Lone Star 03

by Ellis, Wesley

  After a moment’s thought he also removed his sandals, for another of his observations had been that a man wearing boots generally considers a barefoot man beneath his notice.

  “I’ll go out by the back door; it opens on the courtyard where the stables are,” Ki told Jessie. “I’ve shocked Salazar enough for one day.”

  Jessie nodded. “I’ll be in my room when you get back. Try not to stay too long, Ki. I’m already beginning to feel hungry.”

  Ki nodded and left. He went down the deserted backstairs and through the courtyard into the street. The sun had gone down now, and in the center of the plaza, beside a fountain long gone dry, torches had been lighted, their flames shedding a bright glare over the square. Beneath the torches, three men were setting up a table. Ki saw at a glance that they were obviously not peónes, even though they were doing what in Mexico was menial work delegated to servants.

  All three of them, as well as a number of others lounging in front one of the half-dozen stone buildings that faced the plaza, were dressed in the charro style, in embroidered waist-length jackets worn over ruffled shirts, and trousers that fitted skin-tight from waist to knee, then flared out to the ankle. All of them wore wide-brimmed felt sombreros with high crowns, as well as crossed bandoliers studded with rifle ammunition. They all had on gunbelts with pistols, as well.

  Around the plaza, people were gathering in little gossipy knots, and Ki smiled inwardly at the manner in which he and his clothing matched the local population. Most of the men wore simple cotton shirts and trousers similar to his, and while they were generally shod in huaraches of untanned leather, there were enough of them barefoot to keep Ki’s bare feet from attracting attention.

  Choosing an inconspicuous spot not too close to the table, yet near enough to hear what might be said, Ki hunkered down. He seemed to be leaning on his staff, but was always poised and ready to move. Almost at once he was surrounded by the pack of dogs that roamed the open area of the square. The pack was not aggressive, but it tended to attract unwanted noticed wherever it roamed.

  Ki uttered a command. Though he spoke in Japanese, he used the ninja technique known as ninpoinubue, which made use of a tone of voice that animals instantly understood as representing irrefutable authority. They slunk quietly away and did not return.

  A young Mexican standing close by who had observed the incident remarked, “Conoces portarse bien los perros, amigo.”

  Ki looked at the youth with a frown, and shook his head.

  “You speak not the Spanish?” the young man asked.

  Again Ki shook his head, but this time he said, “No. But your English is very good.”

  “I am to have it from the escuela de laiglesia, the priests, you understan‘?” When Ki nodded, the young man went on, “I am say you know well how to make obey the dogs.”

  Ki nodded. Then, since the youth seemed to be a safe source of information, he said, “I have just come to San Pedro. What is drawing so many people to the square this evening?”

  “This is the day of the month when the rurales they collect la mordita.”

  Ki frowned. He understood the word mordita; it was one of those Spanish words with several meanings. Literally, it meant “bite”; colloquially, its meaning was extended to “bribe” or “payoff,” but he’d never heard of a case where a day each month was set aside for the public exercise of this long-standing Mexican custom.

  He asked the youth, “What is it, this mordita?”

  “Los rurales,” the young man replied, flicking a scornful, downturned thumb in the direction of the charro-clad group. “To them we pay a small bit from what each month we have earn.”

  “Why?” Ki asked, curious to learn the reason for the unusual collection.

  “De cada razón o nada razón,” the youth said bitterly, then remembered and went on, “The rurales, they are have the power, and do as they wish. When the strong want a thing, they need no reason to take it.”

  Ki nodded. It was, he thought, the old story of might making right. The young Mexican’s bitter words were true, at least in San Pedro: Those who held power needed to give no reason for their actions.

  He glanced around; the plaza was rapidly filling up with people. Most of the men were dressed like Ki and the young Mexican standing next to him. A few of the men looked relatively prosperous, and wore American-style business suits with white shirts and neckties, and city-type shoes. Some of the few women in the crowd looked prosperous too, but most of them had on the voluminous dark skirts and shapeless blouses of peón women, and wore black rebozos draped over their heads.

  “It looks like everyone in San Pedro is here,” Ki said to his new acquaintance. “Do all the people in town pay?”

  Glumly the youth nodded. “Todos. Los ricos y los pobres.”

  Ki did not ask the lad to translate, but asked, “You’re going to pay too?”

  “Naturalmente.” Reaching into the pocket of his loose trousers, he pulled out three silver pesos and showed them to Ki. “For these three pesos I am work all month. Now I am have to give one peso to the rurales.”

  “I still don’t understand why,” Ki told the youth.

  “Why? Because, amigo, I am wish to live.” His voice was as matter-of-fact as though they were discussing the weather instead of life and death.

  A flurry of activity at the door of the rambling stone house where the rurales stood around the door drew Ki’s attention away from the strange revelations his companion had been making. He watched the building across the square.

  Whoever the man was who’d just come out the door, he obviously held a position of importance, if his clothing could be taken as an indication. Ki studied the newest arrival with increasing interest.

  Like the others, he was dressed charro-style, but with blatant differences. The tall cone-shaped crowns of the other men’s sombreros were tan or brown; the newcomer’s was creamy white and embroidered with silver. The suits worn by the rest of the rurales were in shades ranging from black to light brown and were embroidered in silk braid; the one the new arrival had on was a delicate shade of cream, and its embroidery was gold. He alone did not wear the crossed bandoliers that were almost an official uniform of the force, but he wore a pistol belt with twin holsters from which protruded pearl-handled Colts.

  Without looking at the men clustered around the door, the resplendent rurale strode down the flight of low steps that led to the unpaved street, and started crossing the plaza to the table his men had placed there. Silently the rurales who’d been waiting fell in behind him. All of them carried rifles now, as well as the pistols in their belt holsters.

  Ki took advantage of the moments while the rurales were in motion to ask his new acquaintance, “Who is the man wearing the fancy suit? The commander?”

  “Sí. Es el Capitán Onofre Guzman.”

  In Ki’s brain a connection was completed. As Buell Henderson lay dying, he’d said something about a “goose man.” It had made no sense at the time, but now what had been only an odd phrase became a name.

  “This Captain Guzman, has he been here long?”

  A sneer in his words, the youth snapped, “Too long! He is come here six years ago from Vera Cruz.”

  Ki nodded as he got his first close look at Captain Guzman’s face. The rurale commander was short and swarthy, his face almost a cube. Heavy ridges of bone protruded over his eyes, the ridges made more prominent by thick, glossy eyebrows. In the recesses between the overhanging eyebrows and his high, square cheekbones, opaque black eyes glinted. His nose was almost flat, its nostrils flared. A full coal-black mustache did not hide his wide sensual lips, and his heavy jaw matched the rest of his square features. Guzman looked every inch a barbaric and inhumane man.

  Looking neither to the right or left, the rurale captain marched to the table and sat down. The men who’d accompanied him from the house stood a little away from the table in a rough semicircle. Almost at once, a line began to form as the people in the square shuffled slowly up to
the table.

  Ki could not believe at first that he was watching an entire town submit tamely to open extortion. Then a thought occurred to him. The rurales might be collecting taxes in behalf of the Mexican government, without the people understanding why they were paying.

  “This money Guzman takes, is it a tax?” he asked the youth.

  His companion shook his head. “No, amigo. Each year from the capital, el Distrito Federal, the soldiers come to take the government tax.”

  Ki’s anger mounted as he watched the residents of San Pedro standing in line to give a share of their pitifully small earnings to the well-dressed and obviously well-fed rurales. At the same time that Ki was growing angrier by the second, he was also controlling the emotion rigidly. He reminded himself that he and Jessie had not come to Mexico to right wrongs, but to find the headquarters of a gang of rustlers and to find out if the cattle thieves were another arm of the octopus-like cartel.

  After a few minutes had passed, the youth standing beside him shrugged and started for the end of the queue. He turned to say to Ki, “Buena suerte, amigo. If I do not go now and pay, tomorrow they come for me. Hasta luego.”

  Ki waved. He watched the young man join the line and start the slow shuffle up to the payoff table. Then, depressed by what he’d seen and heard, he started back to the hotel.

  Something had been added to the courtyard behind La Posada Mendoza, Ki found when he entered it from the street. A one-horse landaulet, old but well kept, stood in front of the stable. The black-enameled wooden door panels of the carriage gleamed from a recent waxing, the glass panes above the doors and in its small oval windows glittered, the leather top had been freshly varnished, and its harness had the soft, waxy patina of carefully tended leather.

  In contrast, the driver who was curled up asleep on the high box seat wore the baggy shirt and trousers of San Pedro’s common people. He did not wake up as Ki walked around the landaulet, inspecting it. After he’d admired the venerable carriage, Ki went up the backstairs and to his room. The connecting door was ajar, and from the next room Jessie called him.

  “Ki? Are you back at last? I’m half starved.”

  “We’ll go downstairs and eat, then. I’m hungry myself.”

  Jessie appeared in the doorway. She asked, “Did you learn anything that might help us?”

  “Enough to know we’ve hit a trail. You remember the odd thing that Henderson said before he died?”

  “I remember two odd phrases, Ki. One was ‘goose man,’ the other was ‘all men.’ Neither of them made any sense.”

  “One does, now. The commander of the rurales here, a man who looks as evil as he must be, is named Guzman.”

  “Guzman,” Jessie repeated. “Yes, of course. Goose man, Guzman. It makes sense, Ki!”

  “I thought so. I’ll go out and ask more questions tomorrow. I came back because what I saw tonight was painful to watch.”

  “Tell me about it while we eat dinner, then. I’m hungry enough to eat almost anything right now.”

  When Jessie and Ki reached the lobby, Pierre Salazar was sitting at the desk outside the arched door that led to the dining room. Through the arch, they could see to their surprise that the tables were mostly occupied. Salazar jumped to his feet and came to meet them.

  “Ah, Señorita Starbuck! You have come for dinner, of course. And for your manservant, there is a table in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you Mr. Salazar,” Jessie said coolly, “But Ki will eat with me in the dining room.”

  For a moment the proprietor seemed almost to protest; Ki could almost see the mental shrug he gave as Salazar decided to humor the unpredictable whims that so often give trouble to hotelkeepers. Then Salazar bowed stiffly, and led them through the arch.

  Except for one table, where a young woman sat alone, the chairs in the dining room were occupied. After a moment’s hesitation, Salazar led them to the unfilled table.

  “Dispensame, Señorita Lita, pero estos norteamericanos—” he began.

  “No desasosiego, Pierre, ” the woman interrupted. “Sera un oportunidad para usar mi inglés. Sienteles.”

  Salazar turned to Jessie and said, “Señorita Starbuck, Señorita Adelita Mendoza has graciously consented to share her table with you. I will leave you to become better acquainted, while I inform the waiter that you are ready to be served.”

  When Salazar had gone, Jessie and Ki stood looking at the table, trying to decide whether to sit opposite their unexpected companion, or beside her. Adelita Mendoza settled the matter. She indicated the two chairs across from her.

  “Please, sit down,” she said. She waited until Ki had held Jessie’s chair and taken the one next to her, and then, in excellent, almost unaccented English, she went on, “Don’t be worried by Pierre. He has French blood, you understand, which makes him excitable. Now tell me, where in the United States do you live?”

  “Not too far from here,” Jessie replied. “A cattle ranch about forty miles east of the Rio Grande.”

  “Then we have something in common to begin with. My father also breeds cattle, though I doubt that they’re the kind you have on your ranch, Miss—”

  “Starbuck,” Jessie said.

  “I wasn’t sure, after hearing Pierre say your name.”

  “What kind of cattle does your father breed, Miss Mendoza?” Ki asked.

  “I used the word loosely,” Adelita replied apologetically. “He breeds fighting bulls for our corrida de toros.”

  Ki had been studying Adelita Mendoza while she talked. She seemed to be in her mid-twenties. Her chin robbed her of a claim to true beauty; it was too long and narrow for the rest of her face. Her brow was high, an oval rising smoothly from coal-black eyebrows to equally black hair. Her eyes were large and strangely light, a violet-hued blue, set between long lashes. A thin, straight nose with flared nostrils dominated her face. Her cheekbones were high and thin, her lips a wide red gash, parting when she smiled or spoke to show small, perfect, and gleaming white teeth.

  She had on a dress of light blue silk and a rebozo of white lace draped around her shoulders. Ki wondered if she’d pull the shawl up to cover her head when she went on the street, as did the women he’d seen in the plaza.

  “They’re not quite the same as beef cattle, I’m sure,” Jessie smiled.

  “No. Much more beautiful, of course. I always feel a bit sad when we ship a consignment to a corrida. You have seen our corrida, of course?”

  Jessie shook her head, and Ki answered, “No. That’s something I’ve missed.”

  “You must plan to attend one while you are in Mexico, then, Señor—” Adelita paused and then said, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear your name when Pierre made the introductions.”

  “My name is Ki.” When Adelita said nothing, and Ki saw that she was waiting for him to give his surname, he told her, “That’s all the name I have, Miss Mendoza. Ki.”

  “Oh. I see,” she said, though it was clear she did not. “But you are not from the United States, are you?”

  “I am now. But I was born in Japan.”

  “Oh.” Adelita was obviously embarrassed; speaking rapidly, she went on, “It is odd how the custom of names is different in different places. I have six names, and my father has nine. He only uses one, of course, and his last name is very seldom spoken, since everyone simply calls him Don Almendaro.”

  Jessie and Ki exchanged quick covert glances. After having so recently realized that Buell Henderson had pronounced “Guzman” as goose man, they reached the same conclusion almost simultaneously. Henderson’s dying words, all men, could well have been the beginning of “Almendaro.”

  Chapter 11

  So brief was the exchange of glances between Jessie and Ki that Adelita Mendoza was not aware it had taken place. She chatted on, “When we moved to the ranch—I was a very small child, then—I remember my mother and father arguing whether he should name this hotel Almendaro or Mendoza. But, as you’ve seen, my father had his way. He usually does, o
f course.”

  “Do I understand that your father owns the hotel?” Jessie asked.

  “No longer, Miss Starbuck,” Adelita replied. “It was the Mendoza family home, you understand, before my father decided we should move to the ranch. I think my mother did not want to move, or to sell the home here in San Pedro, so father made it into this hotel. Pierre managed the hotel for him. Then, soon after my mother’s death, my father sold it to Pierre.”

  “It must be pleasant at your ranch, though,” Ki said, trying to keep the conversation on the topic of ranches until he had a chance to ask Adelita about a ranch with tres in its name.

  Adelita grimaced. “Every day is the same. The same house, the same rooms, the same trees seen from the same windows.”

  Ki asked the question he really wanted to. “Your father has several other ranches, I suppose.”

  “Oh, he has much property, but we live at the Rancho Mendoza because it is nearest to San Pedro.”

  “And you never travel?” Jessie asked.

  “Father dislikes travel, Miss Starbuck. When he transacts business with others, they come to him. And the only traveling I do is an occasional trip from the ranch to San Pedro. But as father doesn’t approve of me riding horseback, I must make even that trip in our carriage, which is very old.”

  “Is that the landaulet I saw in the courtyard?” Ki asked.

  “Yes. It is in good condition, but not very comfortable.”

  “Even if you don’t travel, you must have quite a few interesting visitors at your ranch,” Ki suggested.

  Adelita shook her head. “No. Very few. Most of them are beyond my age and only interested in money. I enjoy most the season before the corridas begin, when the toreros come to test the bulls. They are ... well, it is a time I enjoy.” She looked at Ki as though seeing him for the first time, and her dark eyes seemed to become opaque for a moment. “The way you move, you remind me of some of the toreros, Ki.”