Novel 1963 - Catlow (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  He was lying sprawled on a stone floor.…And then full awareness returned, and with it full realization. He had rushed from the ballroom to the barrack courtyard, and he had started to ask a question of the sentry. It was at that moment that he had been struck down from behind.

  Now he got his palms flat on the floor and pushed himself to a sitting position. His hand went to his holster. His gun was gone.

  Feeling for the .44 derringer he habitually carried in his waistband, he found that was gone too. Of course it would be. Catlow knew of that gun.

  Ben stared into the darkness around him. He was in absolute blackness. He put out a hand, but touched nothing. On hands and knees he began to crawl, and brought up against something—a chair leg. He felt the chair and stood up, holding to the back. His head swam, and he clung shakily to the chair back until the confusion in his skull settled down.

  There was no smallest ray of light to allow him to see anything. He must be in some sort of an underground place—a dungeon perhaps.

  He felt in his pockets for matches and found none…they had been taken from him, too.

  If there was a chair, then people sometimes sat here, hence there might be a table. Carefully, he felt around him, but found nothing. Finally, using the chair, he moved about, keeping it with him. If necessary it could be a weapon, or he might break off a chair leg.

  Suddenly he paused. He had a faint but distinct impression of heat. Keeping one hand on the chair, he knelt and slowly crawled around it. He was almost all the way around the chair when he felt the heat quite distinctly on his cheek. Moving in that direction, he discovered a hearth and a fireplace.

  It was cool down here, but not cool enough to need a fire. Someone must have been cooking, or perhaps making coffee, and there was still warmth there. Feeling around the edge of the fireplace, he found the end of an unburned stick, and he picked it up carefully. Then he moved his hand until he located the place of greatest warmth. Here he poked at the coals with the stick, uncovering some that glowed faintly red. He placed the stick upon them and blew, ever so gently. There was a smell of smoke, but nothing more.

  Pulling out his shirttail, he tore a small piece from it and edged it against the coals. There was more smoke, and then a little flame. He saw the ends of more sticks and pushed them into the fire. The flames leaped up, and then he saw a coffee pot on the hearth and several cups at the edge. He rinsed a cup with a little coffee, then filled it and drank.

  The coffee was very strong, but it was hot, and after a few gulps he felt better. He found more pieces of wood for fuel and added them to the fire. Then he stood up and looked around.

  As well as he could tell, he was in a large, low-roofed room with stone walls and ceiling. No doors were visible, and no windows. There was a table, and several more chairs. On the floor were stubs of cigarettes and cigars, quite a lot of them.

  There were also some empty beer bottles. He picked up one of these, hefted it, and placed it close at hand in the shadow. Then he placed others at various points about the room.

  In so doing he found the door, but the latch would not give and the door itself was flat with the wall. It was strongly made of heavy oak planks, and he thought it must be reinforced on the other side with iron bars.

  Carefully, he paced the room, studying the walls, the ceiling, the floor. He found nothing that offered any chance of escape.

  And yet…there was something.…

  The room was musty, as a place long closed might be, or one poorly ventilated. But he had smelled something else, some distance from the fire.

  The room was all of sixty feet long and more than half that in width, and he tried pacing back and forth again, pausing at intervals. He had moved several feet before he again detected the faint odor. He hesitated there, then walked slowly back, testing the air.

  Nothing.…

  Or…? He waited, breathing naturally, and suddenly it came to him. The faintest of odors, and yet it was definitely there. What he smelled was a stable—a horse stable.

  He went back to the fire and added fuel from a pile nearby, and then, taking a blazing brand, he walked back and held it up toward the ceiling, which was only two feet or so above his head. There, beyond any doubt, was a trap door.

  Returning his brand to the fire, he was about to make an attempt on the door when he heard the rattle of a bar being removed, and then the outer door opened. Standing in the door, holding a candle in one hand and a pistol in the other, was the girl he had seen from the park when he was talking to the General.

  There was no mistaking the menace of the pistol.

  “You don’t need that,” he said quietly. “I am not given to attacking women.”

  “Try it, if you like,” she replied carelessly. “Shooting you might settle a lot of problems.”

  “The General was very attracted to you. If I were you, I’d develop his acquaintance.”

  The black eyes stared into his disdainfully. With a gesture, she indicated the doorway. “There is food…get it.”

  He looked at the food, which was on a tray standing just outside the door. It was an invitation to escape, and yet…he had a sudden realization that she wanted an excuse to kill him. But why?

  “I am not hungry.”

  An odd light seemed to blaze in her eyes, but it might have been his imagination—or some effect of the candlelight.

  He looked at her curiously. “You are lovely,” he said, “just the sort Bijah might prefer.”

  “And not you?”

  “No…not me.” He was watching her closely. Now he turned his back on the door and walked over to the fire. “Will you have some coffee? It’s strong, but good.”

  “No.”

  She reminded him of a puma or a leopard. She moved in the same way, and there was an odd sense of expectancy about her, as if she awaited some signal from within herself that would tell her it was time to kill.

  “Do you think you will ever see Bijah again? Women like Bijah,” he added. “I envy him his way with them…he never seems to be anything but at ease, sure of himself.”

  “And you are not?”

  “With women? Never.” He added a stick to the fire. “I guess I never saw enough of them for the new to wear off. Or maybe I am simply sort of green.”

  The pistol muzzle was a black mouth that watched him. She would be a good shot, he decided; instinct and hatred would point that pistol, and nothing was more deadly.

  It was women like this one who made fools of the schools of marksmanship. The way to fire a pistol was to draw and point as one pointed a finger. In many cases, the more time taken, the more apt one was to miss. How many times had he known of women, and sometimes men, who had never fired a gun before but who picked one up and scored with the first shot? But this was only in anger or fear. In practice on a target range they probably could hit nothing.

  “Is he your father? The man who owns the leather shop?”

  “He was my mother’s husband, not my father.” Her eyes seemed to flicker. “She was too weak for him, too soft.”

  “And you?”

  She laughed suddenly. “I am too hard for him. He listens to Bijah, and would let you live. I shall not. I shall kill you.”

  She turned suddenly and went up the steps, but she turned at the door and pushed the tray with her foot. It slid to the top step, spilling some beans in the process. She closed the door abruptly, and he heard the bar fall in place.

  He glanced toward the tray, then hesitated, and after a while took only the tortillas from it. If she planned to poison him it would be in the more highly seasoned food…he hoped.

  Sitting by the fire, he ate the tortillas and drank more coffee. Then he took the sturdiest chair—all of them were solidly built—and carried it over under the trap door. Standing on the chair, he tried pushing up on the door. But it did not give.

  He braced himself well and pushed upward again, with all his strength. He thought he detected just the faintest give. He tried again. Something was
piled on top of the door, he decided, something heavy.

  Then he brought the table over under the door and got up on it. Being closer to the door now, he could exert more pressure. He tried again, and this time the give was more decided.

  He got down then and put the chair on top of the table, and by getting up on the chair he could put his back and shoulder against the door. He heaved, and something up there moved, and the door opened several inches on one side. He heaved again, something rolled off the door, and the door was freed. He pushed it open.

  Grain sacks…grain sacks filled probably with corn had been placed over the door to conceal it. Ben straightened up, put his hands on the granary floor, and lifted himself up.

  At the moment his heels cleared the opening he heard the rattle of the bar, a muffled cry, and then a shot. Something struck his boot heel and he jerked back from the door and slammed it in place. A swift heave put a grain sack on top of it.

  He looked about him quickly. There were horses in the barn, and he was going to need a horse.

  How she got there so fast, he never knew, but suddenly, as he hesitated over whether to take a horse or just to go without one, the girl appeared.

  Christina’s face was white, her eyes deep black, and her breast was heaving with emotion and the running she had done. She lifted the pistol and he felt the heat of its blast as he dove, hitting her with his shoulder and knocking her backwards into the hay.

  She fought like a wildcat, writhing away from him, clubbing at him with the gun barrel, and trying to bring the muzzle down on him.

  He grasped the gun around the action, gripping the cylinder and forcing her hand back. She tried to sink her teeth into his hand, but he wrenched the gun free and threw it from them.

  Twisting, she clawed at his eyes with both bands, raking his face with her nails. He caught her wrists and pinned them down. He had never hit a woman, and did not want to do it now, but this was no ordinary woman; she was an animal, half cat, half devil.

  Between gasps he said, “I do not want to hit you!”

  She spat in his face.

  Her blouse was torn, and quickly he averted his eyes. She laughed at him. “Coward!” she sneered.

  He picked her up bodily and threw her down in the hay, then ducked out of the door. The outer gate to the street was locked, so he jumped, caught at the top, and pulled himself up. A bullet clipped the wood near his hand, and he heard the bellow of the pistol. He threw himself over and fell into the street.

  A big vaquero was adjusting the stirrup on his saddle. He glanced at the torn shirt, the bloody scratches on Ben’s face, and he laughed. “Ah, señor! I have heard of this one! That is a woman, no?”

  Chapter 18

  FROM HIS ROOM in the Arcadia, Ben Cowan went to the offices of General Armijo, only to learn that the General was out. Captain Recalde, despite his wounds, was out also, but he was reported to have gone only as far as the edge of town to interview some peons who had seen some riders. No one remained who had authority to provide Ben Cowan with a horse, and what money he had was insufficient to buy the kind of horse he needed.

  His saddle, rifle, and other gear were still at the hotel, and he went back for them now. He settled his bill quickly and carried his gear into the street. The first person he saw as he emerged from the hotel was Rosita Calderon.

  She was riding side-saddle on a magnificent brown gelding, and wore a gray riding habit, her wide skirt spread over the saddle and the flank of the horse. Two vaqueros in buckskin suits and wide sombreros rode with her.

  “A horse?” she said. “But of course, señor! You have a horse! Diego bought one for you—a present.” She turned and spoke quickly to one of the vaqueros, and the man wheeled his horse and raced away.

  “Where will you go now?”

  He looked up at her. “I must find those men. They are my responsibility, after all. I must find them and see that the President’s treasure is returned, as it should be.”

  “General Armijo will find them. He is a very good man, the General.”

  “I know Catlow, and he will do what is not expected of him.” Ben Cowan had given a good deal of thought to just what Catlow would do, and he explained as much to Rosita Calderon. Then, seeing her eyes returning to the scratches on his face, he explained that, too.

  She laughed. “It is a good explanation. Must I believe it?” Her eyes danced with amusement. “Maybe you were making love to her.”

  “Do you think a girl I was making love to would scratch that hard?”

  She gathered her reins and looked down at him. “I do not know, señor. I know very little of what a girl might do if she were in love, but—I think she would have to love very much, hate very much, or want very much, to scratch like that!”

  The vaquero galloped up, leading a brown gelding, the twin of the one Rosita rode—a truly magnificent horse.

  “He is yours, Señor Ben. Diego bought him from our ranch as a present to you, who lost your horse in saving his life.”

  “I was saving my own too.”

  “You refuse the horse?”

  “Indeed I don’t! That’s the finest-looking horse I ever did see. No, I’ll keep him. I could never refuse an animal as beautiful as that!”

  Rosita’s eyes sparkled. “It would be safe, I think. Horses do not scratch.”

  Rosita Calderon looked dashing and lovely on her brown gelding as she smiled at Ben from under the flat brim of her hat. “I think I had better ride along, señor. After all, most of these people you will question know me. Perhaps I can help.”

  Bijah Catlow, Ben explained, would hit upon the least likely solution; and to escape from Mexico with the treasure, expecting to be pursued, he would be unlikely to take the main trail north toward the border. With a pack train he could not hope to outrun his pursuers.

  To go deeper into Mexico to the south would be merely prolonging his task. He might strike for the Sierra Madres and Apache country, or he might strike for the coast. Remembering the Tarahumara Indian, Ben said, “I believe he will try the desert.”

  Catlow had one great advantage: he knew where he was going. Armijo and Ben Cowan had to discover that…and then Catlow could change his apparent destination.

  A quick search of the leather shop and the hidden cellar had revealed nothing that was of help. It was evident that a number of men had been there, but now they were gone. Nobody had seen them either come or go, and nobody had seen them while they were there. Christina was gone, too, and so was a fine black horse known to belong to her.

  Riding swiftly, stopping only to ask questions, Ben Cowan rode a semicircle around the northern rim of Hermosillo. He ignored the obvious trails the mule train might have taken, but checked all the minor roads and lanes.

  An Indian on the outskirts of town offered the first clue. He had, he told the vaquero who spoke his language, seen nothing. He had gone early to bed, and today he had been busy…somebody had left the gate open and flooded his field.

  What did he mean by “somebody”? Ben Cowan’s questions soon brought out the fact that when the Indian had gone to bed the night before, his orchard had been dry; when he rose in the morning it was flooded.

  Acting on a hunch, Ben Cowan circled the orchard. On the far side he found a mule track, almost obliterated by other tracks, and within an hour he had picked up the trail.

  At the desert’s edge he drew up. “Thank you,” he said to Rosita Calderon. “Now you’d best go back. I’ll take it from here.”

  She held out her slender gloved hand. “Vaya con dios, señor.” And then she added in English, “And if you come back to Mexico—come to see me.”

  He watched her straight, slender back as she rode away, then swore softly and turned his horse into the desert.

  Forty mules and a dozen mounted horsemen leave some mark upon the land in their passing; and these did so, despite the efforts of Bijah Catlow to keep the trail hidden. The soft sand of washes, the hard-packed sand of windblown mesas, the shallow stream b
eds—all these were made use of. But always there was the mule that stepped out of line, that trod on vegetation, or left a hoofprint on the edge of a stream.

  Ben was a full day behind them when he reached the Bacoachi and saw where they had dug for water. He saw the prints left in the sand where the water kegs had stood while being filled, and he studied what tracks he could find, realizing the knowledge might serve him well at a later time. To a western plainsman, a track was as easily read as a road sign.

  From Rosita and the vaqueros he had learned about the country that lay ahead of him. He refilled his two canteens, and when he left the Bacoachi it was dusk and he rode swiftly.

  There was no need to see the trail here, for the only water ahead lay at Arivaipa Well in the river bottom of the San Ignacio. If there was no water there, eight miles west at Coyote Wells there might be water.

  At midnight Ben made a dry camp, watered his horse from his hat, and, after three hours of rest, saddled up and went on. In the graying light of dawn he found a mule. Or what remained of one.

  Played out, the mule had obviously been abandoned, and what happened after that was revealed by the tracks and the bones. The mule had been killed, cooked, and eaten.

  Ben Cowan studied the moccasin tracks. They were not Apache or Yaqui, and this was the homeland of the dreaded Seri Indians, said to be cannibals, and known to use poisoned arrows. All sorts of fantastic stories were told about them, most of them untrue. It was sometimes said that they were the descendants of the crew of a Swedish or Norwegian whaler or some other ship wrecked on Tiburon a hundred and fifty years before. At any rate, it was clear that the Seris had come upon the mule and eaten it. There had been a dozen or more in the group.

  It was mid-morning when Ben cautiously approached the Pozo Arivaipa. The mule train had been there and had watered, and they had left no water in the well. The bottom of it was merely mud.

  He hesitated only an instant. Coyote Wells might be dry too; and to ride there and back would mean sixteen miles with nothing gained in the pursuit. To the north were the Golondrina tinajas, where there would surely be water. They were perhaps twenty-four miles away, with other wells fifteen miles or so beyond.