John Gardner - October Light

“Any time,” Santisillia said. “We don’t know. They’ll bring it over from the mainland some night, probably early in the morning. What time you got, Peter?”

Peter Wagner looked at his watch. “Two a.m.”

“If it’s tonight, they’ll be along soon,” Santisillia said, “Otherwise we wait until tomorrow night, or the night after that—”

“They come by boat?” Dr. Alkahest said.

He nodded.

“Then maybe that’s them.” The old cripple cocked his head.

Santisillia looked doubtful, glanced at Peter Wagner. “You hear anything?”

“Not me,” Peter Wagner said.

The Indian, who’d been sitting as still as a boulder, put his hand to his ear, then shook his head.

“I have excellent hearing,” Dr. Alkahest said. “I assure you somebody’s loading a boat, back that way.” He pointed.

“Crazy,” Dancer said. A wicked smile showed at the corner of his mouth. “Hey listen, I’ll make you a bet. A thousand dollars.”

“Oh come on,” Peter Wagner said.

“No deal, but I’ll bet you a nickel,” Dr. Alkahest said.

Dancer sagged. “Shit man, who’s got a nickel?”

An hour later they heard the rumble of the Mexicans’ boats.

“They’re coming! He could really hear them!” Jane said.

“Then my part in the comedy is over,” Peter Wagner said. “I’ve brought you to your Mexicans. Adieu, adieu, night-night, ta ta!” He snatched up the rifle.

“Stop it!” Santisillia said. “You going to shoot yourself right in front of us, boy? You got no feelings?”

Peter Wagner sighed and put it down.

By now the Mexicans were inside the cave, climbing out of the boats. Their yells of greeting — coming up through the shaft they sounded more like groans — rose to the basin, and a moment later their heads began appearing. Soon the volcano basin was full of them, a huddled mass if ever there was one, people crippled, maimed, bloated, wart-faced, dwarfed, blind, deaf, voiceless, some of them on wooden legs, some of them on skate-boards; Dr. Alkahest fainted, bowled over by the scent.

“Let’s go! Let’s load up!” Santisillia said.

But Dancer leaped up. “Wait! We forgot the trial!” He stood with his arms raised, like a wildman praying.

Ominously, as if in support of his earnestness, the earth grumbled.

“Aw, come on, Dancer,” Peter Wagner said.

Jane said, “Outlaws can’t hold trials.”

“It’s illogical,” Mr. Nit said.

The Indian nodded, solemn.

The crowd of Mexicans watched them, bright eyed and agreeable. A fat one with gunbelts crossing his chest, two of his upper teeth missing, said, “¿Qué es? ¿Una misa?” Those behind him pressed closer.

Dr. Alkahest opened his eyes and cried, “Welcome friends! God bless you,” then passed out again, though he wanted to say more.

“¿Quées?” the fat man said. He leaned forward, staring with his eyebrows lifted, like a man looking into an aquarium at a curious fish. He pointed at the doctor.

“He’s high,” Peter Wagner explained. “He’s found happiness.”

“High,” the Mexican said to those behind him. They passed it back.

Santisillia was looking at the sky, troubled. It would be morning soon. If they didn’t get the boats loaded and move out, they’d have to sit here another whole day. It was time they didn’t have. If the old man had found them, others knew. And if it was true that Dusky had brought Dr. Alkahest and was near, staying out of sight, given that infallible sixth sense he had …

Suddenly Luther Santisillia hit himself on the forehead and whispered, “Shit! What a fool!” It wasn’t by some uncanny sixth sense that Dusky always knew where Fist was, where the Feds were, where everything was! Old Dusky had the whole fucking picture: he was a Narc! Santisillia began to laugh, his muscles going weak. Old Dusky had played his dumb niggers like a ju-ju man — he’d said a little pig-Latin backwards and they’d believed! Beware the stories yo mama tells you, he thought. Beware the man with the fictions!

He raised his arms for attention. “Listen,” he said, “we gotta leave. We been fucked. Dusky’s out there — he brought the old man in. He’s a Narc.”

They looked at him.

“No Narc,” the Indian said.

“He’s a Narc, I tell you. It’s incredible none of us thought of it. All the time he’s been settin us up, playin us that tune about his infallible sixth sense—”

“Setting us up why?” the Indian said.

“Who knows why? You understand the mind of a government agent?”

“Some kind of rip-off maybe,” Peter Wagner said. “Ends against the middle.”

“No Narc,” the Indian said. He folded his arms like an Indian in the movies. “We take the load.”

Santisillia flashed anger for an instant, then laughed. He felt something give in his head. It was too late anyway. Ah, that Dusky!

“Maybe he’s a Narc and maybe not,” Mr. Goodman said. “But to walk away from a load like this one—”

“We could load fast,” Mr. Nit said.

Santisillia held out his arms, palms up, as if to plead, then laughed again. It made no difference. “Ok,” he said, “let’s load.”

The crowd stirred slightly in the direction of the entrance, then stopped. Dancer was waving the machine gun. “No!” he yelled.

“First the trial! Captain Fist shot me in the leg! I ain’t had my vengeance!”

“Hey, cool it man,” Santisillia said. “It’s all over.” He took a step, casual, smiling, then jerked back with a yelp. Bullets chopped up the stone just in front of his feet.

“We gonna have a trial. That’s final,” Dancer said.

They looked at him.

The Mexicans all scratched their heads and smiled. It always takes time to learn new customs. Nobody spoke.

Peter Wagner said at last, wearily, “Why, Dancer? Why so petty? What if it turns out Luther’s right — what if the Narcs are on the way right now?”

Dancer stamped his foot. “Man, you’re crazy! Dusky’s a gentleman, pride of the people. How come you bastards always tryin to undermine a young person’s heroes and ideals?”

“All the same,” Peter Wagner said reasonably, “we could hold the trial later — be on the safe side.”

“Safety is for chickens,” Dancer snapped.

“Makes no difference,” Santisillia said. “It’s all over but the shooting anyway.”

Dancer shook his head furiously, as if to drive away gnats. “I want you peoples to get ready for this trial.”

“With the Narcs coming?” Peter Wagner asked.

“No Narcs coming, God damn you,” Dancer yelled. “The Narc is a mythological beast. One more word about Narcs, I gonna shoot you for contempt of this court.”

Jane touched his arm. “Why have it now though, really?”

“We gonna find out,” Dancer said. “That’s all, man. We just gonna find out.”

They all looked over at Captain Fist, still bound and gagged. Jane said innocently, “Find out what?”

“What’s the matter you, ofay?” Dancer said, turning the machine gun toward her. “What you spose to find out when you try a man? We gone find out if he’s guilty, you understan? We gone put that ole motherfucker on trial and try him and see if he’s guilty. What the fuck you expect?”

“Man,” Santisillia said, smiling at the sky, “what’s guilt? You never killed nobody?”

But Dancer wasn’t hearing.

“Hey Alkahest!” he yelled. He poked the old man in the chest with his machine gun. “Wake up, man. We havin some justice.”

The doctor slept on, both drugged and drunk, mumbling in his sleep, “What fun for the Sons of Liberty!”