Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) (5 page)

“Here he is, men, just like I thought,” Defoe said as the Ranger and Erin stepped out of the barn.

“Back off, Defoe,” Sam said menacingly. He wanted peace, but he didn't want to appear that he had to come asking Defoe for it, hat in hand. “The killing is over in Wild Roses, unless you've come looking for more.”

Defoe noted the Ranger's Colt standing at rest in his holster.

“The only killing here has come from your hand, Burrack,” Defoe said. “If you want more we can certainly see that you get it.”

Sam knew the Frenchman would posture a little for the benefit of his cantina crowd, but he saw no danger now that everybody had taken some time to cool their tempers and take their bark off.

“I came here looking for the Torres brothers and their Gun Killers, Defoe,” he said. “I drew a Gun Killer out and I killed him. He tried to ambush me.”

“You also killed poor Freddie Loopy, a man who worked for me—a man greatly admired by all, both
Americano
and
Mexicano
alike,” Defoe said, pointing at Sam with his right finger from beneath his swallow-tailed coat, taking his hand off his gun in doing so.

Sam caught the gesture. Yes, the trouble was over, he thought.
For now anyway
.

“He came upon me with the double-barrel, Defoe,” Sam said, “the same gun he was ready to pull on me in your cantina. If I were to think on it long enough, I might decide that you put him up to it.” He stared hard at the Frenchman.

Defoe stared ahead, not backing an inch. The Ranger had let him know it was over. Now it was up to Defoe to look good for his followers. Sam would give him that much.

“But I don't have time to think on it,” Sam continued, gesturing toward Erin, a step behind him to the side. “Her brother is lying dead up in the loft. Is Wild Roses going to see to it she gets him buried proper?”

Defoe continued to stare at the Ranger for a moment, as if in consideration.

“Yes, of course,” he said finally, letting out a sigh. Behind him, the men appeared to settle down even more.

“Miss Erin,” Defoe said, reaching up and taking off his battered silk top hat, “you have my deepest sympathy.”

“A snakebite is a terrible way to die,” a crusty old Texan in buckskins cut in. “I've seen men's tongues turn inside out, blacken and burst before they can—”

“That's enough, Yancy,” Defoe said, cutting the old border rat off. “Why don't you and Zerro go bring the poor fellow down and take him to the barber?” He glanced around and asked, “Where is Walden anyway?”

“The barber was with one of the doves a while ago,” said one of the villagers.

Defoe chuffed. “If it has been over a few seconds, he is all finished. Someone go get him. Have him meet Yancy and Zerro at his tonsorial shop.” He turned back to the Ranger with a smoldering glare.

“Obliged,” Sam said, on behalf of Erin.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Defoe,” Erin said in a grief-stricken voice. “I will find a way to repay you and the town of Wild Roses someday, when I get on my feet.”

“Oh . . . ?” Defoe studied her face for a moment, her eyes reddened by her tears. “Are you looking for work, then, young lady?”

“I—I don't want to—”

“She's not looking for that kind of work, Defoe,” Sam cut in sharply.

Ignoring the Ranger, Defoe tipped his silk hat toward Erin.

“Pardon me for asking,” Defoe said. “But that is the business I'm in, coarse though it may appear to some.”

“I understand,” Erin said, humbly. “Thank you for asking. But I'll be going back to Ireland as soon as I can find a port and make passage. I still have kin there.”

“I see,” said Defoe. He turned to the Ranger and said, “So, you and I are going to try to be civil to each other, for the sake of this grieving young woman?”

“Yes, as far as I'm concerned,” Sam said. “I have no problem with you, unless you're a part of the Gun Killers I'm hunting.” He gazed evenly at Defoe, convinced that the shifty Frenchman was on good terms with the gang, if not actually a member.

“As you can see, I run a cantina here in this Mexican hellhole,” Defoe said, spreading his hands, his right hand still behind the lapel of his long dusty coat. “But you have my word that this is
all
I do.”

Sam nodded, pretending to be satisfied, but he knew better. He'd already seen too much for Defoe to convince him otherwise. Besides, how could he take the word of a man who wore a third arm in order to shoot someone by surprise?

Chapter 5

Hector Pasada didn't stop until the sun had sunk completely out of sight behind the mountain line to his right. Luckily, just before dark his horse had whinnied and veered away from a large bull rattler as the deadly reptile coiled up and let out its spine-chilling warning.

Quickly getting his horse under control, Hector spotted the big snake as it continued making its presence known, its tail standing erect.

“You fat
diablo
, you!” Hector shouted, shaken by the snake's sudden appearance. “I will pick my teeth with your fangs!”

As the snake uncoiled and made its way toward deep rocks on the other side of the trail, Hector jerked the shotgun up from across his lap and fired, before the snake managed to slide out of sight.

“There,” he said in a spiteful tone as the blast sent the big snake flopping and falling limp on the ground. “That will teach you to frighten my
caballo.
” He patted the settled horse's withers and stepped down from his saddle. Retrieving the dead snake, he held it at arm's length and looked all around the rugged terrain for a good place to make camp.

“And now, to cook and eat you, you
diablo gordo
,” he said aloud to the blood-dripping snake.

By the time darkness set in, Hector had cleared himself a campsite amid a stand of tall rocks and built a fire of dried mesquite brush and downfall juniper. With the big rattler skinned and impaled on a long stick, he roasted it above the flames until it was ready to fall apart. Then he stripped the white meat off the stick onto a flat rock he'd dusted off with his palm.

Sitting beneath a large, yellow, three-quarter moon, he ate half the snake, washing it down with tepid canteen water. Before he'd finished his meal, he heard the horse chuff nervously, and he eased up into a crouch and sidled over beside the animal.

“What is it you hear out there,
mi amigo
?” he whispered close to the horse's muzzle. He rubbed its nose with a calming hand and examined the shadowy terrain.

In a moment, he spotted a dark wispy silhouette moving slowly toward him beneath the purple starlit sky. Whoever it was, they were in no hurry and they didn't mind showing themselves in the grainy night. Silently, he slipped over and picked up his freshly loaded shotgun, eased down beside a rock for cover and waited.

When the silhouette was close enough, he rose slowly and raised his shotgun to his shoulder.

“Whoever you are, you must be a fool, riding up on my camp this way without first announcing yourself!” he called out to the grainy darkness.

He heard no reply, just the steady plop of slow-moving hooves, which turned eerie after a moment of tense listening.

“I am warning you,” Hector called out, a chill tightening up his spine. “You do not want to fool with me. I am not afraid of you . . . even if you are some demon from below the desert floor.”

A demon from beneath the desert floor? Santa Madre!
he thought. Now even his own words spooked him.

He crossed himself with a nervous hand. It dawned on him that he never liked being alone out in the desert at night. What in the name of God had ever made him offer to do this?

The dark silhouette had stopped a few yards outside the circle of his campfire—he should never have built the fire, he reprimanded himself. But what else was he to do, eat cold raw snake? He didn't think so, he reasoned. Beside him his horse chuffed and whinnied low under its breath toward the animal standing silently in the grainy purple night.

“What is wrong with you! Why do you not answer me?” Hector shouted toward the dark apparition-like silhouette, seeing it look almost translucent through a wispy flicker of flames.

Was it a ghost?
Oh God! No!
He heard the tremble in his voice, nearly a sob, he realized.

“
Por favor
, tell me something,” he said at length, sounding submissive, almost pleading. “I do not know who you are or what you—”

His words stopped short as he felt the edge of a long knife flat across his throat, an inch below his chin. A strong forearm tightened around his forehead and pulled his head back at a sharp angle, giving him a clear but shaky view of the yellow moon, the purple sky and the endless stars.

A warm breath moved across his ear from less than an inch away.

“What are you doing in our desert?” a voice whispered.

“I—I—!” Hector found it impossible to speak without gagging with his head at such an angle. Having lost all control of his hands, he let his shotgun fall to the ground.

“He can't talk, Clyde,” another voice said, this one coming from atop the dark silhouette as it moved into the circle of firelight, its rider straightening up in the saddle. “You've got his Adam's apple in a knot.”

The tightened forearm loosened a little on Hector's forehead, enough for him to gasp and swallow and form words. The long blade stayed against his throat as if to remind him who was in charge.

“Please,
señors
!” he gasped. “I am Hector Pasada . . . from Rosas Salvajes!”

“Hec-tor,”
said the man at his throat. “You look more like a Pancho to me.”

“Please,” begged Hector, “I am only here to find a man . . . to deliver a message to him!”

As soon as he'd spoken, the forearm tightened again, drawing his eyes back up to the starlit sky. He'd caught only a glance of the dark figure swinging down from his saddle.

“Oh, from Wild Roses,” said the man.

“Is that why you smell so sweet?” the man with the knife to his throat said into his ear. He sniffed around Hector's collar.

The other man walked his horse over and stopped near the fire. He stooped down, picked up a piece of rattlesnake and put it into his mouth. He sucked on the bite of warm snake flesh. Then he spit it out at his feet. “This
rep-tile
needs something. Pepper . . . ? Sage . . . ? Something . . . ,” he said.

“What?” Hector managed to gasp hoarsely.

“He's saying you can't cook for shit,
Pancho
,” the man behind him whispered in his ear, his grip still tight.

At the fire, the other man stood and wiped his fingertips on his ragged, blackened doeskin coat.

“And who is this man you're looking for?” he inquired.

The arm loosened for a second, long enough for Hector to reply.

“Sonora Charlie . . . Charlie Ring,” Hector said quickly, knowing the forearm would soon cut him off again. “The Frenchman sent me from Rosas Salvajes to—”

The forearm tightened.

“
I
am Sonora Charlie Ring,” the man by the fire said. He wiped snake from his fingers onto his trouser leg.

The forearm loosened.

“You—you are Sonora Charlie?” Hector gasped.

“What did I say?” the voice said coldly.

The forearm tightened instantly, then loosened. “Listen up,
Panch
o—”

Hector gasped. “You said that you are—”

The forearm tightened again. The knife blade pressed just hard enough to keep Hector terrified.

“I
know
what I said,” said Sonora Charlie.

“Please,
seño
r—” Hector rasped again in spite of the knife against his throat.

Sonora Charlie looked the terrified man up and down, seeing the dark streak of urine that spread down both of his trouser legs.

“Clyde, take your pigsticker from Wet Hector's throat, turn him loose. Let's hear what the Frenchman wants.”

“You mean you don't want me to cut Pancho open?” the voice behind Hector asked.

“Maybe later,” said Sonora Charlie. “We'll see.”

“Aw, hell!” Clyde Jilson shouted in disappointment. He turned the Mexican loose suddenly, shoving him from behind. Hector flew forward and landed at his horse's hooves, gasping and clutching his throat for a moment to make sure it wasn't laid open from ear to ear.

Sonora Charlie stepped over, reached a hand down to Hector and pulled him to his feet. Hector stood stunned as Charlie brushed his hand up and down his chest and even straightened his shirt collar for him.