Scorpion (21 page)

A stampede is like some great beast, a juggernaut of unstoppable energy, flattening anything in its path. The life of the beast is brief but furious. At night cattle will bolt and run at the first unexpected snap of dry grass or a tumbleweed blown cross the path of a steer.

The soldiers in the encampment were roused from their sleep by a fusillade of gunfire followed by a surge of thunder. The earth shook as over a thousand head of cattle and nearly three hundred horses moved as one, surged forward, panic-stricken as Snake-Eye Gandy and his Texas Rangers opened up with their Patterson Colts. Lances of orange flame stabbed the night air. The Rangers hooted and shouted, raising a commotion akin to an army of vengeful spirits loosed from the black depths of the cordillera. By the time the officers could dispatch their skirmishers, the startled herd was well on its way to Saltillo, hounded by Gandy’s men, who never let up.

Cletus Buckhart screeched and waved his saddle blanket over his head. Snake-Eye Gandy, off to the young man’s left, fired his pistol and leaned low over the saddle horn, slapping the loose end of his reins across his mount’s neck. The mouse-colored gelding quickened its pace and slowly brought its rider up abreast of the lead animal, a mean-tempered longhorn with a lumbering gait, who lorded over the herd despite the constant challenges of the younger steers testing the battle-scarred old bull’s supremacy.

The bull seemed to sense Gandy’s presence, and followed the Ranger’s lead, though the one-eyed man made certain he remained off to the side. With Blue Napier to the right of the herd and even with Gandy, the stampede could be somewhat controlled. It was a tenuous situation at best, but successful. The charging herd of horses and cattle bore down on the sleepy town nestled in the flatlands of the Coahuila plain, and wouldn’t slow until they hit the streets.

Serena Montenez stood in the doorway to Najera’s room and watched in silence, her arms folded across her rounded bosom, while Ned Tolliver proceeded to search every drawer and wardrobe. Najera’s extra clothing lay in a couple of piles in the center of the bedroom. Chests were left open, a chair and an end table had been overturned in the drawing room, Najera’s desk had been ransacked, all to no avail.

“The general’s fortune went to supply his army. A grand and noble gesture, eh? Would that he had felt so patriotic about his hotel bill. The gold you won the other night was supposed to go to me, to cover all the general owed for his food and lodging. He has left me nothing but debt!” Now that Valentin had officially departed to rejoin his army, Serena could allow her true feelings to be known. Angel Perez had failed to return, and she was concerned for his well-being. She suspected something terrible had happened to her young lover, and she blamed Najera for sending him away.

Ned Tolliver could not care less about the woman’s troubles. Disgusted with this turn of events, he brushed past the woman and stalked down the hall, opening the first door he came to. The creak of bedsprings and a girl’s muffled groans foretold what he’d find. The shutters were drawn, no lamps were lit, and only the faintest illumination seeped in through the doorway.

“Lucker, we got to get the hell out of here,” Tolliver said.

“Not till I got all the general owes me out of this little
puta.
”

He heard Dobbs yelp and then came the slap of a callused hand against softer, more resilient flesh.

“Try that again,” Dobbs growled, “and I’ll knock your pretty little teeth down your throat.”

“Please, señor. No.” The girl’s voice was barely louder than a whisper. “No more.”

“I’m leaving in five minutes,” Tolliver said. “It’s never taken you any longer than that.”

“Go to hell,” Dobbs cursed as Tolliver chuckled and shut the door.

The turncoat Ranger met Serena’s smoldering gaze.

“What the hell you looking at? Just be glad its the general’s tramp in there and not you. You may be next anyway.” He started past her.

“Marita is young and she is foolish. But she has done nothing to deserve this,” the proprietress angrily snapped. “I won’t be next. No man lays a hand on me unless I wish it.” The woman’s eyes were cold as ice. She meant what she said, and could back up her talk with action. Tolliver tried to laugh her off but he was convinced. He walked down the hall and descended to the cantina, another room devoid of customers. A single oil lamp flickered on a table near the bottom of the stairs and cast a pool of amber light that forced the darkness to grudgingly retreat. However, the victory became more tenuous the farther one went toward the front of the cantina. Tolliver walked straight to the bar and poured himself a shot of whiskey, tossed it down his throat, then helped himself to another. He glanced along the bar at the jar Najera had given him. He had intended to leave the severed head of his former companion in the courtyard for Serena Montenez to dispose of as she saw fit. He noticed the lid was off. Funny thing that. Drink in hand, he ambled over to the jar and replaced the lid without looking inside. He turned toward the proprietress standing at the foot of the stairs.

“You handle this?” he asked.

“I was with you while you were searching the general’s room.”

“If not you, then who?” He had seen Señora Montenez personally dismiss her serving girls.

“Perhaps him,” the woman replied, looking past the americano. Tolliver turned and for the first time noticed the silhouette of a man in a sombrero standing just beyond the perimeter of light, between a window and the front door. Tolliver dropped a hand to his gun but froze when he heard the telltale click of a hammer being thumbed back on a Patterson Colt.

“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” Ben said.

“Who the hell are you?” Tolliver growled. He could tell by the accent this wasn’t any Mexican.

“A ghost,” Ben replied, and stepped into the light.

Tolliver’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. “You! The lieutenant! How in the blue blazes—?” He noted McQueen’s revolver was centered on his chest, then shrugged, unbuckled his gun belt and let it clatter to the floor. He kicked the gun belt aside and opened the flaps of his black frock coat to reveal he was unarmed. “How’d you escape?”

“I died,” Ben sneered with ghoulish amusement. He was trembling with rage. A few minutes ago he had entered the cantina and found the place apparently devoid of life. Resolving to search the entire hotel if need be, he had started toward the side door leading into the lobby of the Casa del Noche when he noticed the jar. The tall stoneware container was similar to the ones lining the back wall of the courtyard outside. It had only taken a moment to remove the lid and discover its terrible secret. Now he knew the meaning of the wall in the courtyard. Revulsion had turned to cold fury. There must be a reckoning. Now was the time, and here was the place, to begin. “Where is Dobbs?”

“Gone,” Tolliver answered. “The yellow bastard cheated me out of my pay and took off with Najera’s army.”

“You’re a lying dog,” Ben said. “I guess some things don’t change.” He’d seen two horses tethered outside. And old Esteban had seen both men in the cantina.

“Look, I’m telling the truth. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“The other one is upstairs,” the owner of the cantina said. Serena Montenez had no idea as to the stranger’s identity, but he was obviously no friend of the two americanos, and that was good enough for her. She tugged a black scarf from her bodice and dabbed at her upper lip. “He is with Marita Two Ponies, the daughter of old Esteban.”

Ben glanced in Tolliver’s direction. “Call him down.”

“Go to hell,” Tolliver said. He still couldn’t believe his eyes. Lieutenant Ben McQueen alive and able to identify the two men who had sold out their compatriots! Damn McQueen. Ned Tolliver wasn’t finished yet.

“Do you have any rope?” Ben asked of the proprietress. The señora shook her head.

“And I ain’t going with you,” Tolliver said, grinning, “so why don’t you just head on upstairs and leave me here. I promise I’ll stay put.”

“I believe you,” Ben said. Taking a step forward, he cracked the man across the skull with the gun barrel of his Colt revolver. The blow caught Tolliver off guard. He sagged against the bar and crumpled to the hardwood floor. Ben stepped over him and walked the length of the bar until he reached Serena Montenez. “Are those stairs a back entrance to the hall above?”

“Sí. They will take you to the rear of the hallway. The man you seek is in the last room on the right.” She studied this red-haired americano with renewed interest, and she wondered where he had come from.

Ben nodded his thanks and moved toward the narrow stairway Tolliver and the señora had just descended. The wooden steps beneath his feet creaked as he climbed.

The hallway was dark and thick with the aroma of stale pulque, sweat, and tobacco smoke that had permeated the upper floor of the hotel over the course of several years. Ben wrinkled his nose and stifled a sneeze. With Najera’s departure, the rooms were empty, awaiting a normal trade. Although the military had frequented the hotel and cantina, the citizens of Saltillo for the most part had avoided the establishment. The silence in the hall was deafening, the darkness oppressive as the grave. Gunfire, still faint, became more frequent, the rumble of thunder audible even within the walls of the Casa del Noche. Suddenly a door up ahead opened. Ben froze and brought up the Colt. A vague lumbering patch of humanity loomed in the doorway and stopped, still partly concealed. As fortune would have it, Dobbs was facing the rear end of the hall and caught a glimpse of McQueen outlined against the faint glow at the top of the stairs.

“
Quién más?
Who is it? Ned?” Silence. Ben did not reply. “Just a second, Ned.” The man disappeared into the room. The muffled sound of a struggle reached Ben, then Lucker Dobbs called out in a whiskey-soaked voice, “You ain’t Ned.” The turncoat appeared in the doorway again, this time holding Marita Two Ponies before him, his left arm encircling her waist. Dobbs was larger than the fifteen-year-old, but she shielded his vitals. Dobbs’s right arm was extended, a Patterson Colt gripped in his iron hand. “I got the general’s whore with me. Any harm come to her, and Najera will have your head.” Again silence. “Damn it, who’s there?” Dobbs’s Colt spat flame. Ben flattened himself against the wall, but in the brief flash of gunpowder his features were revealed. Marita twisted in his grasp and sank her teeth into Dobbs’s thumb. The man howled and flung her to the floor. Ben fired. Then Dobbs and Ben again. The hallway was cast in vivid relief with each muzzle flash. The gunshots came in rapid succession. Fire and shift your aim and fire again, anticipate the other man’s movement, fire, and no time to wonder how many shots were left.

Marita hugged the floor, senses numb from the deadly exchange. The narrow confines of the hallway were a hellish prison of jetting flame, leaden death, and the acrid stench of burned black powder. Her eyes were watering, her ears ringing. She didn’t know what was happening. Marita only wanted it to stop. She wanted to live. She wanted to run to the forgiving arms of her grandfather, and prayed to the Blessed Mother that she would get the chance.

And then, abruptly, the deadly exchange ended with a groan … a death rattle and a low, sibilant sigh.

G
ENERAL VALENTIN NAJERA BROUGHT
his men to a halt in front of Quintero’s hacienda. Twenty dragoons, each armed with saber, pepperbox pistol, and short-barreled musket, immediately arranged themselves in sharp and precise order. The entire column was proud of the reputation they had earned as the general’s handpicked guard. Only the padre struggled with his mount and broke the order.

Across the ranchyard, the bunkhouse, barn, and outbuildings were silent and dark, but lantern light seeped through the shuttered windows of the hacienda. The hour was late, and Najera had expected to roust the occupants of the rancho from their beds. Every room in the house was lit. Could the widow be entertaining? Highly unlikely. Najera stroked his chin as he considered the possibilities.

Raúl walked his mount forward and drew abreast of his commander. The gunman was distracted; he had Marita on his mind. And why not? General Najera no longer had any use for her. Raúl, after a single night of passion, had resolved to take up where
El Jefe
left off. Marita would be his woman now. Images of her willowy charms flooded his mind with heated recollections and left little room for the task at hand.

“Well?” Najera petulantly asked. “Damn it, man, are you listening to me?”

“Sorry,
Jefe.
I didn’t hear,” Raúl said. His cheeks reddened. It wouldn’t do to anger the general, already thin-skinned and anxious to resolve his problems with the widow of Don Sebastien.

“Five men to the barn, five to the bunkhouse, and the rest remain with us here.”

“And if there is trouble?”

“Tonight I will have the Ventana.”

“The segundo will fight,” Raúl dryly observed. “And the vaquero they hired. Even the widow, I think. With its back against the wall, even a cat can become a panther.”

Najera shook his head. “They will not have the stomach for it. The señora is soft. She will do as I order because she will not want to die.”

Raúl studied the shuttered hacienda. Lanterns were strung about the yard and across the front of the house. Piles of wood had been set ablaze around the yard, successfully illuminating the area surrounding the hacienda, providing plenty of light for hidden marksmen. He suppressed his misgivings and dispatched the men as he was ordered to. Why hadn’t Angel Perez returned or joined them along the way here?

The gunman removed his serape and draped it across the saddle pommel, permitting him easy access to the twin pistols holstered at his waist, then glanced at Najera. Raúl had no breeding, no station in life. If he was ever to ride in splendor through the streets of Mexico City, it would be in the service of a man like the general. But all dreams aside, astride a horse and seated in plain sight before the fortified hacienda, Raúl wished he had never heard the name Quintero.

Josefina stood leaning on Zion’s strong shoulder, and peered through the gun slits at the dragoons in their blue and red uniforms, who were no doubt ready to obey Najera’s every command. She tucked a strand of blond hair back from her face. Her expression was serious, firelight reflected in her eyes.