Read Online Valdez Is Coming by Elmore Leonard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elmore Leonard
Tags: Fiction, General, Western Stories, Westerns, Government investigators, Illegal arms transfers, Fiction - Western, Westerns - General
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understand.” Tanner’s gaze went to his segundo. “You remember that one tried to run off with the horses?”
Valdez lowered his head to look at the segundo, who was nodding, picturing something. “The one who liked to walk,” the segundo said.
Valdez heard Tanner say, “That one,” and the segundo continued to nod his head, then raised it and gazed about the square.
“We can use the poles from the gate,” the segundo said, looking toward the church, “and have some more cut.”
Tanner was saying, “All right,” and the segundo was looking at Valdez now. He nodded once.
Valdez felt the hand at his shoulder, fingers clawing into his neck as the hand clutched his bandana, and his own hands went to the horn of his saddle. He felt the Mexican’s horse tight against his left leg, then moving away and the Mexican pulling him, choking him, until his hands slipped from the saddle horn and he was dragged from his horse, stumbling but not able to fall, held up by the Mexican’s fist twisted in the tight fold of his neckerchief. They were around him and someone hit him in the face with a fist. It didn’t hurt him, but it startled him; he was struck again on the back of the neck, then in the stomach, seeing the man close to him swing his fist and not being able to turn away from it. He went down and was kicked in the back, pushed over and pressed flat to the hard-packed ground. His hat was off now. A foot came down on his neck, pinning him, face turned to the side against the ground. Now they pulled his arms straight out to the sides and he felt a sharp pain through his shoulder blades as he was held in this position. Several minutes passed and he rested, breathing slowly to relax and not be tensed if they hit him again. Boots were close to his face. The boots moved and dust rose into his nostrils, but no one kicked him.
They placed a mesquite pole across his shoulders that extended almost a foot on either side beyond his outstretched hands and tied it with leather thongs to his wrists and neck. They placed another pole down the length of his back, from above his head to his heels, and lashed this one to the crosspole and also around his neck and body. When this was done the segundo told him all right, stand up.
Valdez could not press his hands to the ground. He raised his head, turning it, and pushed his forehead against the hardpack, arching against the pole down his spine, straining the muscles of his neck, and gradually, kicking and scraping the ground, worked his knees up under him.
“The other one didn’t get up so quick,” the segundo said.
Valdez was on his knees raising his body, and he was kicked hard from behind and slammed onto his face again.
“This one don’t get up either,” the Mexican said.
Valdez heard Tanner’s voice say, “Get him out of here,” and this time they let him work his way to his knees and stand up. But as he straightened, the bottom of the vertical pole struck the ground and held him in a hunched position, a man with a weight on his back, his eyes on the ground, unable to raise his head. Someone put his hat on his head, too low and tight on his forehead.
“That way,” the segundo said, nodding across the square. “The way you came.”
“My horse,” Valdez said.
“Don’t worry about the horse,” the segundo said. “We take care of.”
There was nothing more to say. Valdez turned and started off, hunched over, raising his eyes and able to see perhaps twenty feet in front of him, but not able to hold his gaze in this strained position.
The segundo called after him. “Hey, don’t fall on your back. You’ll be like a turtle.” He laughed, and some of the others laughed with him.
Frank Tanner watched the stooped figure circle the water pump and move down the street past the women who had come out of the adobes to look at him.
“You fixed him,” R. L. Davis said.
Tanner’s eyes shifted to Davis, sliding on him and away from him, as he had looked at him
Valdez lowered his head to look at the segundo, who was nodding, picturing something. “The one who liked to walk,” the segundo said.
Valdez heard Tanner say, “That one,” and the segundo continued to nod his head, then raised it and gazed about the square.
“We can use the poles from the gate,” the segundo said, looking toward the church, “and have some more cut.”
Tanner was saying, “All right,” and the segundo was looking at Valdez now. He nodded once.
Valdez felt the hand at his shoulder, fingers clawing into his neck as the hand clutched his bandana, and his own hands went to the horn of his saddle. He felt the Mexican’s horse tight against his left leg, then moving away and the Mexican pulling him, choking him, until his hands slipped from the saddle horn and he was dragged from his horse, stumbling but not able to fall, held up by the Mexican’s fist twisted in the tight fold of his neckerchief. They were around him and someone hit him in the face with a fist. It didn’t hurt him, but it startled him; he was struck again on the back of the neck, then in the stomach, seeing the man close to him swing his fist and not being able to turn away from it. He went down and was kicked in the back, pushed over and pressed flat to the hard-packed ground. His hat was off now. A foot came down on his neck, pinning him, face turned to the side against the ground. Now they pulled his arms straight out to the sides and he felt a sharp pain through his shoulder blades as he was held in this position. Several minutes passed and he rested, breathing slowly to relax and not be tensed if they hit him again. Boots were close to his face. The boots moved and dust rose into his nostrils, but no one kicked him.
They placed a mesquite pole across his shoulders that extended almost a foot on either side beyond his outstretched hands and tied it with leather thongs to his wrists and neck. They placed another pole down the length of his back, from above his head to his heels, and lashed this one to the crosspole and also around his neck and body. When this was done the segundo told him all right, stand up.
Valdez could not press his hands to the ground. He raised his head, turning it, and pushed his forehead against the hardpack, arching against the pole down his spine, straining the muscles of his neck, and gradually, kicking and scraping the ground, worked his knees up under him.
“The other one didn’t get up so quick,” the segundo said.
Valdez was on his knees raising his body, and he was kicked hard from behind and slammed onto his face again.
“This one don’t get up either,” the Mexican said.
Valdez heard Tanner’s voice say, “Get him out of here,” and this time they let him work his way to his knees and stand up. But as he straightened, the bottom of the vertical pole struck the ground and held him in a hunched position, a man with a weight on his back, his eyes on the ground, unable to raise his head. Someone put his hat on his head, too low and tight on his forehead.
“That way,” the segundo said, nodding across the square. “The way you came.”
“My horse,” Valdez said.
“Don’t worry about the horse,” the segundo said. “We take care of.”
There was nothing more to say. Valdez turned and started off, hunched over, raising his eyes and able to see perhaps twenty feet in front of him, but not able to hold his gaze in this strained position.
The segundo called after him. “Hey, don’t fall on your back. You’ll be like a turtle.” He laughed, and some of the others laughed with him.
Frank Tanner watched the stooped figure circle the water pump and move down the street past the women who had come out of the adobes to look at him.
“You fixed him,” R. L. Davis said.
Tanner’s eyes shifted to Davis, sliding on him and away from him, as he had looked at him
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