Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (34 page)

Purple shadows and pink streaks painted the western sky as they pulled up at the cantina hitching rail. There were at least a dozen horses tied there already, a lot of noise and music drifting through the open windows on the warm May night.

Bandit scowled. “What the hell do you think—?”

“Comancheros,” Romeros said, “I’ve changed my mind, maybe we should ride on. They’d kill us both for half what you carry in gold.”

The hair rose on the back of Bandit’s neck. Everyone knew of the mixed-blood Comancheros who traded guns and whiskey to the Indians. They weren’t hombres to be messed with. “Hell, they’re not gonna scare me away,” he grumbled, dismounting and tying his horse at the rail. “I feel meaner than a rattlesnake on a hot skillet.”

He took the saddlebags from the horse, slung them carelessly over his shoulder.

Romeros swung down off his mount. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “You sure you just wouldn’t rather ride on?”

Bandit started to answer, but as the two stood before the cantina door, a face appeared in the window, an ugly, unshaven face with one blind eye. The hombre grinned and waved them in.

Inside, Bandit and Romeros pushed through the boisterous crowd to the bar. Over in a corner, a pockmarked man played the guitar and a girl who looked vaguely familiar sang a love song that couldn’t be heard over the shouts and laughter.

Bandit hadn’t realized how tired he was. He turned to the bald bartender. “Can you get someone to feed our horses, water ’em good?”

The man stopped wiping the bar and nodded, motioned to a young boy, gave orders.

Bandit said, “Don’t unsaddle them, we’ll be leaving soon.” Then he added, “Bring us food and I’ll have a beer,
cerveza
.”

Romeros ordered mescal as the Comancheros gathered around the pair.

The one with the blind eye also has bowed legs as if he had spent his life in the saddle. “Ah, Romeros! It’s been a long time!”

Sweat beaded on Romeros’s face as he drank his mescal. “Do we know each other, señor? Perhaps you mistake me for someone else—”

“You make the joke with Pedro, no?” The man tipped his sombrero back, laughed as he clapped the foreman on the back. He then looked at Bandit, his sly eyes checking out the saddlebags. “This an
amigo
of yours?”

“
Sí
.” The twitch of Romeros’s lips indicated he knew the Comancheros looked at the saddlebags. “We carry counterfeit ownership papers to the merchants of Remolino.”

Bandit gulped his beer, thought fast. “For the stolen livestock.”

Pedro grinned, relaxed visibly. “Oh, of course. No one but a madman would carry anything of real value through this country.”

Bandit threw the saddlebags on the bar carelessly. “Only a madman.” He grinned and sipped his beer. It wasn’t cold, but it tasted good in his dry mouth.

Pedro lit a cigar, leaned on the bar next to Romeros. “So tell me, how did you get that pinto back?”

Bandit raised his eyebrows at Romeros, wondering.

“A pinto is a pinto.” Romeros laughed weakly.

Pedro snorted. “Ah, but not another in the world like that one! You’re smarter than I thought, hombre. We sell the horse up north for you, and yet, you end up with it again.”

Romeros looked into Bandit’s eyes almost arrogantly. “I’m a helluva lot smarter than anybody gives me credit for.”

A rage began building in Bandit, a rage as big as Texas. His hand almost shook as he lifted the mug and sipped the beer. “I stole it and brought it back.”

Pedro roared with laughter. “Next time you got gambling depts, Romero, let us know! We could keep selling the pinto, your
amigo
could keep stealing it back!”

The pair joined the Comancheros in laughter. About then, the bartender brought two big plates of steaming hot beans, fried beef, tortillas, and chill peppers. Bandit and Romeros ate, ordered more drinks.

Bandit knew he had to control his temper, not say anything as long as the Comancheros were there, but it was all he could do to control his fury. He concentrated on his beer.

Pedro finished his drink, wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve. “We got to be going,” he said in Spanish to the foreman. “Romeros, good to see you. Bring us some more horses and cattle when you can. We both can use the money.”

The
Comancheros
went out, and Bandit heard them mount up, ride away. Now he had some questions he wanted answered. He turned to Romeros.

But before he could demand answers, the girl stopped her singing, came over to lean against the bar. “So there you are, hombre. I wondered why you never met me the last time.” She put her hand on his arm. “Buy me a drink.”

He winked, gave her his most charming smile. “Ah,
señorita
, I’m so sorry I missed our rendezvous. Something interfered with my good intentions.” He thought sadly of Amethyst as he signaled the bartender to bring the sultry beauty a drink. “Been any
americanos
around lately?”

She took the drink, leaned against the bar in such a way that he could look into the front of her low-cut blouse, and brushed the side of her breast along his hand. “Are they friends of yours?”

He caught the look of displeasure on her face. “No. But if they have done something to displease you, I will have their lives.” He patted the butt of his cold pistol. “Tell me what you know and I will deal with them.”

She smiled, mollified.
“Tres hombres.”
She held up three fingers. “One big hombre in pony-soldier blue, a short one in the gray of the defeated side, and a gunslinger who’s seen better days. He rode a gray horse.”

It was all Bandit could do to keep from grabbing her, shaking more information from her. He controlled himself, moved his hand so that it caressed the underside of the full breasts she brushed against it and she pressed even harder against his fingers. “Ah, pretty one,” he murmured, “tell me what happened.”

“They—they insulted me.” She didn’t meet his eyes, and he could guess the rest. “They ask about you, about your horse, rode on south. It was several days ago. That’s all to tell.”

Bandit leaned against the bar, looked around in the smoky, dim light. Who were those three men in the corner? He stiffened, staring at them, then felt a wave of disappointment. No, it wasn’t the outlaws. But even with their hats pulled down low, he saw at least one pair of blue eyes. Though they were obviously hoping not to be noticed, he realized from the look of the men that they were Texans. Now what were three tejanos doing in a rough cantina this far from the border?

They seemed to see him, too. For just a moment, they froze, watching him, then tensed as though expecting him to say something, spread the alarm. Instead, he turned his back, carefully ignored them. Whatever the Texans were doing here, he wasn’t going to give them away, point them out to the rough peons and bandidos at the other tables.

He reached out, picked up the saddlebags with studied carelessness, threw them over his shoulder. If these cutthroats realized how much money he carried, his life wouldn’t be worth a three-legged horse.

Bandit threw money on the bar from his pocket. “Pretty one, we must be going. But have several drinks on me.”

She pouted. “I thought maybe this time—”

“Next time,” he promised with a wink. “Come on, Romeros.”

When the foreman hesitated, Bandit took his elbow, smiled at the girl and bartender, and pushed Romeros through the door. Outside at the hitching rail, he tied the saddlebags on the pinto. Then he faced the lean man. “Okay, let’s have it.”

“Don’t get noble with me, cowboy.” His expression was cynical. “Okay, so I steal some livestock now and then when I need money. The Comancheros said they had a buyer for a good horse.”

Bandit stared at him in speechless fury. With effort, he managed to say, “You? A trusted employee of many years? You have no qualms about stealing the horse that old man loves like a second son?”

Romeros stuck a fresh match in his mouth. “You dare to scold me about honor? You who take advantage of the love the old man has for his first son?”

Bandit felt a flush of shame mingle with his anger. “I reckon I thought I was better than you, getting mixed up in this for the sake of love.”

“Did you, hombre?” Romeros sneered. “Or like me, were you willing to go to any lengths for the ranch, the money?”

Bandit doubled his fists, shaking with guilt and rage. “No, I reckon I’m no better than you are. Neither of us has any honor!”

“Like I said before, you’re beginning to sound just like the old man!”

“You sonovabitch! I love that old man!” He knew it just as he said it, admitted it to himself for the first time. “And you don’t, even after all he’s done for you—”

“Done for me?” Romeros glared at him. “I figure he deserves what he gets! I’ve slaved for him, ought to have been his heir, but no, he has to have his own son! Even after the brat was gone, he didn’t warm to me, and me working my heart out!”

Bandit laughed softly in his anger. “That’s a smart old man. Maybe he saw through you, knew how ruthlessly ambitious you really are! And in my stupidity, I come along, become part of your plot.”

Romeros’s thin lips smiled as he chewed the match. “Let’s not argue,
compadre
. We have a chance to own it all, and through Mona, the Durango—”

“Mona? You knew her before!”

Romeros shrugged, obviously enjoying Bandit’s shock. “In the Biblical sense, like you and half the men in the world; and that’s a fact. So what? I’ve seen the looks passing between you two.”

Bandit paused, trying to decide his answer. No real Texan would smear a woman’s reputation. “Señor Durango thinks he’s getting a real lady. As far as I’m concerned, he’s right.”

“Gomez Durango is a fat, naive fool!” Romeros sneered. “But he won’t live forever. Then Mona will be a rich widow, free to marry the head vaquero from the Falcon’s Lair.”

Bandit could only stare. Now the pieces all fell together–his unkempt pinto horse put away unbrushed, Amethyst an because she’d seen it late at night and had thought Bandit rendezvoused with Mona. When Romeros had spoken of tormenting the bull, had he been on his way to Mona?

From inside, the guitar struck up a loud song and the girl sang while the patrons clapped and urged her on.

Romeros said, “Why do you look so shocked, cowboy! I introduced her to him, or haven’t you heard? And when Gomez dies—”

Bandit snorted. “That old man looks healthy enough to outlive us all!”

Romeros grinned very slowly, took the match out of his mouth, looked at it and then back at Bandit. “Maybe not, depending on whether there’s an epidemic of dysentery.”

Bandit lost control then, cursing as he slammed his fist into the gaunt face. His knuckles stung from the impact and Romeros stumbled back against the hitching post.

Bandit rubbed his aching hand, looked at the small falcon tattooed on the back. When Romeros got up, he struck him again. They clenched and went down, rolling over and over in the dirt out in front of the cantina. They rolled under the hooves of the horses’ at the hitching rail. The horses snorted and stamped their feet, moving nervously.

Romeros swung, but Bandit saw it coming. Light and agile as his Apache ancestors, he ducked the blow. Then he hit Romeros hard, sent him slamming back against the pinto tied at the hitching rail.

The stallion neighed, jerked its head, pulled free.

Romeros’s eyes widened. “The money!”

But as he stumbled to his feet, ran for the horse, Bandit caught him by the shirt, tearing it. Romeros grabbed for the knife in his boot. Seeing the movement, Bandit put all his muscle into bringing his knee up hard. It caught Romeros in the mouth.

Blood poured down his thin face as he fell. He tried to stagger to his feet, pulling at the knife. “I ought to kill you!”

Bandit drew his pistol. “You rotten bastard! Get up before I blow your brains all over this ground!”

What was he going to do now? Bandit didn’t want to shoot him. The sound of firing might bring that pack of Comancheros back, or at least attract a few nosy people from the adobe building. Behind him, the guitar still played loudly, but the girl had stopped singing. At least the music had covered the sounds of the fight.

He motioned with the gun. “Stand up. Get mounted.”

Romeros did as he was bid, the knife still in his boot. His face was a mask of discolored bruises; his mouth and shirt front were bloody.

A noise in the cantina door. Startled, Bandit whirled. In that split second, Romeros spurred his startled black gelding, took off south at a dead gallop.

The girl stood in the doorway. “Hey, hombre, you comin’ back inside?”

Bandit looked from her to the disappearing man, thought about shooting him in the back. No. No man of honor would shoot another in the back. He was only lucky Romeros had been too dazed, too panicked, to grab the saddle gun off the horse—or maybe he didn’t think he could outshoot Bandit.

“No, darlin’.” He sighed. “I’ve got to be movin’ on.”

Should he chase Romeros down? What for? Bandit still had the money for Amethyst’s ransom in the saddlebags on the pinto.
Rescuing Aimée, that was all that mattered
.

The girl put her hands on her hips. “What was the matter with your friend?”

Bandit forced a smile as he holstered his gun, then swung up on the pinto. “He just remembered something he had to take care of. I gotta go myself, darlin’,
adiós
.”

He rode away from the cantina. Would Romeros track him now, try to ambush him, or go back to the ranch? No way of knowing. Had the foreman been hinting that he knew about the matches? Did he think Bandit had murdered his mother? What, if anything, had Mona told him about Lidah’s death?

He thought about the three-to-one odds against him. Talk about a stacked deck!
Bandit’s my name and poker’s my game
. Who’d be willing to bet he could save Amethyst from three rough desperadoes all by himself and not get captured by Indians if he crossed their trail? With his drawl and his blue eyes, he’d never be able to convince a war party that he was a Mexican instead of a hated tejano.