I don’t often review individual books here. Much of that has to do with the number of books I read each year, which would turn the blog into a review site and that’s not why I’m here. Every so often a book compels me to draw attention to it alone. Dennis Lehane’s latest, Small Mercies, is such a book.

 

Small Mercies takes place during the lead up to the Boston busing riots in 1974. I’ll not say much about what happens; that’s for you to do if you choose to read the book. Suffice to say the core story concerns the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Jules Fennessy on the eve of the first busing protests, and her mother’s (Mary Pat) attempts to find her.

 

Small Mercies uses the busing protests much the same as Lehane used the Boston police strike for the backdrop of his 2008 novel The Given Day, though the scope here is much smaller. This is an examination of race relations, neighborhoods, and families, using South Boston as the stage.

 

The core takeaway is not to judge anyone unless evaluating them in their totality. Mary Pat Fennessy is blind to her own racism, which makes it even worse and harder to work around. She is also a devoted mother, in her way, and that way is how parents raised kids in South Boston, which is recommended in no book ever. Small Mercies focuses on her changes as she learns who her real friends are and how neighborhood dynamics can fracture not only friendships but family relationships.

 

The culture in which Mary Pat grew up is fiercely loyal and devoted to the neighborhood. People shovel each other’s walks and spread rock salt around as needed regardless of whose piece of sidewalk it will keep from freezing. Old women are helped across streets and into their walk-up apartments with their groceries. This is the standard and everyone accepts it.

 

In this story, the busing edict is an infringement on their neighborhood’s rights. To them it’s less about desegregation than resentment over forcing them to send their kids somewhere they do not want them to go. Fears for the children’s safety are cited - and may be legitimate - though it is clear Black families are entitled to the same concerns. More than that, it’s a matter of outsiders telling them how they have to live. The wounds fester because “The people who make the rules don’t have to live by them.” True, the racial prejudice is severe, but class hatred is also a key element. Rightly or wrongly, these people feel pressed between two forces, neither of which has their interests at heart.

 

As close as the people are, the book makes clear the neighborhood is always paramount; the nail that sticks up will be hammered down with a vengeance. Mary Pat runs into this as she asks uncomfortable questions about her daughter’s disappearance, and through that experience comes to see a little of the other side in this dispute. Both her actions are disloyalties akin to neighborhood treason.

 

No one combines complex characters, vivid dialog, the right amount of description, and a little smart-assery as well as Lehane. It was he who said crime fiction is the social novel of our time, and in Small Mercies he sets a new standard. If I am still around in a hundred years and see Dennis Lehane is considered at least the equal of Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, the only thing that would surprise me is that I’m still around in a hundred years.

 

 

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3 & 4

 

5.

The Anderson Ranch, southeast of El Paso, near the Rio Grande

 

John Anderson spent the day pacing. Delivering Travis to Angel de Venganza had been as easy as John had feared. Cooped up on the ranch, never allowed to travel alone since members of the posse started turning up dead, Travis jumped at the chance to go to El Paso alone for a simple errand. John knew Travis would find justification to spend the night drinking, gambling, and whoring. John would never have minded if Travis had been able to confine himself to those activities. He’d been young once himself.

Travis in town on his own was what led to the current predicament. No whores caught his drunken fancy that night, so he forced himself on a young married woman named Rosalyn Bentley. Travis almost had to kill the husband when he came looking to avenge his wife’s honor. John never learned all the details, but some agreement assuaged Bentley’s grievance; a scapegoat was needed. Jaime Escalante had a reputation as a roughneck and Lothario. He had been known to flirt with Rosalyn Bentley and there were white men in El Paso who had suspicions about their women’s interactions with Escalante. Hanging the rape on him would only work if no one looked too closely, and there were people who mattered in El Paso who would not be inclined to look closely at all.

John Anderson knew none of this when he agreed to hire a posse to bring back the accused rapist. At the time he’d been proud to see Travis step forward to choose and organize the men, attributing it to a growth of civic responsibility. Only later did he realize the story Travis and Bentley cooked up would not hold water were the Mexican allowed to face charges.

Dark thoughts and recriminations occupied John’s mind all day until he noticed the shadows creep along the side of the main house. Travis had left not long after sunup. John had begun to worry the Mexican might have gone back on his word when he heard a horse approach at a full gallop. The hoofbeats stopped at the edge of the front porch and a voice he didn’t recognize at first began to scream.

“Daddy! Daddy! God damn it, Daddy. Come look what that son of a bitch half-breed beaner did to me!”

John ran to the front door. Travis sat his horse so close to the porch he could dismounted directly onto it. He was hatless with hair hanging over his face in long strands. Tears dripped form his jaw. Snot fouled his mustache.

“What is it boy? What happened?”

“What happened? What happened? This happened!”

Travis pulled the hair back from his face to look straight at his father. Branded into his forehead was the letter V, the lower point almost to the bridge of the nose, between the eyes.

John felt ill. Refused to look away. “Did they hurt you, boy?”

Travis’s face a mix of pain, rage, and confusion. “They? Weren’t no they. One man. Same one killed Red and Easy and the others. Picked me off on the way to town like he’d been waiting for me. First time in almost a year you let me go out alone and…” A flush of realization came to Travis’s face. “You knew.”

“It was the price of saving your life.”

“You worked it out? You talked to him? Knowing what he’d been doing, you met him and didn’t kill him?”

“We have to answer for what we did. To atone.”

“You got a brand on you I don’t know about? What the hell does V stand for, anyway? He said you’d know. Said it was appropriate.”

Tears clouded John’s vision. Travis had lived within a mile of the border all his life and knew no more than ten words of Spanish that weren’t insults or blasphemy. “Violador, I expect.”

“What’s that in English?”

“Rapist.” John was already recovering. “Get Esmeralda to put some of her salve on that burn. I’ll help you down.”

Travis reined his mount away from his father’s reaching hands. “I don’t need no more of your kind of help, you old bastard.” Walked his horse to the corner of the house. “I’m warning you, old man. You best sleep with one eye open form now on.”

John let him go. Much as he loved the boy and as much as his son was hurting, he knew the only way Travis would come at him was to hire it done. John stood alone and watched the sun begin to sink across the river. All the work he’d done. Buried a wife, a daughter, and a younger son, only to leave his life’s labor to such an heir.

He didn’t know how long the man had been sitting his horse at the crest of the ridge. Only after Joh focused on him did the rider tip his hat before walking his horse down the other side.

 

6.

Southwestern United States and northern Mexico

 

Seven years later, it surprised no one when Travis Anderson hired six gunmen to bring Angel de Venganza back to the Anderson ranch, dirt still falling on his father’s casket. The men, renowned bounty hunters all, ranged as far as Yuma, Fort Smith, Denver, and Chihuahua. They examined hotels and saloons and brothels and stage lines and train depots for two years. Travis had no idea how much whisky or how many whores he paid for.

He recalled them when the expenses began to cut into his own habits. In all that time and distance they encountered no one who had seen or had knowledge of a man named Angel de Venganza. He had no family nor friends nor enemies. No birth or baptismal records. No headstone.

Men who knew Easy Book in Texas could not place the name. The men who’d been drinking with Red Durham in Bisbee never had a name for the young Mexican Red sat with that night. Never got a good look at his face. The livery owner was new in town, the previous proprietor having moved on. California, maybe. Or Oregon.

The only person to see Angel de Venganza after John Anderson watched him ride his horse into the setting sun was Travis Anderson, who saw him every night.

 

 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

 

3.

Northern Texas or southern Oklahoma Territory

 

Angel lay on his belly at the crest of a hog’s back as he looked across a small stream meandering through some bottom land. The sun rose behind him to reflect off the water. He’d been there for over an hour waiting for Kansas Jack Sloat to awaken.

Kansas Jack had not been easy to find. With warrants bearing his name from Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arkansas, he only remained available for Angel to track due to guile and cunning.

Angel pulled a Sharps rifle from the grass beside him as Kansas Jack shrugged off his bedroll. No more than 250 yards distant, in line with what little breeze there was. He rose and stretched. Started a fire for his coffee. Scanned the horizon 360 degrees. Angel remained motionless, knowing he was not visible, as flat to the ground as he was, buffalo grass around him and the sun rising behind.

Jack poked the fire to get it burning how he wanted. Walked away to a small stand of trees to do his morning business. He had returned to within thirty feet of the fire when Angel shot him low in the belly.

Angel walked down the reverse slope of the hill to retrieve his horse. Slid the rifle into a saddle scabbard and mounted. Allowed the horse to pick its own pace down the hill toward the stream. No need to hurry. Kansas Jack would wait.

 Jack had crawled to within a few feet of his kit when Angel’s roan splashed int the stream, the sound drawing the wounded man’s attention. He looked toward the water, a hand shielding his eyes from the morning glare. Lay motionless until his face showed recognition of his plight. Started crawling with increased vigor.

Angel let his horse amble through the water. Jack got within a foot or two of the pistol sticking out of his bedroll before Angel drew his Colt. Thumbed back the hammer. Jack froze at the click of the cocking mechanism. A quick calculation before he reached for the gun. Angel shot him through the hand.

Jack yelled. His other hand fluttered, unsure of which wound to cradle. “Son of a bitch! Who the hell are you?”

“That was a mistake. Walking away without your guns.”

“I checked. Everything was clear.”

“Not as clear as you thought.”

“I asked once already. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Angel de Venganza.”

“That supposed to mean something to me?”

“Not yet.” Angel holstered his gun and sat his horse. “What about Jaime Escalante? Maria Rodriguez? Do those names mean anything to you?”

Realization crossed Kansas Jack’s face. “The pistolero in that canyon south of Juarez.”

“My friend in the canyon. My friends.”

Kansas Jack glanced again toward his pistol. Not three feet away. Resignation began to settle onto his features. “You the one killed Easy Book?”

“And Red Durham.”

“Red’s dead, too?” Angel nodded. “Pete Davis.”

“Not yet.”

“You will, though.” Not asking. Angel nodded. Kansas Jack grimaced. “What about that peckerwood Travis Anderson? It was him started all this.”

“His turn is last.”

“Why’s he get to live longest?”

“So he can know what is coming.”

“His old man?”

“He will have his own reckoning.”

Kansas Jack rolled from his side to his back. Looked into the sky. “Gonna be hot.”

“Not compared to where you are going.”

Kansas Jack said, “Kiss my ass” with no venom, almost like to felt obliged to say it. “How’s it gonna go? You leave me here to fight off the coyotes and buzzards till I bleed to death? Or do you got something clever in mind?”

“I am not a clever man.”

“You outsmarted me sure enough.”

Angel scanned the horizon. Jack was right. It would be a hot day. The morning sky was beautiful. “I am not here to make you suffer.”

“You’re doing a damn fine job of it, if it’s not your intent.”

“I only want you to understand why you are here. Dying by my hand like this.”

Kansas Jack closed his eyes. Shuddered. “I won’t beg, and I won’t apologize. Not asking no consideration, but I argued against killing the woman.” Wiped his brow with the sleeve of his union suit. “Would it be too much to ask for my hat?” Pointed. “Sun’s coming right in my eyes.”

Angel dismounted. Picked up the hat. Tossed it to Jack. Positioned his horse between the dying man and the sun.

Jack left the hat be, shaded now by the horse’s shadow. “I’m obliged to you.” Breathed like someone was sitting on his chest. “We took a job. For money. We did it. That’s how I earn my living. I never figured to die indoors but I damn sure never thought I’d go out like this, gut shot by a Mexican that’s keeping the sun off me while I die.”

Angel tapped his thumb on the butt of his pistol. “Why did you do it?”

“I told you. It was a job.”

“How much were you paid?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That much?” Angel shook his head. Put a foot into the stirrup. Gave Kansas Jack a long look before mounting.

Jack said, “So that’s it? You’re gonna leave me here to die after all?”

“No.” Angel turned the horse so it stood alongside the man on the ground. “They should not have died, but Jaime and Maria died well. I will give you the same opportunity.” Drew and cocked his pistol. Aimed so Jack could look into the barrel. “You can look away. You can close your eyes. Or you can watch the bullet come for you. It is your choice.”

Kansas Jack said, “I’ll see you in hell.” But he watched.

 

4.

El Paso, Texas

 

Angel held the pistol along his leg as he opened the hotel room door. The man in the hallway was at least sixty years old. Tall with a bit of a stoop. Hair was white and wispy on top. He wore expensive clothes and boots and the hat in his hand cost more than a cowhand made in a month. “You the one goes by Angel?” Pronounced as Angel did.

“Si.”

“You know who I am?”

“Si.”

“You know why I’m here, then.”

“Si. I did not think you would come alone.”

“Then you don’t know why I’m here. You mind if we sit?”

Angel stepped back. The man entered the room. Took the only chair. Angel leaned against the wall.

“You killed them all. Didn’t you?”

“Jaime killed one. In the canyon.”

“You killed the rest, though.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“You went to the trouble to find me and you have to ask me that?”

“Are you finished?”

“Almost.”

“Just my son left to kill. Is that it?”

Angel did not think that required an answer.

“What Travis did was wrong. What I did was worse.”

“I can forgive you protecting your son. Sending five men to kill two you knew were innocent is not so excusable.”

“That’s not why they were sent.”

“Think of who they were. What did you expect to happen?”

“I didn’t know the woman would be there. The man I wanted brought back to stand trial.”

Angel shook his head. “That might have exposed your son’s responsibility. You could not risk it.”

“I didn’t know at the time my son was responsible. I give you my word on that.”

Angel didn’t answer right away. “A trial would never have happened. Vigilantes would have taken a role.”

The older man lowered his head. Nodded. “I expect so, knowing what I know now.” The room remained silent but for the sound of the man’s breathing. It had an unhealthy rasp. “How can we make this right? Short of you killing us?”

“An act of contrition.”

“That some Catholic thing?” Angel nodded. “The way you mean, it stops short of killing Travis?”

“You are not concerned for your own life?”

“I got it coming.” The older man tapped the hat against his leg. “I lived my whole life trying to do right. Drove a hard bargain but I honestly don’t think I ever cheated a man or took unfair advantage. Maybe if I had more experience doing the wrong thing it wouldn’t have gone so bad this time, but, Lordy, I have left the path. So, yeah. You think I got it coming, I have no argument for you.”

“And your son? Travis? He does not have it coming?”

“I never taught Travis wrong from right. Not proper. You want to take this out on someone, take it out on me.”

“You do not think a grown man should be able to figure out for himself that rape and murder are wrong?” No answer.

Angel straightened himself from the wall. Sat on the corner of the bed closest to the older man. “You deserve to die for what you have done.”

Tears filled the man’s eyes. No fear on his face or in his voice. “I do.”

“I believe the penance you are putting yourself through is more righteous than a quick death. An act is still required.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give your son to me.” Angel went on before the man could protest. “I swear to you on Jaime’s and Maria’s graves I will not kill him. I suspect he will not be as willing to make amends as are you, so it is likely I will have to impose his contrition upon him.”

“Torture?”

“Not the way you mean. Any physical pain he endures will be far less than what you are putting yourself through.”

“You won’t kill him.” As if afraid to believe it.

“I will not kill him. I give you my word.”

“What’s my part?”

“It must be you who delivers him to me, and he must know it was you who betrayed him.”

“But you won’t kill him. Cripple nor blind him?”

“I will return him to you in perfect working order.”

The man showed his resignation. “When and where?”

“Send him to town one week from today. Alone.”

The man looked into Angel’s eyes. Either saw or didn’t see what he looked for. Whatever he saw, he stood. Slapped his expensive hat against a thigh. Halfway through the door he stopped and turned back toward Angel. “How do you know I won’t have a posse waiting for you?”

“You won’t.”

John Anderson settled his hat. “No, sir. God help me, I won’t.”

 

 

Chapter 1

 

2.

Bisbee, Arizona Territory

 

The handsome roan was in good condition, though in need of grooming. The same applied to the rider. He dismounted in front of the livery and brushed dust from his clothing as Earl Hollowell came out wiping his hands on a rag.

The man handed Earl the reins. “He needs a good grooming and a better feeding. How much for you to treat him as if he were your own?”

“Same as for everyone else. That’s the only way I care for an animal, like he was mine.” Earl told him the price.

The man paid for three days. “I might not be here that long, but you’re welcome to it.”

Earl nodded his thanks. “What’s your name, son?”

“Call me Angel.” Pronounced it the Mexican way. Ahn-hell. “Angel de Venganza.:

“What brings you to town, Angel de Venganza?”

Angel spoke with not quite a Mexican accent, as if he grew up on this side of the border in a home where Spanish was the primary language. A not uncommon accent around here, though Angel sounded like he was from farther east. Texas, maybe. “Drifting west. I might stay a few days if I find work that agrees with me. Could be gone in the morning, too.”

“What kind of work agrees with you?”

“I’m not particular. Ranch work if I can get it, but I’ll hoe a line if someone is willing to pay. Did some hunting a while ago.”

“I’ll keep an ear out for you. Where can someone find you?”

“Don’t know yet. This is the first place I stopped here in town. How about I find you?” Earl could live with that. “Where can I get something to eat?”

“How much are you looking to spend?”

“I’m not broke. Yet.” A shy smile.

Earl pointed down the street. “Try the Desert Rose. There’s cheaper places, but when the Rose sells you a steak it’ll be from a steer. They might even be able to put you up. Assuming they have room, that is.”

“They won’t care I’m not white?”

Earl shook his head. “That’s why I didn’t suggest the hotel. Those rooms are nicer, but they won’t let you in unless you offer to sweep up and clean the spittoons. Then they’ll let you sleep in the tool shed.”

Angel tipped his hat. “Gracias. I guess everyone who comes through town sees you sooner or later.”

“Looking for someone? Or don’t want to be looked for yourself?”

“I’m not hiding. Just wondering if a man named Red Durham came through in the past few days. Wears a hat with an Indian-style band and rides a big chestnut gelding.”

“What do you want him for?”

“A mutual friend asked me to look Red up if we were ever in the same place. I heard he had come this way when I was in Las Barras.”

“Can’t say for a fact it’s his horse, but that chestnut gelding over there come in day before yesterday. Wasn’t me checked him in but I seen the owner leaving. He might could’ve had a hat like that.”

“Do you know where he can be found?”

Earl spit a healthy stream of tobacco juice away from Angel. “You could ask at the Rose. They ain’t seen him, try the Last Chance up the street on the way out of town. He’ll of been in one or the other, maybe both. One thing. You ask in the Last Chance, be discrete-like. Sabby?”

The Desert Rose was as Earl described. The steak was excellent and each beer come in a fresh, chilled mug. Not cheap, but not unaffordable. No one knew of Red Durham, though no one took it out of place for Angel to ask.

Earl hadn’t exaggerated about the Last Chance, either. Looked like it opened when Bisbee was new and it would have been the last—or first—opportunity for refreshment and recreation in a while. The kind of place where men coming out of or going into the desert for reasons they’d rather not disclose would stop before pushing on.

Angel stepped through the batwing doors. Put a dollar coin on the bar. Spoke when the barman passed by for the fifth time without acknowledgement. “Excuse me. I’d like a drink.”

The man looked at Angel as if he were a javalina pissing on the bar. “You’d be happier in Agua Prieta. Might even have some tizwin there. Mescal if you can pay.”

“I am not an Indian. And I can pay.”

“Maybe you ain’t an Indian, but you’re sure as hell a breed of some kind, which means you can’t pay in here. Head on down the road, Pancho.”

Angel retrieved his dollar. Flipped it in the air before replacing it in his pocket. Turned to face the room, resting his elbows on the bar. “Does anyone here know a man named Horace Book? His friends call him Easy.”

The barman was back. “I told you to get your half-breed ass out of here.”

A voice said, “Hold on there, Slick.” A man seated near the door where Angel had entered stood. He wore a hat with an Indian-style band. “How do you know Easy Book?”

“We did some work together in Texas.”

“Texas takes in a lot of territory. Whereabouts?”

“Odessa. Monahans. We were hunters, feeding the railroad workers.”

The man approached the bar. “When did you see him last?”

“A year or so ago. I think he had a woman in Arkansas.”

“I’m sure he did. And Texas. Oklahoma. New Mexico. Canada for all I know.” The man extended a hand. “Red Durham.”

“Angel de Venganza.”

“Well, Mr. Angel de Venganza, I’m pleased to meet you.” Said it Anglo style. Ane-jell. “Set us up, Slick.”

“He ain’t drinking in here.”

“That’s because you ain’t give him nothing yet. A friend of Easy Book can drink with me anywhere. We could either pay for it or let you clean up the mess after we’re done and you wake up. What’ll it be?”

Slick left the bottle. Angel and Red took a table in the corner. Red said, “What brings you to this piss pot?”

“Drifting west. I heard someone mention you in Las Barras and was curious to see if you were here. Easy gave me something for you.”

“Easy gave you something for me?”

Angel took a ten-dollar gold piece from a pocket. Placed it on the table. “Easy said I should give this to you if I came across you.”

“Ten dollars.”

“He mentioned some whores in Tucumcari.”

Red’s laughter shook dust from the timbers. “By God, that was a time. Are you telling me that crazy sumbitch is giving everyone he meets on their way west ten dollars to give me?”

“We got pretty close. And he knew the route I planned. And he was very drunk.”

“And you carried this how long? A year?”

“I take my promises seriously.”

“Even to a drunk?”

“Especially to drunks. They are the most easily betrayed.”

Red laughed again. “Well, then, Mr. Angel Dee Whatever, you and me’s gonna have to drink up this ten dollars Easy give you. I think it’s what he’d want.”

They spent Easy’s money and then some until Angel turned over his glass as Red went to pour. “No mas. It has been a long few days. I need a bath and some sleep. Enjoy your evening, mi amigo nuevo. I will see you mañana.”

Angel got his bath and changed his clothes but did not send the dirty to the laundry. Found a comfortable place where he could see the front of the Last Chance and pretended to sleep.

Red left with another man after midnight, each of them drunk enough for half the town. Angel feigned sleep as they walked toward the hotel. The other man went in. Red continued on, stopping once to vomit next to a trough. Angel stood and took a route calculated to intercept Red at the next corner. He did not hurry. Red was in no condition to require chasing.

Angel pitched his voice so only Red would hear. “Red.”

“Huh? Who’s that?”

“Angel. From the Last Chance. I got some sleep and wonder if you would like a nightcap.”

Red spent several seconds pulling together the new opportunity. “Sure, I guess.” Turned back toward the Last Chance.

Angel took him by an arm. “Not that cesspool. I found a quieter place.” Led a compliant Red around the corner and down an alley.

“Where’s it at?”

“Close.”

No moonlight made walking treacherous once they left the graded street. A hundred yards from the nearest building Red had sobered up enough to ask where they were going.

Angel said, “We’re here,” and slid a knife six inches into Red below the breastbone, pulling down his belt buckle. Withdrew the knife to let Red fall. Knelt to wipe the blade on Red’s trousers. Stood without speaking until the dying man gave him what awareness he had left.

“Last year you and Easy and three others chased a man and a woman out of El Paso into the desert south of Juarez. Do you remember?” Red showed no recognition. “Do you remember this?” Still no sign. Angel pressed a boot into Red’s open wound.

“It was all legal. The Mex raped a white woman.”

“The posse was never deputized.”

“A man named Anderson paid us to get him. For Christ’s sake, get me a doctor.”

“This man Anderson was not the law.”

“He might as well be around those parts.”

“But he was not. He paid you to kill the man.”

“The Mex shot two of us. Killed one in the desert. Shot him right off his horse.”

“What would you have him do? A paid band of gunman chasing him.”

“It was self-defense. The Mex shot first.”

“Did the woman also shoot first?”

“What woman?”

“The young woman you also killed that day in the desert.”

“That was self-defense, too.”

“Only one gun was found.”

“How do you know?”

“It is enough that I do know. She picked up the gun after the man lay dead. Maybe there were bullets left. Maybe not. I know the man, so my guess is not. Yet you shot her seven times. With rifles. From well outside pistol range.”

Red grew paler in the weak light. “How do you think you know so much?”

“Every time you do not disagree confirms what I say.”

“Who were these people to you?”

“Friends. That is all you need to know.”

Red’s eyes fluttered. Opened again. “You kill Easy?” Angel nodded. “You gonna kill me now, too?”

“I have already killed you. I allow you to linger only so you can know the reason why.”

“You told me. Now get it over with, you half-breed bastard.”

Angel placed his feel either side of Red’s shoulders to stay clear of any spurting blood.

 

 

Well, Pilgrim, I finally finished a Western.

 

Not a novel, and therein lies the rub. It’s a short story, and markets for Western short stories are harder to find than nuns in Deadwood. Rather than continuing to frustrate myself, and knowing I have half a dozen short crime pieces saved up that might well have outlets, I decided to give it away here on the blog in serial form. (What the hell. It worked for Andy Wier.)

 

In the spirit of the recent craze for anthologies based on songs, “The Eighth Angel” is inspired by the song “Seven Spanish Angels.” In a perfect world, the opening chapter would have been the lyrics, but the rights owners never responded to my request, so I’ll just include a link to the song  for everyone who reads it here. (Sorry about the ad.)

 

Here’s the intro. The rest of the story will play out over the weekend and into Monday. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please feel free to forward the link.

 

THE EIGHTH ANGEL

 

1.

The Mexican desert southwest of Juarez

 

The horse was done in. Maria was a small woman, but her horse fell lame miles ago. Asking Jaime’s to carry them both at speed proved too great a burden. Jaime looked over his shoulder toward Juarez. Saw the ball of dust that signified the approaching riders. A stand was possible if Jamie and Maria reached the small box canyon to the southwest before the riders overtook them.

The canyon was smaller than he’d hoped, with sides too steep to navigate on foot. He found the best spot he could, sacrificing what high ground he could obtain for a bit of cover. Not that it mattered much; the riders would see them wherever they were. Jaime walked the horse to a spot where it would be the first thing the riders saw in the hope of buying a few seconds of uncertainty. The spot he chose for them to stand would at least keep the sun in the riders’ eyes as much as possible in such a small, steep canyon.

Jaime checked the loads in his revolver. Spun the cylinder. Looked into Maria’s brown eyes. “Say a prayer for me, Maria.”

She threw her arms around him. Buried her face in his chest. “God will keep us free. The seven angels would not abandon us.”

They held each other a minute or two until Jaime heard the riders enter the canyon’s mouth. Held Maria at arm’s length to move her deeper into the shadow behind him. “Stay out of sight. They have no reason to harm you when it is over.”

Maria resisted. “We will leave together.”

Jaime shook his head. “This is my last fight. If they take me back to Texas it will not be alive.”

The riders paused when they noticed the horse. The leader saw Jaime first. He pointed and they all spurred their horses that direction. A hint of a smile touched Jaime’s lips. Arrogant gringos. They expected him to cower, approaching as they did. He took careful aim and shot the leader. The man lurched but maintained his mount.

The riders pull up to return fire. What tiny advantage Jaime had was due to the horsemen having to shoot from bright sunlight into the shadows where he stood in as much cover as was available. Lost even that when the riders took stock of the situation. They withdrew out of range to stand their horses and take aim. Four rifles against one pistol made for a short fight.

Maria counted each of Jaime’s shots. Waited for the smoke to clear and the riders to approach. When they were close enough she ran to Jaime took the pistol from his dead hand. She said a silent prayer for forgiveness as she aimed and cocked Jaime’s empty gun and let the rifles tear her to pieces.