The Creed of Violence - Boston Teran [39]
Approaching the river, they could see through the trees a camp had been established with well over a hundred men. Two trains were being outfitted for a journey. Spanning the narrow river was a slat bridge that had been retrussed to support the weight of trucks with cargo. A couple of wretched-looking gringos on the far side flagged them to stop. When asked their business, Rawbone handed over Hecht's note. One of them read it using a finger on each word before passing it back. He pointed with a filthy hand toward a campaign tent that had been set up in the dry grass beside where the trains were being readied. They would find Doctor Stallings there.
It was a formidable collection of ruffians they encountered driving through the camp and looking over those trains left no uncertainty wherever this expedition was going would be a long way and one should expect violence. The first train had a 0-6-0 locomotive and tender and an open coal car that was out front. The interior of the coal car was being rigged with a shooting platform. The second train had an imposing 4-8-0 Mastodon. That's what the son said the locomotive was named, as he had worked on them at the railyard in El Paso. Built for pulling heavy freight over mountains like the Sierra Madres, it would haul two passenger cars behind the tender, a boxcar after that for mounts, then three flatcars where tanker trucks were being hoisted up and lashed down and lastly another passenger car.
A campaign tent had been set up beside the last car, where about two dozen Mexican women were preparing a meal and setting it out on long tables.
Rawbone downshifted as he pulled up to the tent. The flap was pushed aside and stepping out into the hard daylight was the man John Lourdes had viewed in that flickering newsreel the night before at the funeraria.
Doctor Stallings was recently shaved and neatly attired in a gray suit. Behind him were a pair of security bulls and a young shark brandishing an army gunbelt. His shirtsleeves were cut to the shoulders and one of his arms was tattooed from the wrist all the way to the bladebone with the stars and stripes of the nation.
Before Rawbone shut off the engine, he said under his breath, "Quite a menagerie, hey, Mr. Lourdes."
Doctor Stallings approached the truck. He looked it over with patient care. He saw AMERICAN PARTHENON painted on the side. He was handed the letter. Stallings took it, yet now seemed inordinately curious about the father. He read the letter, then began to walk about the truck. When he was all the way around back, he called out, "The motorcycle ... whose is it?"
Father and son looked to each other. What to answer? Rawbone was quicker. "It was with the truck when we retrieved it."
Stallings walked up the far side of the vehicle, his hands behind his back, checking the crates, the truck itself. Reaching the cab, he glanced at John Lourdes, but his attention went immediately to the other.
"I feel as if I know you, sir."
Rawbone leaned on the wheel.
"I have an extraordinary facility for faces. Even if they are not particularly interesting or aberrant."
"I believe we've done a round or two in Texas, if that's what you mean."
"Name?"
"Rawbone."
The Doctor's eyes rose and his mouth made a silent ahhh. "The letter refers to you." He jutted his chin toward John Lourdes. "What is this one about?"
The son went to speak for himself, but the father put out a hand to stop him. He leaned past John Lourdes as if he were not even there and in a very private voice said to Stallings, "Retrieving this truck was no easy matter, as Mr. Hecht can personally validate. And well, this young man may have that Montgomery Ward's look, but if it wasn't for him ... I wouldn't be here right now."
The son picked up the acid mischief in the voice aimed at him and then the father's glance