I had left my flying “cat birdie” far along the shoreline, a good distance from the bustling port. Some locals may have caught an instant glance, but none of them would have had time to appreciate the creature’s extraordinary nature. Before they could fully perceive it, it had risen to join a swarm of pigeons above the Pacific, seemingly to respect my wishes of settling here.

  Foghorns, the bluest of oceans swishing, and the commotion of commerce welcomed me to San Marina. The walk from cat birdie to city took longer than expected, and as soon as I had found a seat among fisherman, locals, and bums at the harbor and taken a minute to admire the misty sunrise, I fell into slumber.

  Noise around me and smell of trout be darned, my eyelids were a-shut. I shook off the echoing of the cruel words I’d departed Sheriff Chip with and dreamt of my long-lost Bet by my side, small Mexican fish a-flopping in her hand, big bug eyes stunned that she’d seen a place like this. “Is dis what freedom feel like, Wiley?”

  I woke up to a senorita, with dreamlike black eyes and a cleopatra haircut, going through the medical kit in my lap. “Ayuda,” she said. “I need help, right now. If mi esposo dies, his comrades will kill my brother.”

  I’d learned Spanish years ago and slowed her down so I could comprehend what she was saying. “Yes, I’m a doctor. Tell me where your husband is.”

  She was speaking three languages, tripping on her words. I responded with assurance, but she only increased her panicking

  “Ayuda, por favor! Can you please just help. His leg, his leg, an arrow has impaled it. Please come, now.”

  “I understand. I’m going to give his injury a-look. Stay calm.”

  ***

  That night, standing in a colonial style courtyard that overlooked the port and beach, I gazed down in disbelief. A tombstone planted betwixt palm trees?

  The senora emerged from pillars before her unit with her one-legged, bearded husband, leaning on her. He was cussing and crying and screeching.

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  She had dressed him in a decorative shawl covering his shoulder, a white shirt with its collar tied fancy, and a leather cowboy hat. As for her, you’re darn tooting she was striking, hair and eyes darker than Bet’s. She was perfumed and young, pinching up a multi-layered red dress to not step on the hem.

  But why the funeral, after I’d spent the day saving this man’s life by performing a successful amputation?

  Above his moanin’ she said, “We’ve come here this night to celebrate the life of Don Salvador’s left leg. It was a good leg, some cellulite, but—” She snickered. “I shouldn’t joke.”

  “This is not a game,” he shouted; his eyes were bloodshot red from crying.

  While he sniveled, I whispered to myself, “By-fucking-Jiminy. A left leg funeral.”

  She handed him a cocktail I made, one of opium and whiskey. He slurped then screamed, “For all I’ve contributed to the reformers who liberated this country, that leg took me everywhere, progressed all Mexico. To lose it to that lowly ni?o callejero brother of yours. I gave him democracy, gave him cattle and riches. I’ll cut his throat.”

  “Please, Don. He’s only seven years old.”

  “No Valentina, do not defend him. He murdered my left leg. Mamed me, forever.”

  She covered her mouth and dashed back to her courters. I gawked at him and said, “You do realize without the amputation, it would be all of you getting buried, not just the leg.”

  “Senor, you will receive payment. I only ask that you bring my wife back out here to complete this ceremony. If I must limp in there to drag her out, this will not bode well for her.”

  Only a step in the direction he sent me, I heard him say, “She’s the property of Don Salvador, and I will spare you the gruesome details of what must be done if you take liberties.”

  A couple of feet from where I’d entered, she was kneeling down and scrubbing blood off what would be a festive, ceramic tile floor, complete with paintings of suns and vegetation.

  “I sense you may be in danger, senora.”

  “Call me Valentina.”

  “Valentina.” I forced a smile. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She stood, walked to a window with a view of palm fans. “It’s my brother I’m worried about. He’s by the docks, and about to depart all by himself to a shack on a nearby shore. I bought it, secretly…” She dropped her head. “In case Don lost his temper in a jealous fit. He hates how affectionate I am to my brother. I know this is desperate, but I will ask you. Can you please accompany my little brother and make sure he makes it back safely?” The boldness of her, making tempting eyes. “There’s a nearby bar, and I’m friends with the bartender. He’ll direct you.”

  How would you like Doc Apollo to answer?

  With concern for her, read Chapter Forty, answer 1.

  With concern for the child, read Forty-One, answer 2.