Cato started to automatically refuse when he caught a movement at the top of the stairs again. It was Conchita and she made a sign to him that he didn’t quite understand, but she did have a pleading look on her face and, instead of refusing, point blank, he nodded curtly to Señor Jose.
“Gracias, Señor Jose. I’d be obliged for a decent meal and bed for the night. I’m plumb tuckered.”
Morales smiled and clapped his hands for a servant. “I will give instructions for a bath to be prepared for you and your clothes will be washed and dried and ironed ... ”
Eight – Warning
Whatever drugs Doctor Bartholomew was giving to Big John Early, they seemed to be having some kind of effect, but he was a mighty hard man to keep under control. The only way it could be managed with any degree of certainty at all was to keep the big man soporific so that he was in a perpetual state of half wakefulness and half-sleep.
It wasn’t a good way to be, Yancey Bannerman decided, after watching the ex-sheriff for some days. Early’s speech was badly slurred and he still craved drink. But the drugs kept him weak and this was about all that prevented him from heaving up off the bed and going in search of redeye.
Yet, he began to show signs of improvement. He was hungry and, though he ate sparingly at first, was now ravenous and could hardly wait for meal times to arrive. Bartholomew saw it as a positive step towards Early regaining good health. But the man had lost weight and he looked drawn, his skin grayish, eyes sunken, still a little glazed, the pupils enlarged.
“Doc, it ain’t good keeping him mostly knocked-out like that, is it?” Yancey asked Bartholomew worriedly one night after supper.
“No, it’s not, Yancey,” admitted the medic, “but if I reduce the dosage much more he just might decide to cut loose again. You know how volatile he is: meek as a baby for a spell, and then, when the craving for booze hits him, he’s ready to kick the house apart. If I can keep him sort of half-and-half for a little longer, I think we might have him at a controllable stage.”
Yancey stared at the medic. “I’m beginning to doubt it, Doc. I get the idea that Big John’s just fooling us. That he’s going along with it, doing the things he figures we want him to, but, given half a chance, he’d be on the booze again before you could blink your eye.”
Bartholomew pursed his lips and tugged at his muttonchop whiskers. “Well—you could be right, Yancey. It’s why I’m not game to let him go too long without another injection.”
Yancey built a cigarette and lit it before replying. “Bit of a dilemma, Doc, but I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“I hope I do, Yancey,” the medic said quietly. “He’s such a bull to handle. I couldn’t’ve even gotten this far without your help.”
“Like to do a lot more, Doc, but he’s kind of—shattered. Guess Conchita was the first gal he was ever really interested in. Well, damn it, I know she was, or he wouldn’t’ve started studying to be a Catholic. It’s thrown him bad and I’m beginning to wonder if he ever will recover properly. He gets a kind of strange look in his eyes at times, refuses to talk about it at all. I reckon he’d be better if he could talk it out.”
“Most definitely,” agreed Bartholomew, reaching into his vest pocket for his watch. He flipped open the cover and squinted at the face. “About time to give him a dose that’ll allow him to sleep through the night. Would you lend a hand, Yancey? He’s not—partial to me administering to him.”
“Sure, Doc.”
Yancey stood and followed the sawbones out of the room. Bartholomew stepped into his office to prepare his needle and then they went through to the back room and Yancey opened the door to allow the doctor to enter first.
He froze with his hand still holding the latch, as he looked into the room and saw the rumpled, but empty bed.
“Judas Priest!” he hissed, stepping inside fully.
The cupboard was open. Early’s clothes had gone.
And so had his guns.
Yancey palmed up his Colt as he ran to the open window and threw a leg over the window sill, glancing back towards the bewildered medico.
“Keep that needle handy, Doc! But I reckon you better double the dose! It’s gonna take all that and more to quieten down Big John if he cuts loose again!”
Then he dropped down into the yard and ran around to the front of the house, and along the dark street towards the lights of the distant plaza.
Cato lay back on the bed in the dark, slowly smoking his cheroot. He was fully dressed, in the clothes that had been cleaned for him while he took his bath. He had eaten well with Señor Jose and Conchita but the conversation had been desultory although Morales had tried to be polite and considerate.
His manners seemed impeccable but, underlying it all Cato could detect his real dislike for Americans. He figured the man saw them only as upstarts, rebels, particularly Texans, for they were descendants of the men who had actually snatched the Lone Star State from the grasp of Spain, his homeland. He seemed to consider that all Americans were there solely to be exploited in whatever way and by whatever means he could devise.
None of this was spoken of directly, of course; it was done by innuendo in the subtle hidalgo way, but there was a clear enough warning in Morales’ words, Cato figured. It was simply this: ‘You have been lucky this time, my friend, but don’t ever come back to my rancho again and expect anything other than a greeting with lead. And especially, do not mention Big John Early in my presence.’
That was how Cato interpreted it, anyway, and Conchita seemed embarrassed when she realized that Cato had clearly read her father’s oblique warning. She excused herself and retired to her room. Morales was prepared to entertain Cato, offering him his choice of the household’s servant women, but Cato feigned tiredness and, as soon as he decently could, went up to his room.
When a servant brought him a bottle of brandy and glass later he asked about Benito. The man’s face immediately closed and fear flared in his eyes.
“Non comprende, señor,” he whispered hastily, starting to leave.
Cato blocked his path to the door. “I speak a little Spanish, amigo, so let’s try again, huh? Benito, que ... ?”
The man shook so badly that Cato stopped, afraid he was going to faint. Frowning, he gestured for the man to leave and he almost ran out the door. Cato poured some brandy, drank it slowly savoring its smoothness and flavor and then extinguished the lamp and lay back fully clothed on the bed, smoking, waiting, hearing the house gradually fall silent.
He figured it was close to midnight when he heard the quiet tapping at his door.
Cato came up off the bed smoothly, his Manstopper already in his hand as he crossed swiftly to the door. He waited and the tapping came again and then Conchita’s quiet voice calling to him. She gasped when he wrenched the door openand pulled her swiftly inside. He saw in the moonlight streaming in the window that she was still wearing her riding outfit.
“Figured you’d be in your nightdress by now, señorita,” Cato said.
She turned to him swiftly, the quirt dangling from her wrist. “Johnny, I—I don’t really know why I didn’t change. I didn’t really have any idea of leaving with you when I came here ... ”
“And now you’re here?”
She was silent a moment. “I—still don’t know.”
He took her shoulders between his hands, the gun back in its holster now. “Conchita, it’s how you really feel about Big John that counts. That’s the decidin’ factor.”
“No.” Conchita shook her head vigorously. “You—don’t understand. My father—Si, I love Big John, and I want to marry him, but ... ”
“That’s good enough for me. Come on. You tell that yourself to Big John Early and he’ll be right as rain in no time at all. That’s all we need, Conchita.”
The girl pulled back against his grip. “Johnny—I—I am afraid.”
“Of your old man?”
“Si—he made me tell Big John I had used him. It was true for my father, bu
t when he encouraged me to accept John’s proposal of marriage and to go ahead with the arrangements, I thought he meant it. I should’ve known! It wasn’t until we came back here that he told me I had been promised to the Spanish nobleman and had been since birth.”
“Aw, hell, one of them arrangements!” Cato growled. “Well, you weren’t old enough to have any say in the matter when the arrangements was made, but you’re plenty old enough to make up your own mind now, Conchita.”
“You do not yet understand!” she hissed.
“Sure I do. I know it ain’t as simple as I’m sayin’, but it’s all the time we got to spare on it now. You’re either comin’ or you’re not. What’s it to be?”
He saw her tortured face in the moonlight and took her arm, leading her towards the window. She stood there silently while he slid the window up and then held out his hand, gesturing to the tiled roof just below the sill. It sloped gently down to a terracotta gutter and it was a short drop into the flagged yard.
“We can make it and be back in Del Rio with three days’ hard ride and you can help Big John over this bad patch, Conchita. Or you can stay—and never sleep easy again for the rest of your life.”
Still she hesitated. “You do not know my father’s fury. He had Benito flogged for bringing you to the house, though protocol forced him to make you welcome, outwardly at least.”
“I’ve heard enough. I’m makin’ the decision for you.”
Cato swept the girl into his arms and slid her legs out the window, placing her feet on the low roof. He was beside her before she had properly straightened, snatched her hands and helped her across to the guttering. She was pulling back a little, and he understood her reluctance and uncertainty, but he knew he had to make the decision for her—and make it now.
He dropped to the ground first, found a rain butt and upended it, stood on it and helped her down from the roof. She took the lead now, going towards the stables. There were sleeping peons in the loft but none of them stirred as they saddled their mounts. Cato was glad to see that Morales had kept his word in one respect: his saddlebags were already provisioned for the long ride north.
Then, as they led the animals out into the yard, there came a sudden snarling and snapping and a scream from Conchita as the two wolfhounds leapt out of the darkness at the Enforcer. He had a glimpse of their keeper behind, snapping orders in Spanish and then Cato was down on one knee, sweeping the Manstopper up, triggering. The gun bucked and the first dog yelped and spun away. The second continued its leap and passed over Cato’s head so close that its paws knocked off his hat.
He whirled, thumbing the toggle on the gun to shot-barrel. The hound twisted and leapt for his throat with bared fangs. Cato brought up his left arm instinctively across his chest even as he triggered. The dog’s snarling yelp of pain was drowned in the thunderous roar of the Manstopper and the hound was literally blown apart.
By now the whole hacienda and rancho were in chaos, lights beginning to appear, men and women shouting, doors banging. Cato lifted Conchita bodily onto her horse and, as he turned to mount his own, caught a glimpse of something glittering arcing towards him. He ducked and a knife quivered in his saddlebag. He brought up the gun, thumbing the toggle again and fired. His slug took the dog-keeper in the chest and the man lurched away with a sob.
“Stop the gringo!” screamed a voice Cato recognized as belonging to Morales from a balcony. “Kill him! Bring him down! Twenty pesos to the man who kills him!”
“Go!” Cato bawled, slapping his hat across the rump of the girl’s mount.
She gave a small cry as the horse leapt away and then snatched at the reins, running towards the gates. Men stepped out of the shadows, but they ignored Conchita and aimed their rifles at Cato. He swerved his horse away from the girl, lying low along its back, leaning down to shoot beneath its arched neck. His gun hammered three times and two Mexicans dropped.
Cato swerved away from a block of men running out of the rear of the hacienda. He could see Morales silhouetted against lanterns on the balcony above. The man had a pistol and was shooting down at him. The Enforcer snapped a shot up at him and heard the bullet whine off the stone rail. Rifle bullets whispered over his head. He emptied his handgun into the group of men, straightened as he holstered it and slid the Winchester free of the scabbard.
The girl was at the gate now, dismounted, fumbling to free the locking bar. No one tried to stop her; they were all concentrating on getting Cato, urged on by Morales’ promise of the twenty pesos. Men were running everywhere, yelling excitedly, discharging guns, for horses had broken loose from the stables and were running wild through the courtyard. Morales was screaming orders, shooting at Cato’s weaving figure as he used his knees to guide his mount away from the congested areas, circling around in an effort to get a clear run at the gate.
“Kill that gringo!” bawled Morales. “I order it!”
Cato flicked the toggle on the oversized lever of his Winchester as a bunch of men rushed out at him, guns hammering. He worked the lever as fast as he could, the rifle shooting with the speed of a Gatling gun. He raked the barrel in a short arc and men spilled to the tiles, their rolling bodies tripping those behind. The Enforcer whirled his horse and rode back, lifting it in a sailing leap over the thrashing men.
He looked up and saw Morales drawing bead and fired his last shot one-handed. The lead ricocheted from the balustrade and, even as he heard Conchita call his name and he saw the gates swinging open, Cato knew he was going to be lucky if he made it.
Morales’ gun roared and Cato lurched as lead took him in his left side, almost knocking him out of the saddle. He snatched at the saddlehorn and bared his teeth in an effort to pull himself back onto an even keel as the horse broke stride. His frantic eyes saw Morales leaning over the balcony, sighting for the killing shot and Cato knew he was a breath away from Death.
Then, abruptly, Morales jerked upright, his mouth open, eyes staring, bulging out of his head. Then the scream bubbled out of his mouth and his body slumped over the rail.
Cato hauled himself back into the saddle and saw the silhouette of the knife hilt protruding from Señor Jose Morales’ back. Behind the man he saw the lurching, half-naked figure of Benito clinging to a doorpost. Even in the glimpse he had, Cato could see the blood glistening on the vaquero’s lacerated back ...
Then his horse was weaving through the half-open gate and he was out into the main ranch grounds. Conchita came out of the shadows of the wall and gripped him, steadying him in saddle.
“I am committed now, Johnny! Let us ride!”
He nodded and they galloped down towards the main gate and he hoped the guards were asleep or patrolling the other fences. He sure as hell didn’t feel like any more fighting, not with this burning pain in his side.
He figured he could tell the girl later about her father; no point in doing it now.
The wind whipped into his sweating face and brought him round as they thundered down on the main gate and he was vastly relieved to see that it was unguarded.
Nine – Bordertown Showdown
Yancey stopped dead when he pushed through the batwings of the saloon and saw Big John Early at the bar.
For a moment, he thought the man was his old self again. He was leaning casually on the zinc-lined edge of the counter, a near full bottle of whisky in front of him, holding a shot glass, twirling it between thick thumb and forefinger. There was a cleared space around him and the barkeep stood well back, mechanically polishing glasses but watching the big ex-lawman warily.
Other cowpokes were bunched together, staring, looking tense, expectant, waiting for Big John to cut loose.
It was then that Yancey noticed the half-vacant look on Early’s face. The man’s eyes weren’t focused on anything as he looked down at his glass. He was obviously deep in thought and there were no prizes for guessing who he was thinking about. All eyes turned to the Enforcer as he came in through the batwings and approached the bar cautiously. He walked d
own the long room, right hand hovering near his gun butt, not trusting these cowboys from out in the valley when they were this far gone with drink. He wondered where Hunnicutt and Venters were.
Then he caught Early’s eyes in the specked mirror and the big man smiled faintly.
“Why, howdy, Yancey,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice, without turning, speaking to the Enforcer’s reflection. “What you lookin’ so tensed-up about, man?”
Yancey came beside him and placed a boot on the rail, shaking his head at the ’keep as the man made a move to come forward.
“What you doing, John?”
“Just havin’ me a quiet drink. Want one?”
“No, reckon not. Tell you the truth I’m plumb tuckered. Thinking of turnin’ in. Why don’t you come back with me? We could have a nightcap in Doc’s kitchen and then hit the hay.” Early was pouring himself a drink. The bottle poised, frozen, when Yancey mentioned ‘Doc’. He swiveled his gaze towards the Enforcer.
“Doc’s place? Why the hell Doc’s, Yance?”
“I’m stayin’ there. He’s putting us both up. Don’t you remember?”
Early frowned and shook his head. “Damned if I do. But I got my own place. On the edge of town. You been there. After that riot in here and Con ... ”
He stopped dead, freezing in mid-word and his face went like stone, the shot glass resting against his lip. Yancey tensed, waiting for the explosion. Then Early suddenly downed the whisky and set the glass down with a bang on the counter. He looked towards Yancey and his eyes were haunted.
“Conchita’s gone, Yance. Gone. Back to Mexico with her ol’ man. Made a damn’ fool outta me ... ”
“Hell, John, it’s not that bad,” Yancey started but Early suddenly slapped his comforting hand away from his shoulder and his eyes blazed.
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