by Otto Penzler
Did they think Frost had on his person the valuable black book he got from Flash Singleton in the little episode at Jamestown—the little black book the gangster had carried, giving names and information? He didn’t know. But there was a voice within him—a small, still voice that roused him to the alert. It bred expectancy. Helen Stevens had thought, and said so, that this was theatricality. Frost smiled reflectively. She could think what she damn well pleased. He had no fault to find with his intuition. It had saved him too often.
“Do you think,” she whispered, “any of the gang is here now?”
“No se,” he shrugged. “They’re everywhere.”
“But I thought I’d read that Hell’s Stepsons had broken it up.”
He cast her what was intended to be a rueful grimace, but it hardly was that. “No,” he admitted, “we’ve made only a small dent in it. We’ve caught only the little fish.”
She moved again, this time her body. She placed her hand on Frost’s wrist and swayed her head a little. “I hope,” she said suddenly and, he thought, softly, “you get the big ones!”
Frost felt she was animated by deep sincerity, and as quickly as his suspicions had mounted they disappeared. They might have been dissipated by the touch of her hand, by the proximity of her lovely face, by the faint smile on her lips; but dissipated they most assuredly were. Helen Stevens was a good-looking woman of the type which has been vaguely classified as a man’s woman. It had been a long time since such a creature had been as close to him. He became poignantly and swiftly aware that he had been missing something.
He patted her hand gratefully, sighed like a silly schoolboy and said: “I hope so, too.”
There was a scuffling sound from the front of the house and a man got up unsteadily. After an hour he had become aware that the orchestra was not functioning well.
“Una cancion!” he cried. “CantaV
“Si, si,” came the chorus.
The musicians on the platform be-stirred themselves and stroked the strings with a little more life than they had previously evidenced. They played a few bars as a vamp and then lifted their voices in a plaintive rendering of La Cucaracha, camp song of that immortal renegade—Villa.
They finished and were rewarded with loud applause. It was to be expected. La Cucaracha is a sort of provincial national air. It brought back flashing memories of the Chihuahua stable cleaner who later flung his defy in the teeth of the government: “Que chico se me hace el mar para hacer un buche de agua … I’ll use the ocean to gargle!”
The lethargy in La Estrellita was falling away.
Frost looked at the table where the three men were sitting. They were, to him, plainly agitated. Their heads bobbed excitedly, and one of them exchanged wise looks with the bartender. After that the bartender moved slowly down the rail with affected nonchalance. Frost pretended to be thoroughly immersed in his drink and his companion. But he was not too immersed in either.
Something was about to occur.
“Remember,” he said aside to the woman, “the window is directly behind you. It looks like trouble is coming. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” she said quietly. She reached for her bag, and opened it in her lap. Her hand slipped inside and closed about the butt of a gun. “Don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” he said. He meant it. The calmness and sureness of her decision relieved him. Again he admired her, found himself wondering what sort of a companion she would be in more agreeable surroundings.
One of the three Mexicans got up. The impression he meant to convey was drunkenness. Frost got no such impression.
He caught the eye of George Stuart and nodded. Stuart nodded likewise.
The Mexican started off between the tables, ostensibly intent on reaching the bar. He never got that far. He purposely stepped out of the way to trip against Frost’s foot, almost falling to the floor. He righted himself and poured out a volume of Spanish; swept the glasses from the table.
Here it was. The big blow-off. Here it was. Frost had been waiting, taut as a bow-string.
He leaped from his chair and put all his power into a short uppercut that landed flush on the Mexican’s chin and sent him reeling ten feet away against a table.
“Beat it!” he said to the woman.
His right hand went to his hip after his gun and his left hand groped for the empty bottle. But he had lost a precious few seconds. He turned to find himself looking down the blue barrels of two pistols held in the hands of the remaining pursuers. It was too late to draw his own weapon.
The career of Jerry Frost might have ended on the spot had it not been for George Stuart. He had come from behind softly, but fast, and brought the butt of his gun down upon the head of one of the Mexicans. It was a terrific blow. The man groaned and fell to the floor. Stuart quickly threw his arms about the other’s shoulders.
Frost availed himself of the lull to take a step backward and look for Helen Stevens. She was missing; and he had no time to speculate on where she was or how she got away. Through the door came five men, as tough looking as any Frost had ever seen. They were rushing forward recklessly, intent on but one purpose. Everybody in the room had risen by now, offering the quintet slight impediment.
Frost swung the beer bottle with all the force he could muster, and it crashed against the head of the man with whom Stuart was wrestling. The Mexican’s cheek bone ripped through the skin as if by magic, and blood poured down his face. He instantly grew limp; and Stuart let him slide to the floor.
An unseen hand pressed the switch and La Estrellita was swept into darkness.
A pistol cracked, light blue and scarlet, and the bullet whistled by Frost’s head. Pandemonium arose. Frost stepped to one side; not a moment too soon. The pistol barked again. From the flash Frost deduced he had been in direct line of fire. If—
There was a stampede towards the door. Frost lashed out in the dark, heard a grunt, and lashed out again. A third time he swung the beer bottle; this time it shattered. Spanish blasphemy ascended. La Estrellita was an inferno. Tables and chairs rattled, glasses crashed, and a loud voice shouted:
“Luz! Luz!”
Someone was calling for lights and it struck Frost that the sensible thing to do now was retreat before the lights went up. So he shouted for Stuart to follow him, ducked quickly, and moved towards the window. His escape was made difficult by the cursing, wedging mob. Everybody was fighting to get outside. Frost lunged with his fists, and a blow banged against his jaw. He reeled, almost fell but came up swinging. Outside he could hear the shrill whistles of the police. The Mexican constabulary was calling, like no other police in the world, for order.
Frost set his teeth and flailed his arms. And every time they went out they struck something. He dived forward and some of the mob went down before the force of his body. He got up and climbed over, carrying others in his mad march to the exit.
He wanted to shout at Stuart again to let him know where he was, but even in that chaos of mind and flesh, Frost realized to cry out now would be to betray himself by his voice. So he fought his way slowly to the window.
He could see it as a rectangle of outside light a few feet ahead and he pushed and struggled and continued to swing. He thrilled to the power in his long arms and his fists … a form loomed in front of him in clear silhouette and he started a blow from the floor. His fist crashed against the blurred vision that was a head; there was a smothered exclamation, and the man went down.
Frost shifted his arms and got his pistol, and as he came near the window he swung again and again; then of a sudden he became aware that his legs were not moving. They were imprisoned in a human vise.
He fell forward.
But he did not hit the floor. He fell on top of several squirming bodies; and realized he had been pulled down in the confusion. Fearful lest he be trampled, he yanked himself up again by means of somebody’s coat and was thankful he still had his pistol. He came to his knees, then full up, and, finding he had sufficient spa
ce to move his legs, kicked lustily at the form on the floor. There was an oath.
He reached for the window, anchored his hand and pulled. He finally made it. He climbed up and literally fell into the night. With the first intake of air he thought of the woman and Stuart.
Where were they? Safe? There had been, he reflected, but two pistol shots. So far as he could determine neither had found a mark. Mexican marksmanship is, notoriously, bad; their first love is the blade. And the blade is, generally, silent. Had? … The thought sent Frost into a rage. Still, Stuart was a veteran. He had been in hundreds of brawls … and yet….
Regardless of everything now, Frost lifted his voice:
“George! George!”
As if in answer to his reckless cry, George Stuart tumbled through the window.
“Thank God!” Frost panted. “Hurt?”
“Nope!” Laconically. Then: “You?”
“Bruised.” Then: “George, I’ve got to find the woman!”
They moved quickly across the street. The melee in the cafe continued. The police were puffing at their whistles and occasionally shouting in an official voice that did no good; there was general discord.
“In the meantime,” George said, “we’re in a fine shape to stop a slug or two. Let’s step on it.”
They walked rapidly towards the international bridge.
Stuart said, “Who the hell was that dame?”
“A newspaper woman the Old Man sent down—but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I don’t blame you,” Stuart said. “You had a swell idea—bringing her to this town. She damn near got us messed up.”
“I know that now. But it could have been worse.” He went on quietly, “You saved my life, George.”
George Stuart rubbed his chin reflectively and pretended he didn’t hear.
“Where do you suppose she went?” he asked.
“I tried to tell her what was coming,” Frost said. “If she was smart she went across.”
They had gone so far now the sounds in La Estrellita were but murmurs. Overhead the stars blinked on; once in a while the Rangers caught the music of guitars as an indolent part of Algadon, impervious to the excitement, sang on.
“Know those yeggs who started the fight?” Stuart asked, matching the strides of the long-legged flyer.
“Never saw ‘em before,” Frost said. “I guess they were hired by the gang. I wonder,” he mused, “where it’ll all end?”
Stuart had no answer for that one. They walked along silently.
“I hope,” Frost went on, as if to himself, “she got back okey. I sort of had the idea she could look out for herself.”
“Well,” put in Stuart truculently, “she had a swell opportunity of doing that little thing tonight.”
“And she wasn’t bad looking,” Frost went on in the same tone.
“Yeh—I saw that, too.”
At the international boundary they exchanged pleasantries they did not feel with the customs officials. Frost asked for the woman. The officers said they were sorry, but no woman had passed into the States. Frost stoutly insisted they must be mistaken; they insisted just as stoutly they could not be.
George Stuart was familiar with their technique. He said, “Well?” to Frost in such a tone his meaning was clear.
“A mess,” Frost exploded—” a first-class mess. God,” he breathed, “if anything’s happened … Well,” resolutely, “I can’t go back without her. That much is a cinch.”
Stuart lighted a cigarette and said, “Anything you say, Jerry. Wanna take a look at La Estrellita?” thus leaving the plan of action to the flyer.
“It’s not a question of wanting to, George. But the Old Man sent her—”
“Sure.” Stuart turned to the officials and requested, with a trace of belligerence, that if the woman who had crossed with Frost returned she be detained. He then divested himself of certain pertinent remarks. “Jerry—you’re the biggest damn fool I ever saw. You know how you stand around here,” and, having unburdened himself, he again became the fighting man with a terse, “Hell, let’s go!”
And with no more than that they swung back to La Estrellita, whence they had so recently and so narrowly escaped with their lives.
The cafe had quieted somewhat when they returned. Stuart and Frost made their way inside. A few patrons had come back (a great many had never left), but many of the tables were over-turned and everywhere there were unmistakable signs of the fight, notwithstanding the expeditious work of the cafe’s ubiquitous emergency corps. The five-man Mexican orchestra was back on the platform playing in the same listless fashion which forever characterizes their music. This was a bland lot of musicians. A brawl, a pistol fight, a knife duel—nothing to them. Every night was just another night.
Their hands on their hips, the Rangers stood inside the door of the cafe and returned glare for glare. There were low murmurs of recognition as they entered.
They summoned the proprietor.
“I know this guy Rasaplo,” Stuart said. “Lemme do all the talking.”
Rasaplo waddled up solicitously, portly after the vogue of Mexican cafe owners, with long mustachios and sagging jowls that could be either fierce or cherubic. At this moment he chose for them to be cherubic. He rubbed his hands as if Frost and Stuart were patron saints who had stepped from their nichos, and smiled broadly.
“Señors,” he said, “I am sorry—vair sorry.” He looked from one face to the other, seeking some indication of official forgiveness. There was none. The Rangers stared at him and through him. Rasaplo quailed somewhat.
“Now lissen,” Stuart said, his voice steely. “The capitan here brought a woman with him—la mujer Americana. Ella desvaneca— disappeared. Sabe what that means?”
Rasaplo’s eyes widened in surprise. His whole person registered consternation. Great actors, those fellows. Rasaplo lifted his hands in horror.
“Imposible!” he managed. “Never in La Estrellita. Never! La Estrellita ees—”
“Yeh,” Stuart cut in; “I know that speech backwards! La Estrellita is a little nursery where mommas leave their children.” He clucked heatedly. “Nix on that patriotism stuff, Rasaplo! Your dump ain’t no different from any of the others along this creek. Now get this— the woman disappeared in here tonight—and she’s got to be found. Tell me something before I—”
“But,” Rasaplo wheezed, “I am in the back room when a gun go boom! and the place get dark. I know no more.”
Stuart looked at Frost and nodded. “Well, in that case,” he began, his meaning clear, “I guess we’ll—”
Rasaplo said quickly, “Mebbe Pete know. Pete always know.” He went briskly to the bar and engaged a bartender in conversation. He was the one Frost had seen moving down the rail before the lights went out. From the way the patrons eyed the scene the Rangers could tell they still were annoyed at having their evening interrupted. They were content, however, merely to stare.
But the bartender was mystified, too. There was no misinterpreting his gestures. He didn’t know how the fight started, and he didn’t remember any woman. All he knew was that after the lights went on again several natives were carried out, semi-conscious.
Rasaplo darted a swift look around, leaned over the bar a little farther, and something changed hands. Stuart and Frost both saw it at the same time. They went forward.
“Gimme that!” Stuart commanded.
Rasaplo grinned abashed, and handed over a letter. “They give it to the boy to mail,” he said. “I do not know anything.”
The letter was addressed to Captain Jerry Frost, Gentry, Texas, and there was a two-cent U.S. stamp in the corner. Frost ripped it open. A note on the back of a menu. It said:
“Thanks, Captain, for the woman. “
It was written in that peculiar, flamboyant foreign style. Frost fingered it blankly and held it up for Stuart to see. Stuart said to Rasaplo: “Where’s the waiter who got this?”
Rasaplo summoned a sleek servitor, who e
yed Stuart and Frost with an expression that can only be called baleful.
“Who gave you this?” Frost held up the letter.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders to say he couldn’t remember all the patrons; but made no answer.
“Who gave you this?” Frost repeated.
“I no remember,” he said. “A man—” as if that would help.
Rasaplo inserted his broad bulk into the scene to give his employee whatever protection he could muster. “He know nothing,” he said. “He get the letter and boom! the place go dark. Mebbe we get miedo—and no mail letter. But—” His voice, colorless, trailed off.
Stuart gestured disgustedly to Frost. For the time being they knew they were against a blank wall. Trying to elicit criminal information from some Mexicans can be—in some instances, is— nothing short of impossible. Indeed, some of them are so clumsy in trying to remain innocent they incriminate themselves.
The Rangers knew they could do no more; and, too, they were chancing further trouble by remaining in La Estrellita.
“Come on, let’s go see the cops.” On the way out Stuart went on: “But don’t expect too much of the law here. It’s quite probably the rottenest force in the world. Maybe, though—”
They went around the corner to the police station, and Frost soon learned that Stuart had properly classified the Algadon police. They said they hadn’t the faintest idea what happened to the woman; moreover, they gave the impression, and it was true, that they weren’t in the least interested. They were without the slightest degree of enthusiasm, and raised their brows superciliously to convey the thought that if the Rangers couldn’t look out for their own women they shouldn’t expect anyone else to.
Stuart said to Frost: “I’d like to sock this gang in the jaw.”