell.

“That is a bea-yoo-tee-ful face. They don’t put just any face on those, neither. It’s gotta be a handsome face like mine. All the little chicas wanna see that face. They walk on by, see me, and they stop dead. Puttin’ their lil’ hands on their hips. I hear ‘em say it. Damn. I mean, Gaaad damn.”

Mateo yanks the handbill out of Juan’s hand. Exaggerated comic face. Toothy gleam.

“I think they spelled your name wrong.”

Juan waves his hand, dismissing his brother. Sounding out the letters in his head.

“No, they didn’t. Do you even know how to read? You’re not just ugly, you’re stupid, too. You got the shit part of everythin’, Mateo. You know it?”

Mateo adjusts the handbill, capturing the sunlight bouncing off the long embankment.

“Says yer’ wanted for…Por el hurto de enaguas de una mujer respetable.”

Mateo scours Juan’s face, looking at him in a new light.

“I’m not passin’ judgment on you, hermano. But ain’t nobody wanna see your hairy legs trottin’ around in women’s panties.”

Juan snatches at the handbill. Mateo extends his gangly arm out of reach. More fake concern.

“Las cabras? You steal a goat, Juan?”

Mateo runs his finger under stained text. Eyes bulging.

“Oh, wait. No, that’s a lot worse. Damn, hermano. Now, I am judgin’ ya’.”

Mateo tosses the handbill back to his older brother. Stretching his gangly legs. Skinny knees pop. A yawn. Gazing down the embankment. Endless railroad tracks smolder in the haze. Mateo lowers the brim of his floppy straw hat and closes sleepy eyes.

Juan smooths the handbill’s creases.

“Ya’ know somethin’, Mateo? We weren’t gonna tell ya’ then, but we might oughta now. When you were born, you didn’t come out no baby. You fell out, ass first with a drippin’ pile of horseshit runnin’ down your neck. We shoulda thrown you in the stables, but that ain’t fair to the other animals.”

“Gee. That’s sweet.” Trailing off.

Juan roars.

“But that ain’t even the worst part!”

Emmanuel Ramirez has had enough. The oldest brother steps lightly down the sloping ground. Precise steps in double-stitched soles. Cowhide boots. Mid-calf.

“Bossman says to get ready!”

Emmanuel swats at Mateo. A whistling snore.

“Get up, hermano!”

Shrugging his big shoulders, Juan peers down the tracks, spotting the golden glimmer crouching along a steamy ground. The impossible blur lowers his ear to the tracks. Juan’s seeing things. Again.

He squints.

“What in the hell is that Gringo doin’?”

Emmanuel leaps to the boss’ defense.

“He’s listenin’. And he’s ready. Are you?”

A dismissive wave. Juan rises slow. Under his breath.

“Faack that Gringo.”

Mateo yawns. Deep and wide. Pulling a dusty bandana over his mouth and bird nose. Men scatter, the tracks rise above their heads. Down the line, silver pistols flash.

The Gringo found new hired hands for the job. The Ramirez Brothers were already six-month veterans. Luke and Nathaniel Tyler even longer. But the new men were young. More like boys. Talking big and scared to death.

Abe Turner watched them all. A cool-headed black mercenary, he didn’t say much. He knew he was now the old guy, watching his back around the wild boys pulling pistols over the slightest grievance. Living out a string of last jobs, Abe adopted a simple philosophy:

If they get shot, they get shot.

Abe knows the Ramirez Brothers could hold their own. But he can’t get past their clothes—the best-dressed outlaws for a thousand miles. Abe lets out a little chuckle, imagining Emmanuel struggling to squeeze his stick legs into skin-tight calzones.

Abe spots a gold glimmer rising from the tracks. He cocks back the hammer on his worn Colt Walker and takes a deep breath.

Some thirty yards past the Gringo, a busted-out wagon waits on the tracks. Scrap lumber scattered into a leaning pile. A few skinny trees wedged behind it. Not much. But enough to slow down a train.

The Gringo didn’t guess. Sharp eyes. Even better ears. He lay his head on the tracks, listening while the others jawed and boasted. The low rumble told him the train was a mile away.

He expects the broken planks to catch under the trenes de mina. A grinding halt. A fifty-yard skid. Maybe more if the workers struggle with the cranky brake wheel.

Some called him Gringo. Others called him Bossman. Many more didn’t speak his name. He pulls the glowing yellow bandana over his mouth. He’s ready.

The rest lower into position. Choking on adrenaline. Now, no one says a word.

Loose rocks shift under the tracks. A half mile. A bit late. Given what the train is carrying, the Gringo could wait all day.

Dancing gravel. Closer. A tenth of a mile away.

The deafening blast. The boy gunslingers clamp their ears. Now, a grinding, clutching scream of metal bounces through the lonely valley.

A forty-yard skid.

They follow the Gringo’s lead. Bounding from their hiding spots, Emmanuel screams unheard commands as Juan and Mateo howl, bursting into the front cabin. The conductor doesn’t resist. The engineer does. He gives a dire warning as Juan’s rapid-fire punches rattle his brain. Something about the train exploding.

The wild boys forget their task, so they knock bewildered workers to their knees, slamming pistol butts across flesh and skull. Luke and Nathaniel Turner remember. They drag empty sacks through the cabins, heading straight for the carro cerrado.

The Gringo is already there, waiting in front of the iron-hinged door. Two imposing padlocks spill from the shaft handle. Explosives are messy. So is busting through the cabin wall. Prying open the padlocks with a palanca takes time.

Using skeleton keys is much easier.

There’s only one man on board who holds the keys. The mining foreman. El Capataz. Abe Turner jabs his Colt into the doughy man’s neck, guiding him to the locked cabin.

The Gringo figures the mounted guard is five minutes away. Mexican Nationalists. Maybe four. Plenty of time. Abe gives a simple command.

“Open it. Now.”

El Capataz is lost in the Gringo’s yellow bandana. He’s heard the stories. Nervous fingers fumble for the key as Abe shoves the pistol into El Capataz’s ear hole. But it’s the Gringo’s cool blue eyes that cut through the man’s heart.

The man in the yellow bandana gives a simple warning.

“Now’s not the time to be stupid.”

The Ramirez Brothers’ primal howls draw closer.

Four minutes.

El Capataz inserts the key, trembling, trying to summon some steely courage. A slow turn. Now, a click. The Ramirez Brothers bust in. Now, the other padlock. Juan Ramirez grabs El Capataz by his thick neck, slamming him into the wall. They pry open the rusty door and find their prize.

A half dozen crates. Black powder stuffed into paper cartridges. Tacos. Small kegs filled with loose dust.

Three minutes.

Luke and Nathaniel Turner get busy, cramming the rolls into canvas sacks. The others follow, grabbing and hauling the bulky bags, then loading up the waiting horses.

The cabin empties.

Two minutes.

The Gringo takes a handful of paper cartridges and jumps off the train. Ripping open the yellowed paper, he scatters a few yards of black powder along each side of the track. Abe meets him, tossing a Model 1841 Mississippi rifle. They crouch along the embankment and wait for the sound of galloping hooves.

One minute.

The Gringo hears a distant rumble. He cocks his rifle and aims. But first, an unexpected sound. A crackle of gunfire rips through the train. One of the young boys clutches his bleeding chest as he stumbles onto the tracks.

The Gringo’s blue eyes flash back to the train. Just for a second. Another round of shots. Turning back to the tracks, he spots the first glimmer of the mounted guard. Now, another. Two more following. He squeezes the trigger. Slow. Wanting the Nationalists to creep closer. The bullet screams, diving into the powder-covered embankment.

A flash and bang. Mangled horses careen down the slope. The Gringo readies a final shot. Squeezing. Firing. Not as good as the first one. But good enough.

He leaps from the embankment, pulling out a silver, long-barreled Colt. Moving with purpose, he reaches the train, shoving aside another stunned, bleeding wild boy.

Now, slow and precise, dipping his head into the cabins. He never hears Juan Ramirez’s unhinged shouts echoing down the tracks. The battle moves outside as two more Nationalists storm up the hill.

The Gringo steps over a dead wild boy. Nathaniel Tyler lies slumped in a corner, clutching his bleeding belly. The wrecked train hisses between cracks of gunfire. Cocking his Colt, the Gringo peers into a cabin.

He finds the man inside doubled over a bench seat. A mess of mangled hair. More gray than brown. He grits through the intense pain, forcing himself to lean back and sit tall. A .44 caliber Colt Dragoon rests under his red hand. Blood seeps underneath. The Gringo isn’t worried about the pistol.

But he finds it curious.

There aren’t many men in Mexico carrying such a weapon. Guardio Rural. Maybe a Federale. The man’s blanched skin throws the Gringo off. Maybe American. He coughs. Choking back fresh blood.

The man musters the strength to speak. He must let the Gringo know one thing.

“I found you.”

Bursts of gunfire fill the noon air. The chaos of battle explodes. Emmanuel Ramirez leaps onto the train.

“Patron!? We gotta go!”

The Gringo doesn’t move.

“Patron?”

The Gringo’s silence. Watching the dying man. Emmanuel is fascinated by the moment. He’s afraid to move. The Gringo never hears him. His eyes never leave the man. An easy smile.

“I didn’t know you were looking.”

The man folds over. A rumbling groan. He lifts his head, summoning the Gringo to come closer. His dying words.

“You keep chasin’, El Cazador. But you ain’t gonna find it.”