by Wesley Ellis
“And me, Ki,” Brother Joseph asked, “what do I do?”
“What you’re best at. Pray.”
Everyone was shown exactly what to do and told when to do it. The Mexicans slipped homeward then, carrying muskets and powder. The new fire had died down. San Ignacio was silent. But it wouldn’t be for long. There was going to be a lot of flame and thunder and it was going to sweep Mono and his outlaws straight to the gates of hell.
It was a long wait until midnight. Diego checked his own guns and oiled them. Jessica wore a .44 borrowed from Cardero. Ki had his throwing stars ready and was running over the plan again and again in his mind.
“Nothing can go wrong, can it?” the friar asked anxiously.
“Not if they do their parts right,” Ki answered.
“If it does go wrong ... if it does,” the friar said, “we may have encouraged many good, simple men to march to their deaths.”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Ki repeated. Brother Joseph rested a hand briefly on Ki’s shoulder and walked away. It seemed hours later when Diego approached Ki, fastening the drawstring on his black sombrero.
“It is time, amigo. Time now to finish these animals.” Ki had exchanged his peon costume for a friar’s dark robe. It would prevent him being seen so easily in the darkness. Jessica was grim and silent as she met the men at the back gate. Ki looked to her and nodded and he started on.
Diego stepped to Jessie, drew her into his arms, and kissed her once. “Be careful, Jessica Starbuck,” he said.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do.” Then he smiled his ingratiating smile and was gone, slipping off through the shadows cast by the mission wall toward the horses that were his objective.
Jessica hurried to catch up with Ki, who gave her a questioning look but said nothing. There was no time for further conversation.
Working their way toward the cantina, they saw no one—which bolstered Ki’s confidence in his plan. The Mexicans on the rooftops were keeping their heads down according to instructions, and those moving on the streets were being very silent, staying out of sight.
From time to time they heard a footstep or a sigh, but these wouldn’t be audible in the cantina. Once Ki spotted a man in a sombrero working his way up an alley, but he was doing it right, keeping to the shadows. No bleary-eyed bandido guard was going to spot the man or realize there was any danger.
Ki and Jessie were in the alley behind the cantina now. That was the place Ki had chosen for himself—if anyone were going to go inside, he was going to be the one.
“Here,” he whispered to Jessica, nodding to the stack of used crates and discarded barrels thirty feet from the back entrance to the cantina.
“Think I can’t handle the job?” Jessie whispered back.
“I want you to cover me from there. It does no good for both of us to be exposed.”
Which was more or less true. Ki was protecting Jessica or trying to, and she knew it. Still, someone needed to be in a position to back up Ki if the outlaws decided to stream out the back door. Jessie shrugged, let her lips brush Ki’s cheek, and moved silently behind the pile of refuse.
Ki went nearer the door and then squatted in the shadows, waiting.
First Cardero would have to lead the bandits’ horses away or drive them off. That would be Ki’s signal to activate the assault. The horses had to go. A man on horseback is a lousy target, a horse’s body being an effective shield for a man who knew how to use it. This wasn’t to be the first time Mono and his men had been in a fight. They would go for the horses first, not wanting to get caught afoot in a hostile crossfire.
Ki looked to the stars, filled his hands with shuriken from the pockets of the dark, cowled robe he wore, and waited.
Diego had worked his way nearer to the stable where the bandits’ horses were being kept. Across the street and down two buildings from the cantina, the stable was dark and still.
But not empty. Someone was inside.
Cardero pressed himself against the wall of the stable, his pistol in his hand and pressed against his thigh. His thumb was on the hammer of the big single-action Colt.
Damn it all. A guard in the stable. That one would have to be taken silently. Cardero glanced at the rooftops opposite and saw a single man against the starry sky. Everyone was ready, in position. But the horses had to go.
Except it wasn’t going to be easy.
Diego heard a horse shift its feet and then blow through its nostrils. A little while later he heard the squeak of saddle leather and he frowned. Someone was in there all right, but he wasn’t standing watch; he was swinging into a saddle and preparing to ride out.
Did that make any sense?
Cardero hesitated. Let the man ride out if that was what he was going to do? he wondered. Or try to take him and risk alerting Mono?
There wasn’t much time for a decision. The side door of the stable opened, and a man on horseback, ducking to clear the door, walked a black horse out into the side alley. Cardero’s gun came up, but he lowered it again. Silence was more important than taking out one man.
He watched from the shadows as Halcón turned his horse toward the river, walking it for a quarter mile before he broke into a gallop.
And what was it Halcón was doing? Had the Indian finally had enough of Mono himself? There wasn’t time to ponder Halcón’s motives. Cardero was already behind his schedule. Ki would be wondering what was happening; the men on the rooftops would be growing uneasy and anxious.
Diego took a slow, deep breath, holstered his gun, and moved into the darkness of the stable, walking toward the first of the string of horses, which happened to be Mono’s own sorrel.
Before he reach it, guns opened up and deadly thunder filled the streets of San Ignacio.
Chapter 12
It wasn’t until later that Ki and Jessie found out what started the firefight. A Mexican on the roof opposite the cantina, already jittery, tired from the night’s watch, and eager to use the musket he had been given, saw Mono.
Mono, after waking from his stupor, had gone to the door of the cantina to breathe in some night air and to clear his head before, accompanied by another bottle of tequila, he went back to sleep to dream his dreams of vengeance agains the gringa and her Chinaman.
The massive, bearded bandit made a stark, wide target against the doorway of the cantina, lighted as it was by a lantern from within.
The eager townsman, his hands trembling and his mouth dry shouldered the heavy, ancient weapon and fired.
The flash scorched the Mexican’s face. The musket ball flew past Mono’s head, smashing the glass behind the bar.
Mono was drugged with liquor and sleep, but he was a man who lived on the fringe of violence or at its vortex, so he was instinctual and quick in his response. He drew his twin Remington revolvers and unleased a barrage of bullets at the rooftop. One bullet caught not the man who had fired the shot, but another beside him who had been diving at the sniper, trying futilely to stop him. He stood up, clutched his belly, and fell awkwardly to the street below, landing on his head. The sniper, trying desperately to reload, missed his footing and also fell, but he was able to drag himself back into an alley, his broken leg digging a furrow in the dusty road.
“Hombres, ambush!” Mono was yelling. He saw a target to his left, wheeled, crouched, and fired with one gun. Mono was a good shot. The bullet took the legs from under the fleeing Mexican, and he went down, crippled by a slug through the hips.
A chair crashed through the front window of the cantina, scattering shards of glass across the plankwalk. In the window Arturo and Miguel, rifles ready, began to lay down a withering barrage of bullets, and Ki’s snipers panicked, some throwing down their weapons and fleeing across the rooftops as the bandits’ repeating Winchesters spat flame. Staccato snaps and roars filled the night with sound.
The lantern in the cantina had been smashed at the first shot, and now from the darkness the bandits fired, offering no targets but th
eir muzzle flashes.
Mono, crouching low, moved inside and directed the fire. The Mexicans, racing frantically across the rooftops opposite the cantina, were distinct against the starry sky. They weren’t clear targets, but Mono’s men had fought often and fought well. They knew what their Winchesters were for.
A Mexican, leaping from one roof to the next, was caught in the middle of his jump by a spinning .44 slug, and he was dead before he reached the opposite side. He slammed into the roof, slid down, and lay still.
In the back alley, Ki groaned and looked to where Jessica crouched, covering him. Something had gone wrong. The trap had failed. Ki saw fleeing men, muskets in their hands, rushing blindly past him, and he tried to rally them.
“Stop! We still have them beaten! We have Mono outnumbered.”
One man stopped; the others raced on, one throwing his musket away. The back door of the cantina popped open, and a bandit with a sombrero hanging by its draw string and his hands filled with two revolvers, appeared, looking frantically up and down the alley.
A shuriken from Ki’s hand whipped through the air and tagged the outlaw in the throat, ripping open trachea and jugular. He was dragged back inside by an unseen friend, blood smearing his shirt. The door was barred and Ki, in frustration, flipped another throwing star at the door.
The shuriken imbedded itself deeply in the wood, but it could do no damage. They wouldn’t be coming out that way again.
“Jessie!”
“Right here!”
Jessica Starbuck was right behind Ki, her pistol raised and cocked, but without a target.
“Around the front. Mono will try for the stables now.”
And that was just what Mono was planning. Before Jessica and Ki had circled the building and reached the main street of San Ignacio, Mono, leading his men and scorching the night with a savage burst of gunfire, came out onto the plankwalk. With both pistols blazing away at the overwhelmed snipers on the rooftops, Mono led his soldiers toward the stable.
Diego Cardero was alone there, but from the doorway he opened fire. One bandit went down, crumpling into a scarcely human ball and sending dust spewing up into the night.
Mono roared. His voice was inaudible above the booming of the guns. His mouth was open in a savage cry, his head thrown back. He had seen Cardero, recognized him. Now his rage at being betrayed flooded his massive body with bloodlust. Mono’s pistols exploded in his thick hands; the bullets he sent flying toward Diego ripped at the wooden stable door. One bullet tagged a horse high on the hip and the frightened, wounded animal broke free of its tether, rearing up to gallop frantically out the side door.
Cardero fired back once and then the hammer of his Colt dropped on an empty chamber. He reloaded hastily as Mono and his bandits charged on toward the stable, sending lead in all directions. Red streaks shot from the muzzles of their weapons.
Diego, alone and besieged, snapped the cylinder back in place and emptied his gun in the direction of the outlaws. He thought he tagged another man, but it was hard to be sure in the night.
Sweat streamed down Cardero’s face, although the night was cool. From behind a water trough, a bandido winged a few shots at Diego, one coming so close that it tugged at the loose sleeve of his shirt and tunneled into the wall behind him.
“Diego!” Jessica Starbuck called out. Cardero turned. Behind him was a bandit who had somehow slipped into the stable unnoticed. The warning was unnecessary. The man was already dead, a razor-edged shuriken imbedded in his forehead.
Some involuntary action of the nerves caused the bandit to seem to wink at Cardero, and then with blood smearing his face, he toppled over, dead.
Jessie and Ki were beside Diego now, and they fought back furiously, driving Mono to the shelter of the buildings across the street.
The muskets on the rooftops had fallen silent now, and except for an occasional shot from the head of the street, Ki, Jessie, and Diego Cardero fought on alone. It wasn’t enough. Mono couldn’t get to his horses, but in a sudden unexpected move, the bandits, rushing back up the street returned to the comparative safety of the cantina where, warned and ready, they could now barricade themselves and hold off any army.
It was over. San Ignacio was abruptly still. Gunsmoke still hung in the air above the street. Not far away a bandit moaned with pain. After another minute the bandit lay still, and the night breeze off the river dissipated the smoke.
Ki straightened up and looked at the street. There was a cold anger in him, an emotion that he tried to stifle. But it remained near the surface.
Diego voiced Ki’s feelings, “Bastards blew it for us. Opened up on Mono before we were ready and then panicked and took to their heels. The stupid bastards.”
“They aren’t soldiers,” Jessica reminded them quietly. “Just men trying to protect their homes, not really up to it.”
“You’re right, of course,” Diego said, running a hand across his hair.
“Our position isn’t so bad,” Jessica said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
“Look at it. We’ve got Mono bottled up. How long can he hold out there? A couple of us can stand watch. Perhaps call another meeting. Damn it, convince the people of San Ignacio that we’ve won. We can starve Mono out eventually.”
“The lady’s right,” Diego said. He reloaded his gun and holstered it. He lit a cigar, crossed his arms, and stared across the street at the cantina. “Damn all, she’s right isn’t she, Ki?”
“She is right. Of course, Mono will try to break loose again, but we can hold him in there. There’s nothing to stop us now from getting the horses out of the stable.”
“Stuck,” Diego Cardero said. “The man’s stuck.”
Ki said, “If we get our army back.”
“We—” Cardero started to say something, but sudden violence interrupted him. He saw movement. Cardero was fast on the draw and good with a gun, but he knew he was never going to turn and fire before the bandit, who had appeared in the stable behind them, could cut the three of them down with the scattergun he held in his hands.
Cardero shoved Jessica to one side, turned, and drew. The bandit with the shotgun didn’t cut loose; the flame and thunder of the ten-gauge was held back.
Then as Cardero watched, the bandit pitched forward onto his face, dead. An arrow quivered in his back.
“What the hell ...?”
Ki’s eyes searched the darkness. He placed his hand on Cardero’s wrist, and the bandit reluctantly holstered his gun again.
“Come out now; we know you’re here and we know what you want,” Ki said. Jessica could only look at Ki with puzzlement. Who was there?
After a moment her question was answered. From the darkness an Indian came forward, bow in hand. He was dressed in buckskin pants, plain shirt, soft moccasins. He wore a red headband around his head, which was fringed with unevenly trimmed, blue-black hair.
The warrior looked at Ki, at Jessica, at Cardero—a spark seemed to pass between these two—then he crouched and cut his arrow from the bandido’s back, replacing it in his soft deerskin quiver.
“Who is he?” Jessie asked. “What does he want?”
“The Canon del Dios, Jessica,” Ki responded. “Remember the man watching us from the bluffs? This is the man who killed Carlos when he attacked you. Who he is, I don’t know, but he has been following us southward for many days. Who are you?” Ki asked the man directly. There was no answer. Ki asked him again and got the same negative response.
Cardero spoke up. “He is Papago. I will ask him.” The bandit said, “You forget, it is the language of my mother’s people.” The bandit spoke to the Indian who was reluctant to answer at first. Finally he did reply in a brief, angry spate of words.
Cardero translated. “His name is Fly Catcher. A Papago of the Canon del Dios. Squirrel was his cousin. Squirrel had sold out his own people to the slavers, to Mono. Fly Catcher’s wife of two weeks was taken. His idea was to follow Mono to where his woman had been take
n. He saw you and Ki taken prisoner. He determined to try to help you, but not at the risk of letting Mono take him as well. He was watching when Carlos attacked you at Tinajas Caliente. He killed Carlos. He would like to kill me, I think,” Cardero said. “He knows I was with Mono, knows that I have Papago blood in me. He calls me a—well, there’s no English word for it—a sort of bastard traitor.”
“And what does he want now?” Jessica asked.
“To fight, only to fight.”
Ki said, “Tell him we need warriors badly. Tell him we welcome Fly Catcher to our war. Tell him this also, Cardero, that when this battle is over Jessica Starbuck and I are going to the ranch of Don Alejandro and then his wife shall be freed.”
“I will tell him,” Cardero said, “that all of us are going to see Don Alejandro. You haven’t forgotten my business with the slaver, have you?”
“No,” Ki said with reserve, “I haven’t forgotten.” But was that Cardero’s real purpose for wanting to go with Jessie and Ki to the ranch of Don Alejandro? Or did he still have his eyes on the bounty that had been offered?
“We’d better get back to the church, Ki,” Jessica said.
“Yes. Things have to organized again and quickly. Diego, you and Fly Catcher will stay here to watch the cantina.”
“As you say, Ki,” Cardero said with a hint of mockery.
“Mono will be hesitant to try anything for a little while. We’ll try to get reinforcements back here quickly.”
Cardero simply bowed from the neck; they saying something rapid and brief to the Papago, the Spaniard faded into the shadows once more, the silent Papago beside him.
“And what do you think now, Jessie?” Ki asked.
“Cardero?”
“Yes. Do you still trust him?”
“I want to, Ki. I want very much to trust that man.”
So did Ki, but he knew that wanting something and having it become a reality weren’t the same. There was something too supercilious, too bold about this Cardero. He was a reckless, admittedly criminal man. And he was good with a gun—too damned good. Ki had seen him draw and whirl as Fly Catcher put an arrow into the back of the bandit in the stable, and he knew one thing about Diego Cardero. He was a man even Ki did not wish to face in a fight to the death.