Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

IN THE SHADOWED coolness of the living quarters behind the leather shop, Bijah Catlow made his final plans. The door that led to the cellar where he and his men waited opened from behind the curtain of bridles, as Ben Cowan had half suspected.

  There was a hallway of stone…the remainder of the house was of adobe, and of later construction. A stone stairway went down into the vast, ancient cellar. Here there were no windows, for the ceiling of the cellar was six feet below ground level, and as a matter of fact, its existence was unknown to the people of Hermosillo.

  The builder of the adobe, itself one of the earliest buildings in the town, had utilized what remained of the ruin on this site. It was only after the house was built, when making excavations for repairs, that he had found the vast underground room. Being a wise man, and a discreet one, he had mentioned the find to no one, and he and his sons had finished the work by themselves.

  The origin of the ruin was a mystery. This might have been the site of some planned mission, where construction had ceased because of Apache attacks…records of many such had vanished from the country with the Jesuits. Or it might have been still older…perhaps an Indian ruin reaching back in time even before the Aztecs.

  The owner of the leather shop had himself been a bandit, as his father had been before him, and from time to time, through revolution and change, they had found use for the ancient cellar.

  There was an exit, a secret way that opened into the stables…this had been built by the present owner’s grandfather on the principle that not even a rat trusts himself to one hole only. In the planning of the present robbery, Pesquiera, the owner of the leather shop, had shared his secret with Bijah Catlow. But now they were of two minds. Pesquiera wanted the gold brought into his cellar and held there until the chase had died down. Bijah Catlow wanted it spirited out of the country quickly. As a matter of fact, Bijah did not entirely trust his Mexican partner nor his nephew, the deserter who had come to him in Tucson.

  Pesquiera had known of the treasure for years, but had known only approximately where it was hidden; and Lerdo was shrewd enough to see that living nearby to guard it were loyal members of a family distantly related to his own. There had been no chance until now, when the treasure would be moved, to lay hands upon it.

  Bijah had an idea that, once that treasure was hidden in the secret cellar, some accident would happen to destroy his men and himself, or a trap would be laid for them. He preferred to trust himself to the open desert and the risks of flight, no matter how great they might be.

  He sat alone now at a table, and stared at the glass of beer before him, but he was not thinking of the beer. He was thinking of what lay before him.

  In a corner, some thirty feet away, several of the men played at cards. In a nearby room, others were asleep. He had been careful to allow none of them to be seen around town, and the men he had on watch at a particular point changed watches only during the time of siesta.

  Two things disturbed him. One of these was what he had learned of the character of General Armijo. He was no lackadaisical office-holder, but a competent and experienced soldier and a man of the desert. He had behind him twenty years of war in the field. He had fought in revolutions in his own country, against the French, and against the Apaches. Armijo had only recently been transferred to Sonora, but he knew the country. Bijah Catlow had not reckoned on Armijo.

  The other factor that worried him was the whereabouts of Ben Cowan. Bijah had neither seen nor heard of him since that night in Tucson, but he was all the more worried because of that.

  He rubbed the stubble on his broad jaw and swore softly. The other men were restless, and he did not blame them, sitting for days in a dark cellar, unable to show their faces on the street of a town known for its beautiful women. And when they did emerge it would only be to make a quick strike and escape.

  For a moment he stared gloomily about the room. Catlow was nothing if not a perceptive man, and it came to him suddenly that he had taken a direction that might keep him among such associates, and in such surroundings for the remainder of his years. He might spend his life hiding in abandoned ranch houses, cheap hotel rooms, on the dodge, never sure from one minute to the next when the law might come up to him. He glanced at the table across the room…there was only one man in the lot whom he really liked—Old Man Merridew.

  He gulped a swallow of beer and thought again of the two millions…with his share of that, a man could live anywhere, do just about anything.

  Yet the gloomy thoughts remained with him, brought on in part by the surroundings, the dark and ancient cellar, the foul air, and by the boredom of waiting.

  Because he did not trust Pesquiera, he had stalled on making a decision as to where the treasure would be taken. The risks of trying to get it into the cellar were great…if the pack train was seen in the street, that would be an end to it. The plan now called for a midnight strike, for they had learned when the treasure was to reach the town, but Catlow had worked out an alternative plan of which he had said nothing to anyone.

  The close confinement was having its effect upon him, too. Even less than the others was he fitted to put up with the restricted quarters, for Bijah Catlow was a man who liked people. He liked gaiety and friendliness, he liked bright lights and music, cheerful talk, and the casual argument and rawhiding that went with any cattle drive or round-up. Yet he must wait in hiding now. He settled down to considering his plans, but his mind kept drifting off at a tangent.

  Christina had promised to buy a box of cigars for him, and she should be coming back soon. He got up and wandered over to the poker game, watched gloomily for a few minutes, and then went to the steps.

  Bill Joiner looked after him and spoke irritably. “We don’t get a chance to move one step out of here, but he goes whenever he’s of a mind to.”

  Rio Bray, too, had been staring after Catlow, but he merely shrugged. “Somebody has to keep in touch, and this is his strike. He laid it out, he brought us in.”

  Joiner was a border outlaw; some said he had been a scalp hunter. He was a tall, thin man with a mean expression that never left his eyes, even when he smiled, which was rarely enough. Jealousy was a major part of his make-up—that, and distrust.

  Catlow had accepted him reluctantly, and he had done so because he was a dead shot with any sort of weapon, could ride all day and all night, and was a man of known courage.

  Catlow went up the steps and, avoiding the narrow passage that led to the shop, opened a concealed door and emerged into the living quarters of the family.

  Christina was in the kitchen, putting dishes on a tray. She was slender for a Mexican girl, as the Sonora women are apt to be, and her carriage and figure were excellent. He glanced at her with admiration, and she gave him a sidelong glance from her dark, almost almond-shaped eyes.

  “You should not be here. My father does not like it.”

  “Then I wouldn’t see you,” he said, “and I’d risk trouble with your pa any time for that.” He watched her as she put the large bowl of frijoles on the tray, with the tortillas and some large slabs of roast pork.

  “You get my cigars?”

  “Si”—she indicated the box on a side table—“I get them.” She paused, then added, “I saw an Americano…a gringo in the Plaza.”

  Catlow was watching the movements of her body as she worked about the room, and scarcely heard her.

  “He was a stranger,” she added.

  “Who was?”

  “The gringo. He looked at me.” She glanced at Catlow to see the effect of her words.

  “Be a damn’ fool if he didn’t. A gringo, you say? Maybe a tall man? A quiet-lookin’ man? Only smiles with his eyes?”

  She shrugged. “He is ver’ handsome, this hombre. He wears a black suit and talks with the General Armijo. I heard the General invite him to the ball.”

  “Ball?”

  “Oh, si! Everybody talk about it. I think everybody will be there…all the officers, the—how you say it?—the important ones…th
e reech ones.”

  Catlow considered. According to his information, the treasure was due to arrive in Hermosillo tomorrow. At this moment it was guarded by several hundred soldiers, and any attempt to seize it would be suicidal. He had planned his move to take place at midnight following the arrival in Hermosillo, when the guard was going off duty, eager to get to bed and letting down after the long march and the necessity for keeping watch.

  They would be tired and sleepy, and thinking of anything but the treasure they had guarded. It worried him that Armijo was now in charge, for the officer scheduled to be in command had been easy-going and anything but efficient.

  Suppose, however, that the treasure train arrived tonight?

  He had men watching for the train, and he knew about how fast such a pack train could move; but suppose there was added reason to reach Hermosillo tonight?

  He glanced at Christina and said, “Do you know the officer in charge of the train?”

  “Of course. There are three.”

  “Old men?”

  “Old? Very young! And very handsome, too, they are.” She gestured toward the tray. “Do you wish to take this? I cannot.”

  “Sure.” He picked up the tray, and then said, “You know about such things—are any of those men in love?”

  She laughed. “Mexican men are always in love. When they are not in love with a particular girl they are in love with love. Why not? It is the way for a man to be.”

  “I won’t argue with you. But one of these officers, one of them who is really excited about a girl…Maybe she has not shown him much favor—or maybe she has, and he wants to get back to her in a hurry.”

  “Rafael Vargas,” she said, tossing her head, “he can think of no one but Señorita Calderon…and she—he does not know what she thinks.”

  Catlow grinned. “Honey,” he said, “you get me a box of the finest stationery you can find! Do you hear?” He placed several silver pesos on the table. “You do that, and I’ll—”

  The door opened suddenly, and Pesquiera stood there, his features dark with anger.

  Chapter 15

  PESQUIERA’S RIGHT HAND gripped a pistol. “You!” he said to Bijah. “Get out of here! You are not to speak to my daughter, do you understand?”

  Catlow smiled. “This is business,” he said, “something only she can do. I need some writing paper, the kind a woman would buy, and there was no time to waste. She must go for it now.”

  Pesquiera’s gun did not waver. “Why is this? What do you plan?”

  “It is a change in plans if it works, and I think it will work. The robbery tonight instead of tomorrow night.”

  Slowly the gun lowered. “Tonight?” Pesquiera said stupidly. “But it will not arrive tonight! And there are many soldiers!”

  Catlow turned to Christina. “Get that stationery, will you? Get it now!”

  When she was gone, Catlow sat down. “I’m sorry you got riled,” he said, “but we have to move fast.” Briefly, he explained about the man he believed might be Ben Cowan, and his meeting with Armijo. “If that young captain gets this note,” he said, “he will come a-running. He will want to meet her at the dance, and the dance is tonight. He’ll run the legs off those mules gettin’ here…and there’ll be no guard waitin’ to take over.”

  Pesquiera’s expression changed. “You are right, and I am a fool.”

  “Look”—Catlow leaned toward him confidentially—“not only will there be no guard, but Vargas will be hurryin’ to get ready for that dance. He’ll be late, anyway…everything will be in a mess.”

  Ben Cowan returned to his room in the Arcadia to change his clothes for the ball. He was combing his hair in front of the mirror, thinking about the evening ahead of him. Only once before had he been to such a ball as he expected this to be, and that had been at the Governor’s mansion in Austin.

  He sat down on the bed and polished his boots as best he could, then swung his cartridge belt around his waist and drew it several notches tighter than he usually wore it, so it would ride higher.

  As he was holstering his six-gun Recalde entered. “You are not carrying a gun tonight?” he said, amused. “At the General’s ball there will scarcely be use for it.”

  “I wouldn’t feel at home without it. And a man never knows what’ll happen.”

  Recalde sat down, easing his wounded leg out before him. He leaned his cane against the side of the chair. “After all, amigo, the pack train does not even arrive until tomorrow.”

  Ben Cowan slid into his black coat and Recalde watched him, smiling. “I can see you will make hearts flutter tonight,” the Mexican said. “You have no idea how much interest you have created in Hermosillo. After all, it is a small town, and we have few strangers here—fewer still who are friends of the General.”

  “Of yours, you mean.”

  “Of the General’s also. You would be surprised, but he has spoken of you several times. He even asked me to speak to you about joining him in the army. You would be an officer, and the General is close to the President. It might mean a very quick success for you.”

  “I’m not cut out for a soldier,” Cowan replied. “I’m too damned independent. I like to go my own way, figure things out for myself. I think the General has plenty of savvy, and I’d not mind serving with him…but it might be I’d be serving with some armchair soldier. No, I’m better off as I am.”

  “He will regret your decision.” Recalde used his cane to rise. “Let us go.”

  A carriage awaited them. Ben Cowan felt odd, riding in the open carriage, but he saw several like it, all polished and bright, hurrying toward the huge old building where the ball was to be held. It was not often such a thing happened in a provincial town like Hermosillo, and the señoritas were in from all the haciendas for miles around.

  As their carriage took its turn around the Plaza, which all the carriages seemed to be doing, Ben Cowan glanced up the dark street where the leather shop stood. All was dark and still.

  The night was cool after the heat of the day, and it was pleasant riding about the Plaza behind the driver who sat on a high seat in front of them. People bowed and smiled, speaking to Recalde, and glancing curiously at him.

  Young Captain Recalde was not only an unusually handsome man, but he had wealth and tradition behind him. Ben Cowan could guess that not a few of those at the ball tonight were going to be looking hopefully in his direction. For young men of family, from the capital, rarely had occasion to visit Hermosillo.

  “Vargas will not like to miss this,” Recalde commented; “he fancies himself in love. I happen to know he has been writing notes and smuggling them secretly to Rosita Calderon—only it is the worst-kept secret in town.”

  Ben Cowan smiled in the darkness. It was much the same on both sides of the border. A man would make an unholy fool of himself over a pretty girl—but that was the privilege of any young man, and they all had to do it once or twice.

  “He’s the man in command?”

  “Yes…and a good soldier, but impatient.”

  They drove at last to the ball, and Ben Cowan decided it was worth it. He had never seen so many really beautiful women…dark, flashing eyes that glanced at him from behind their fans…here and there a red-head or even a blonde among all those with dark hair.

  Recalde was looking romantically pale from his recent wounds, and he was very smart in his uniform a-glitter with braid and decorations.

  Ben sat down beside him and they talked as the people entered and moved about the room. Recalde kept up a running comment. “Now that one”—he indicated with an inclination of his head a tall young girl with large, melting dark eyes—“her father has more cattle on his ranch than there is in your whole state of New Mexico…right at this time, at least. But she is too—shall we say—intelligent. She has nothing to do on that ranch, so she reads…she thinks, also. It is dangerous in a woman.”

  Ben Cowan glanced at her again. She was not exactly beautiful, but she was very striking. Later, when he
danced with her, she said, “You are the friend of Captain Recalde? He is handsome, your friend, but he believes every girl wishes to marry him.” She laughed suddenly, with genuine amusement, and looked at Ben, her eyes smiling. “And you know? He is right. They all wish it.”

  “You too?”

  “I scarcely know him, but I do not think he will want a wife like me.” She gave Ben a direct, friendly glance that he liked. “I ride the range with my father, you know…sometimes without him. It is not considered the thing to do.

  “And I read books. Most young men wish their wives to be beautiful, but complacent—and not too bright, I am afraid.”

  “I think Recalde should have a wife such as you,” Ben said. “I know he wishes for a career in government, and an intelligent wife could help him.”

  “It is an American viewpoint.”

  He glanced at her, suddenly embarrassed. “You know, I did not get your name.”

  “I am Rosita Calderon.”

  He was startled. This was the girl with whom Captain Vargas was in love—or with whom he fancied himself in love. Suddenly, the thought of Vargas worried him. Did Vargas know about this ball? If so, he must be frustrated at not being present…surely, he would know that Rosita Calderon would be here.

  By this time he would not be too many miles from Hermosillo.…

  “Excuse me,” he said suddenly, brusquely, “I must go.”

  He was almost running when he reached the head of the steps. Recalde called out to him, but he did not stop.

  He plunged down the steps and out into the street. The long row of waiting carriages stood on the far side under the trees, and several of the drivers were together in a group, talking. They looked around at him, surprised at his sudden appearance. There was no one else in sight.

  Swiftly, he ran to the corner and looked down the street toward the barracks and the courtyard. A sentry stood on guard at the entrance. Ben went toward him.

  He spoke quickly in Spanish. “Have you seen the—”

  He heard the light, quick step behind him and started to turn. Something crashed down hard across his skull and he slumped forward, fighting to keep on his feet. He fell against the side of the building and tried to turn, but another blow felled him into the street.