Scorpion (11 page)

Half an hour later Zion and Juan Medrano returned from their excursion to the
mercado.
The blacksmith carried the carcass of a goat over his shoulder and would have headed straight through the shop and into his house had he not immediately realized that someone, no doubt Ben, had taken a turn with his tools. Juan Medrano scowled, set the goat aside and without speaking walked down the aisle to the anvil and forge. He noticed his tools had been properly put away and were none the worse for wear. That took the edge off his anger. He picked up the horseshoe from the anvil and stepped into the sunlight streaming through one of the unshuttered windows. After a few moments of examination he nodded, satisfied. Then he hung the horseshoe on a peg near the chestnut gelding’s stall and proceeded to retrieve the goat carcass and head for his house. He paused in the doorway to the alley.

“Alacron, if chasing cows is not to your liking, you can come work for me.”

“Gracias,”
Ben said. “Any luck?” He glanced up at Zion, who waited for the blacksmith to leave before he answered.

“Four horses. All of them mountain bred and strong.” The segundo rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “But we better round them up and get out of town before General Najera learns about them.”

“Where are they hidden?”

“The last place Valentin Najera would ever go nowadays.” Zion grinned. Then he frowned and stepped in close to Ben. “You all right?”

“Yes,” Ben lied. His encounter with the two men from his nightmares had left an indelible mark on his soul, ravaging his already wounded mind. Still, he kept his horror private. Ashamed of his fears, Ben resolved to deal with them as best he could. “Let’s go find your horses.”

The shadow of a hawk drifted across the sunbaked yard of the church of Santa Maria Magdelene, circled the square whitewashed bell tower, and glided off toward the wood-lined wash just beyond the church. Zion and Ben gave their mounts a drink from the spring-fed cistern in the center of the yard then walked them over to the rectory, where the rotund, brown-robed priest was busily stringing dried chilies from the thatch roof above his porch.

Again Zion made the briefest of introductions, but the priest proved far more observant than Medrano the blacksmith. Father Rudolfo’s features grew wide-eyed with alarm and he ushered both men into the shade of his porch.

“What mischief are you up to, Zion? This is the vaquero you spoke of? A norteamericano?” Father Rudolfo appeared truly alarmed. “Najera is looking for a reason to add my head to his collection. Bad enough I allowed Juan to conceal his horses in the church stable. Now you bring a spy into our midst.”

“I’m no spy, padre,” Ben said. He briefly explained his presence in town, taking care to include just who had forced him south in chains. Zion squirmed uncomfortably and interrupted.

“Don’t bore the padre with such a long story. What matters is, we have come for the horses as I promised.”

Father Rudolfo glared at the segundo. “You chained this unfortunate one and forced him to accompany you to Ventana? Shame on you.” He took Ben by the arm. “Josefina has been a good friend. She has helped me with the children many times during the feast days. I am grateful you helped her, even if you had no choice.” The padre looked to weigh about four hundred pounds, and his cheeks were flushed from the heat. The fringe of close-cropped gray hair that circled his skull was dappled with perspiration. And yet, despite his girth and sixty-plus years, the Franciscan marched along at a brisk clip. He issued orders to a Christianized Yaqui dozing against the wall of the priest’s house and instructed the man to finish hanging the chilies. The Yaqui, a bow-legged wisp of an old warrior, with skin the color of dulled copper, struggled to his feet, brushed the dust from his homespun garments, and shuffled across the porch to finish the work begun by the priest. The Yaqui gave a start as he drew closer to Ben. Zion turned and for the first time took a close look at his companion. In the sunlight, Ben’s features were two-toned and streaked from sweat. Ben also seemed to be aware of his problem.

“Don’t worry, Esteban won’t talk. But the sooner you leave town, the better for all of us.” The padre continued on to the stable. Ben did not relax until he was engulfed in the dusty interior of the stable. Once concealed, he removed a clay bottle from beneath his serape and immediately applied Zion’s mixture to his nose and forehead, darkening the skin until he could pass unnoticed among the residents of Saltillo once again.

Zion led Ben past the stalls, in which were kept the four mounts he had paid for with Don Sebastien’s silver-inlaid saddle. The horses—two mares, a stallion, and a roan gelding—all looked to be excellent mounts.

“We’ll have to wait the day out,” Zion said. “And bring these animals out under cover of night, or else we might attract too much attention.”

“As you wish,” Father Rudolfo halfheartedly replied.

“The padre sets an excellent table,” Zion said. “And as you can see by his belly, there is seldom enough for guests.” He noted the priest’s scowling look of disapproval. “Cheer up, Father Rudolfo, after all, you have God to protect you.”

“There are no strangers in the house of the Lord,” the padre admitted. He turned to Ben. “I bid you welcome.” He flashed a warm smile. “Forgive me my lack of hospitality.”

The priest walked to the door of the stable and perused the churchyard. Four dragoons rode through the gate and brought their horses over to the cistern. A few minutes later the animals had drunk their fill and the riders circled the churchyard so that they might ogle a trio of Yaqui maidens who were bringing firewood up from the dry wash. The expression on Father Rudolfo’s face was anything but saintly. His broad fleshy hands closed into fists. Tension filled the stable. A chorus of gruff laughter erupted from the horsemen, and the maidens giggled, for they were young, relishing their beauty and youth, and were impervious to the darkness in such men as these. Thankfully, the four horsemen had business elsewhere. They wheeled their mounts and rode from the churchyard, promising to return.

The padre stared at the settling dust. “Sometimes God seems far away and General Valentin Najera much too close.”

At dusk Saltillo began to shake off the vestiges of the sleepy afternoon and come alive. The land shed the warmth it had collected all day long, and the temperature began to plummet, becoming cool and arid. Lamp light beamed from windows and flooded through open doorways. The residents of the town streamed into the street to socialize and gossip. With the soldiers in town, the cantinas and brothels surrounding the
mercado
were awash with activity. The music of flamenco drifted out among the alleys and streets. Everywhere Ben looked, people seemed to be enjoying themselves. They were certainly oblivious to him. The tall, serape-draped stranger in homespun garments and down-at-heel boots was but one of many among the throng of townspeople and soldiers.

Ben knew Zion would be horrified to discover his absence. In truth, he had never intended to risk discovery by venturing any farther into town. But after his encounter with Tolliver and Dobbs, Ben McQueen was determined to wait for dusk and then brave the streets. He did not feel the risk was all that great as long as he avoided the brightly lit cantinas, kept his sombrero tilted low, and didn’t do anything to call attention to himself.

The two gringos plagued his thoughts. He had to see them again, in hopes that another meeting might jog his memory and cause the pieces of his past to fall into place. It was worth a try. Father Rudolfo, to whom many of the servants reported, was the eyes and ears of Saltillo. Little happened without the padre being informed. So it was that Father Rudolfo had known the names of Najera’s norteamericano hirelings—Ned Tolliver and Lucker Dobbs. For now, the names meant nothing to Ben, but he was determined they would.

He reached Market Square and cautiously wandered among the vendors who were busy closing their stalls, as had the proprietors of the shops throughout the town. Ben circled the spring, where several uniformed dragoons lounged against the stone walls of the well, smoking their cigarillos and passing bottles of tequila from one to the other. Their dark blue and scarlet jackets were open to the waist. They wore their leather-brimmed caps at jaunty angles and bragged of their conquests, lying to one another and wishing they had enough money for one last good poke. Alas, money was scarce and the whores in the brothels across the square demanded payment in cash. Nary a “soiled dove” had any use for charity when it came to business. A prostitute’s beauty was a temporal thing, and their hearts were rarely made of gold.

A soldier bumped into Ben and growled at him in a drunken voice to get the hell out of the way. Ben pointedly took no offense and hurried past the drunkard, anxious to put some distance between himself and trouble. He recognized the name Casa del Noche. Father Rudolfo had described the hotel as the headquarters of General Najera. The hotel’s cantina was a good place to begin his search. He made his way around to the bat-wing doors and was forced to sidestep a trio of swarthy-looking lancers, sabers sheathed at their sides, when they brushed him aside and cut across the square. They paused to purchase the last of the tortillas an old woman was selling from a pushcart. She filled the tortillas with the last of the
barbacoa
spooned from a clay pot. The finely shredded pork was a delicacy to which she added hearty amounts of her fiery salsa, topping the meat until the juices ran out the ends of the tortillas. The lancers gorged themselves on the old woman’s cooking, satisfying one appetite before heading off to the brothels to tame the fires burning below their belts.

Ben rounded the corner and peered through the window at the smoky interior of the cantina. Something brushed against his leg and he nearly jumped out of his boots, but looked down to find it was only a cat. The feline arched its back and purred. Ben nudged the creature on its way with the toe of his boot. A bottle shattered within the cantina, and Ben looked up in time to see a young man in a black and scarlet serape break up an altercation.

The two would-be combatants were a rough-looking pair, one a potbellied mestizo, the other a bold-talking, lean young man with a scruffy beard and a chip on his shoulder.

“You take back what you said, Mariano!” the younger of the two blurted, his speech slurred.

“We are compadres, Angel. Would you let the widow put knives in our hands and set us against one another?” the mestizo said. “Raúl, see if you can talk some sense into this one before I carve him like a trussed-up sow.”

The mediator, Raúl, placed himself in harm’s way and confronted the irate man named Angel. “The Widow Montenez … you have much feeling for her, eh?”

“Sí.” Angel nodded as his hand crept to the pistol tucked in his belt.

“Good. I would not wish to kill you for a trifle. Better you die for love, for
pasión.
” Raúl’s gaze narrowed. “Leave the gun. Pulque has been the death of many a good man. Think, amigo. Think well.”

Every eye within the cantina and without was focused on the two friends. Soldiers, serving girls, townspeople, and vaqueros were ready to dive for cover if gunplay erupted. The seconds crept past with agonizing slowness. Conversation faded. Even the bartender froze, with a bottle of his home brew tilted up and suspended above a clay cup. At last, to the relief of all present, Angel shrugged and slumped into his chair. The mestizo leaned forward and poured him a drink to show there were no hard feelings.

As tensions eased, Raúl glanced up and spied Ben watching him through the unshuttered window. The gunman frowned, obviously struggling to place the stranger framed by the windowsill’s weathered wood. There was something about the hombre, but Najera’s lieutenant couldn’t make the connection.

Ben instantly recognized the gunman as the leader of the attack on Señora Quintero’s wagon. He stepped back into the safety of the shadows. He hoped to avoid calling attention to himself, but failed to check the ground behind his heels. The cat had returned, and Ben’s left foot came down on the feline’s tail. The animal screeched, Ben jumped, and half the cantina turned to look in his direction. The disguised man spun and dashed down the side street away from the
mercado.

“You! Hombre! Wait!” Raúl shouted, and lunged for the doors, but the room was crowded, and even though Señora Montenez’s customers struggled to get out of the gunman’s path, he still lost precious seconds. By the time Raúl reached the Paseo de Caballo, Ben was one block down and half a block over, his long legs taking him at a dead run back to Santa Maria Magdelene.

It was a rare moment when General Valentin Najera attended church. Of course, he picked a dark night to come calling on the Lord. Father Rudolfo was kneeling before the statue of the Blessed Mother, his lips moving, allowing the merest whisper of a prayer to escape. Esteban, the Yaqui, and his three brown-eyed granddaughters, the comely girls who had attracted the interest of the dragoons earlier that afternoon, knelt a few pews behind the priest. When the door creaked on its hinges, Father Rudolfo stirred and glanced over his shoulder. His lower jaw dropped when he identified the visitor.

Valentin Najera wore his dress uniform. The black coat with its scarlet-and-gold-stitched sleeves and wide lapels looked elegant even in the dimly lit interior of the church. Najera was followed by Marita Two Ponies, who dutifully walked behind the general. From the sound of the horses in the churchyard, a number of riders had accompanied the general. Two of his personal guard, dragoons armed with pistols and sabers, stood at attention to either side of the double doors. No doubt they were handpicked and could be counted on to keep silent about Najera’s peculiar behavior. The general motioned for the Yaquis to depart. Old Esteban rose up on his aged legs and left with his granddaughters by the side door. Esteban paused but once, and that was to stare past Najera at Marita, the one granddaughter he had not seen or spoken to since she ran away from the Church. The girl could feel her grandfather’s sad stare but refused to meet it, nor would she look at Father Rudolfo.