Dating : The Charge of El Fantasma

The cave was much as he remembered.

“Sombra, mi amigo, I think we may die here tonight.” Carlos Gutierrez patted the grey stallion’s neck and dismounted. He led the weary animal toward the rubble forming the small cave’s back wall, unsaddled him and tenderly examined the horse’s wounded shoulder in the fading light.

Dirt and lathered sweat mixed with blood oozing from the ragged wound where a bullet tore through the horse’s shoulder.

“Good news, the bullet passed through.”

Sombra laid his ears back and pawed his hoof on the cave’s dirt floor.

“Do not look at me like that.” He tore the black shirt away from the dried blood gluing it to his own skin. “I was shot, too.” Fresh blood seeped from the hole in his side, down the dried crust his side and black pants. Carlos watched himself over the last ten miles and was still thinking clearly and walking — a small victory.

Sombra snorted.

“Of course this is a death trap. We have only one way out,” Carlos said. “And one of us bled so much and left a beautiful trail for them to follow.”

Sombra whickered and shook his head.

“It is not only my blood out there,” Carlos said.

The Gutierrez family silver mine had played out years ago and Carlos was with his abuelo when they sealed the shaft in the back of the cave. A partial collapse at the cave’s mouth now offered some protection, and Carlos scrambled up to the mound of rubble to peer into the dusk.

“I see no one, but . . .” he trailed off. Sombra pawed at the ground again. “There was nowhere else to go. I have no more cartridges and you leak blood like the well bucket de mi abuela.”

It had been a necessarily quick escape, and Carlos spent the bullets in his muskets shooting at the troop of men chasing them, pushing Sombra hard into the desert.

Out of ammunition, Sombra fading and no other shelter for miles — the cave was enough for the moment.

His pursuers would keep trailing them, otherwise what had been a mystery would become a cause for all-out war. The group could not allow it known that their members had slaughtered innocent villagers in Northern Mexico — those same villagers who treated them as honored guests.

Carlos Gutierrez was passing through when he found the letter proving the identity of the killers — but that was not exactly true.

He never simply passed through.

He watched, he learned, and, purely for their own benefit, he alleviated the city’s more affluent citizens’ a small portion of their wealthy burden. The strain of keeping so much silver and gold was clearly unhealthy. Then Carlos would vanish into the night. He happened upon the damning letter while looking for gold.

Carlos scanned the cave wall in the last light. Faded, but still there, he saw the cave’s other benefit. He dug into the dirt floor with his knife. The box was still buried beneath his abuelo’s etching, his mark for danger — a circle with hash marks for teeth — a skull.

That same etching Carlos now left on the walls of those he “assisted”.

He gingerly lifted the box out of the hole and set it down, sweating more from nerves than from the heat.

“I do not know whether the dynamite is stable,” Carlos told Sombra. “You may want to move to the back of the cave.”

Sombra stayed put.

“You are indeed a friend.” Carlos smiled and carefully pried the box open with his knife. The nails gave with a squeak and he pulled the top off — two sticks of dynamite lay next to a coil of fuse on a bed of straw. All that was left after sealing the mine shaft.

Two sticks of dynamite were not enough for one man against a troop of fifty, but he needed the box itself and shelter to tend Sombra.

Sombra swished his tail.

“We have wood for a fire.” Carlos carefully lifted the two sticks and set them next to the coils of fuse on the ground. The years buried in the hot, arid earth of the cave dried the wood, and the box pulled apart easily.

He stacked some of the wood over a small pile of crumpled straw, but paused before striking his flint. “Do you think the box soaked up any nitroglycerine from the dynamite?”

Sombra pawed at the ground.

Carlos held his breath and grimaced as he turned his head and struck the flint. Sparks showered the dry straw which lit instantly, bathing the dried wood in flames. Carlos exhaled. Soon the fire was strong and he placed his knife’s blade into the coals.

He spoke softly to Sombra as he brushed him with a handful of the straw.

“I know, it hurt. I thought I was clubbed in the side.” He gently scrubbed the oozing brown froth from the wound. Sombra shuddered.

“We do not flee because the ground is uneven. We would never make it in the dark and we must get word to the territorial governor,” he said. “We leave at sunrise.”

He glanced over at the knife — the metal glowed orange in the coals.

Carlos let the horse watch as he pulled the knife out of the coals, leaned into the horse’s head and said, “This will hurt.”

The glowing blade pressed hard on Carlos’s wound, smoke and the smell of charred flesh rose as his skin sizzled and sputtered. He held the horse’s head tight and grunted. When he could bear it no longer, he pulled the knife away and fell to his knees.

“Dios dulce,” he panted, holding his side.

Sombra nuzzled him. Carlos nodded and put the blade back in the fire. He picked up another handful of dry straw and resumed brushing the stallion’s coat.

“We should go to Spain. You and I. Perhaps come back as different people — I mean, of course, you as a different horse.”

When the blade was orange, Carlos tucked Sombra’s head into his shoulder. “I am sorry, amigo.”

Carlos pressed the searing blade against the horse’s wound. Smoke rose and hair burned away beneath the glowing metal as the flesh sizzled and blackened.

For the seconds the blade cooked the horse’s ruined flesh, Sombra did not move or back away. He pushed his head tighter against Carlos’ shoulder.

And then the sizzling stopped. The knife fell from his hand and he stroked Sombra’s neck.

“We can ride the plains of Andalusia. You will meet a beautiful mare with fire in her eyes to match your own.”

Sombra pricked his ears forward.

“Definitely. I always thought you had fire in your eyes,” Carlos told him. “What of my eyes? Do my eyes not have a hint of fire?”

Sombra snorted and stomped.

Carlos frowned at the grey horse. “What do you mean, ‘only when you squint’?”

Sombra’s head jerked up and Carlos turned towards the mouth of the cave.

Clouds of dust and debris fell as a storm of bullets flew in and pockmarked the cave walls.

The thunderous roar of a Gatling gun split the silent night.

When the roaring echoes faded, a voice called out from the darkness. “This is Captain Harlow. There’s no need for you and the horse to die. I just want the letter you stole.”

Carlos looked at the horse. “You want to go out there?”

Sombra snorted.

“You know they will eat you for dinner. You have a hole in you.” Carlos put out the fire. Sombra shook his head. “The mares of Andalusia think scars are becoming, and you, my friend, not only have fire in your eyes, but a very becoming scar as well. Manly.”

Sombra shook his head and Carlos saddled the stallion.

“I am going to look. If they shoot me, you run. Get to the monastery. Father Joaquin will protect you. Bueno?”

Carlos crawled up the mound of rubble and peered over. The night ripped open and two Gatling guns spewing fire and lead tore into the cave wall. He scrambled off the mound. “We are trapped, amigo,” he said over the roar.

Carlos covered Sombra’s head with his body while the bullets continued raining dust and rubble throughout the cave. A brief pause in the shooting gave Carlos a chance to crawl to the dynamite and supplies he’d dug up.

“They expect us to try to escape now,” he told the horse. “We must wait.” He took a piece of wood and started carving with his fire-darkened knife.

The Gatling guns continued their sporadic barrage through the night and Carlos and Sombra, towards the back of the cave, carried on with their preparations.

After thousands of bullets scoured away the cave wall and ceiling, the deep darkness of night lessened and the guns paused.

Carlos Gutierrez mounted Sombra. He leaned forward in his saddle and whispered, “Are you ready?”

Sombra snorted and shook his head.

“Me neither, but you pray to Saint Elegius and I will pray to Saint Anne.” He lit the fuses. “We may survive this morning.”

~♞~

Don Emilio Del Castillo sat back in the chair in the hacienda and casually fanned himself.

“Another taste of Malaga, Captain Harlow?” he held the bottle aloft.

“It’s late, sir.” The man, though dressed as a civilian now and gray at the temple, still bore a military air and wore leather gloves.

“Your Lieutenant’s story so far is enchanting,” Don Emilio said. “Please continue.” He motioned with his hand and the white ruffles of his sleeve fluttered despite the scarcity of his movement.

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know how to describe what come next and not sound like an old lady,” the Lieutenant said. “‘Cause you know, we followed that blood and knew he’d been hit. By as much as leaked out, we figured he musta’ been hurting something fierce, but they didn’t call Gutierrez ‘The Ghost’ for nothin’, you know.”

“I have heard that,” Don Emilio said.

“So Captain said to keep the guns going and we did on and off most of the night.”

“All this for a petty thief, Captain?”

“Even a petty thief steals something of value on occasion, Don Emilio.”

“Oh, right,” the Lieutenant piped in. “No, this was valuable secrets, military stuffs. Captain told us we couldn’t let him get away.”

“Is that right, Captain? What was so valuable?”

“I would hesitate to divulge the information now, Don Emilio.”

“Many years have passed, Captain Harlow. Surely there could be no harm?”

Captain Harlow eyed Don Emilio and said cautiously. “I worry about creating difficulties for our settlers on the border.”

“Clearly, something embarrassing.” Don Emilio grinned. “Pray continue, Lieutenant.”

“So, we got to firing in the darkness and figured either we’d hit him and he’d be dead or keep him pinned down and take him out after daybreak.”

“Fascinating.” Don Emilio sipped his Malaga.

“Dawn starts, but it was still mostly dark, and mostly, we was up, when of a sudden, like a ghost escaping from the after-life, he comes flying out of the cave.”

“He was just a man, Lieutenant,” Captain Harlow said. “He was not flying.”

“Beg to differ Captain, but he and that horse come bursting out that cave all grey as death and that cloud of dust billowing behind them. I’d be dad gummed if he didn’t look like a ghost jumping over them rocks at the cave’s mouth. And then he throws something — a stick of dynamite — and it blowed up in mid-air, then another and that blowed up closer to us, and then two more lit sticks — one towards each of the Gatling guns.”

“You did not shoot him?”

“You know, it’s funny. We thought them guys on the Gatling gun had it covered, but they weren’t expecting a demon from hell. Pardon my language,” the Lieutenant said.

“Consider it said in the heat of battle,” Don Emilio responded.

“And when that first stick of dynamite went off, well they hadn’t even reloaded. So when the third and the fourth landed right in front of them,” the Lieutenant shrugged. “Well they dove for cover and the Ghost rode right through the lines.”

“Such bravery,” Don Emilio yawned. “On your men’s part, Captain Harlow. Facing down an aggressor with dynamite like that. I hope not too many were killed.”

“Oh, no one got hurt,” the Lieutenant said proudly. “Except for the Captain.”

“But the two sticks of dynamite in front of the guns?”

“Fake,” the Lieutenant said. “Wood sticks with lit fuses.”

“And Captain Harlow, your injuries? With these sticks of fake dynamite exploding and people diving for cover, did you happen to cut yourself on a rock?”

“No, Don Emilio.” Captain Harlow’s face turned dark red at the provocation. “The Ghost attacked me with his knife when I tried to grab him.”

“That’s right,” the Lieutenant said. “The Ghost charged through the line and straight to the Captain, slashed him, then kept on riding.”

“Remarkable,” Don Emilio said. “A truly remarkable story, Lieutenant. I thank you for sharing it. And to think Captain Harlow, you survived demons and dynamite for the price of only three fingers.”

Captain Harlow eyed Don Emilio suspiciously. “No one ever said it was three fingers.”

“Not tonight, my dear Captain, but people talk. My, how they talk sometimes, and have you not worn those gloves all evening?” Don Emilio asked. “Are you sure you won’t take a small glass of Malaga? Perhaps some port?”

The night ended with vague entreaties by Captain Harlow and even vaguer promises that Don Emilio Del Castillo would request the territorial governor allow his Harlow and his group to own certain property in the desert. A true son of Spain would be a formidable ally in such a plea.

Well after they left, Don Emilio found himself lost in thought in his stables. His grey stallion’s ears perked up as he entered and for the first time that evening, Don Emilio was genuine in his joy at seeing someone.

“Sombra, mi viego amigo,” he said, rubbing his hand over the scar on the horse’s shoulder, “We have found Captain Harlow.”