JC1 The Carpetbaggers

by Robbins, Harold

  He scrambled to his feet and reached for his gun but the next crack of the snake tore it from his fingers. Mike walked slowly toward him, the big whip coiling slowly back up his arm.

  Reeves screamed in terror.

  The big snake cracked again and Reeves spun around and tumbled over backward into the dust. He got to his hands and knees and began to crawl, then scrambled to his feet and tried to run. The snake ran down the road after him and crept between his legs, throwing him to the ground. He turned his head and saw Mike's arm go up into the air, the long black whip rising with it.

  He screamed as the snake tore into him again.

  * * *

  Sometime early the next morning, the sheriff and his deputies came across a body lying at the side of the road. During the night, someone had torn the bars from the window of the jail's only cell and Max had escaped.

  One of the deputies saw the body first. He wheeled his horse over beside it and looked down.

  The sheriff and the other deputy wheeled their horses. For a long while, they stared down at the mutilated body. Then one of them took off his hat and wiped the cold, beaded sweat from his forehead. "That looks like Banker Reeves."

  The sheriff turned and looked at him. "That was Banker Reeves," he said. He, too, took off his hat and wiped his face. "Funny," he added. "The only thing I know of that can do that to a man is a Louisiana prison snake."

  14

  THE NAME OF THE VILLAGE IN SPANISH WAS VERY long and difficult for Americans to pronounce, so after a while they gave it their own name. Hideout. It was a place to go when there was nowhere else to turn, when the law was hot on your neck and you were tired of sleeping nights on the cold prairie and eating dry beef and cold beans from a can. It was expensive but it was worth it. Four miles over the border and the law could not reach you.

  And it was the only place in Mexico where you could always get American whisky. Even if you had to pay four times the price for it.

  The alcalde sat at his table in the rear of the cantina and watched the two americanos come in. They sat down at the table near the door. The smaller one ordered tequila.

  The alcalde watched the two with interest. Soon they would be going away. It was always like that. When first they came, they'd have nothing but the best. The finest whisky, the best rooms, the most expensive girls. Then their money would run short and they'd begin to reduce their expenses. First, the room would be changed for a cheaper one; next, the girls would go. Last, the whisky. When they got down to drinking tequila, it meant that before long, they'd be moving on.

  He lifted his glass and drank his tequila quickly. That was the way of the world. He looked at the smaller man again. There was something about him that had caught his eye. He sighed, thinking of his youth. Juárez would have liked this one: the Indian blood in the Jefe told him instinctively which ones were the warriors. He sighed again. Poor Juárez, he wanted so much for the people and got so little. He wondered if before the Jefe died, he had realized that the only reason for his failure was that the people didn't want as much for themselves as he had wanted for them. He stared at the americanos, remembering the first time he had seen them. It was almost three years ago.

  They had come into the cantina quietly, weary and covered with the dust of their travels. Then, as now, they had sat at the table near the door.

  The bottle and glasses were on the table when the big man at the bar had come over to them. He spoke to the smaller man, ignoring the other. "We don't allow niggers in this here saloon."

  The smaller man didn't even look up. He filled his friend's glass first, then his own. He lifted it to his lips.

  The glass shattered against the floor and silence abruptly fell across the cantina. "Get your nigger outa here," the big man said. He stared at them for a moment, then turned and strode back to the bar.

  The Negro started to rise but the smaller man stopped him with a gesture from his eyes. Slowly the Negro sank back into his chair.

  It was only when the smaller man left the table to go to the bar that the alcalde realized that he wasn't as small as he had first thought. It was only by comparison to the Negro that he seemed small.

  "Who makes the rules here?" he asked the bartender.

  The bartender gestured toward the rear. "The alcalde, señor."

  The americano turned and came toward the table. His eyes surprised the alcalde; they were a hard, dark blue. He spoke in Spanish, with a trace of Cuban accent. "Does the swine speak the truth, señor?"

  "No, señor," the alcalde replied. "All are welcome here who have the money to pay their way."

  The man nodded and returned to the bar. He stopped in front of the man who had come over to his table. "The alcalde tells me my friend can stay," he said.

  The man turned to him angrily. "Who the hell cares what that greaser thinks? Just because we're across the border, doesn't mean I have to drink with niggers!"

  The smaller man's voice was cold. "My friend eats with me, drinks with me, sleeps with me, and he's not goin'." He turned his back calmly and went back to his table.

  He was just seating himself again when the angry americano started for him. "If you like niggers so much, nigger-lover, see how you like sleepin' with a dead one!" he shouted, pulling his gun.

  The smaller americano seemed scarcely to move but the gun was in his hand, smoke rising from its barrel, the echo of a shot fading away in the rafters of the cantina. And the loud-mouthed one lay dead on the floor in front of the bar.

  "I apologize for the disturbance we have made against the hospitality of your village," he said in his strange Spanish.

  The alcalde looked down at the man on the floor, and shrugged. "De nada," he said. "It is nothing. You were right. The swine had no grace."

  Now, almost three years later, the alcalde sighed, remembering. The little one had grace, much grace — natural like a panther. And the gun. Caramba! There had never been anything so fast. It seemed almost to have a life of its own. What a pistolera this one would have made. Juárez would have been proud of him.

  Several times each year, the two friends would quietly disappear from the village and as quietly reappear — several weeks, sometimes several months later. And each time they came back, they had money to pay for their rooms, their women, their whisky.

  But each time, the alcalde could sense a deeper solitude in them, a greater aloneness. There were times he felt a strange kind of pity for them. They were not like the others that came to the village. This way of life held no pleasure for them.

  And now they were drinking tequila again. How many times before they would go out like this and never return? Not only to this village but to nowhere on this earth.

  * * *

  Max swallowed the tequila and bit into the lime. The tart juice burst into his throat, giving his mouth a clean, fresh feeling. He looked at Mike. "How much we got left?"

  Mike thought for a moment. "Maybe three more weeks."

  Max rolled a cigarette and lit it. "What we gotta do is make a big hit. Then maybe we could go up into California or Nevada or someplace where they don' know us an' git ourselves straightened out. Money shore don' last long around this place."

  The Negro nodded. "It sho' don'," he agreed. "But that ain' the answer. We gotta split up. They lookin' for us together. When they see me, it's like you carryin’ a big ol’ sign with you' name on it."

  Max filled his glass again. "Tryin' to get rid of me?" He smiled, throwing the liquor down his throat and reaching for the lime.

  Mike said seriously, "Maybe 'thout me, you could settle down someplace an' make a life fo' yourself. You won' have to run no mor'."

  Max spit out a lime seed. "We made us a deal to stick together. We get enough money this time, we'll head for California."

  The door opened and a tall, redheaded cowboy came in. He walked over to their table and dropped into an empty chair. "Ol' Charlie Dobbs got here in the nick o' time, I reckon." He laughed. "That there tequila'll eat the linin' off your st
omach sure as hell. Bartender, bring us a bottle of whisky."

  The bartender put whisky and glasses on the table and walked away. Charlie filled the glasses and they drank.

  "What brings you back, Charlie?" Max asked. "I thought you were headin' up Reno way."

  "I was. But I run into the biggest thing ever I saw. It was too good to pass up."

  "What kinda job?" Max asked, leaning across the table.

  Charlie lowered his voice. "A new bank. You remember I tol' you I heard las' year they were minin' for oil up in Texas? I decided to pay them diggin's a visit on my way north." He poured another drink and swallowed it quickly. "Well, they found it all right. It's the craziest thing you ever saw. They sink a well down in the groun' an' instead of water, up comes oil. Then they pipe it off, barrel it an' ship it east. There's oil all over the place an' that bank's just bustin' with money."

  "Sounds good to me," Max said. "What's the deal?"

  "A local man set up the job but he needs help. He wants two shares, we get one share each."

  "Fair enough," Max said. He turned to Mike. "What do you think?"

  Mike nodded. "When we pull the job?" he asked.

  Charlie looked at him. "Right after the new year. The bank is gettin' in a lot of money then for new diggin'." He refilled all the glasses. "We'll have to start tomorrow. It took me three weeks to ride down here."

  15

  MAX PUSHED HIS WAY INTO THE SALOON BEHIND Charlie Dobbs. It was crowded with oil-miners and cowboys and the dice table and faro layouts were working full blast. Men were standing three deep around them waiting for a chance at the games.

  "What'd I tell you?" Charlie chortled. "This is a real boom town all right." He led the way down the bar to where a man was standing by himself.

  The man turned and looked at him. "You took long enough gettin' here," he said in a low voice.

  "It's a long ride, Ed," Charlie said.

  "Meet me outside," Ed said, throwing a silver dollar on the bar and walking out. He glanced quickly at Max as he passed.

  Max caught a glimpse of pale gimlet eyes without expression. The man seemed to be in his late forties, with a long, sandy mustache trailing across his lip. There was something familiar about him but Max couldn't place it. There was only the feeling that he had seen him before.

  The man was waiting outside the saloon for them. He walked ahead and they followed him into a dark alley. He turned to face them. "I said we needed four men," he said angrily.

  "There's another man, Ed," Charlie said quickly. "He's layin' up just outside of town."

  "All right. You got here just in time. Tomorrow night — that's Friday night — the president and the cashier of the bank work late makin' up the riggin' crews' payrolls for Saturday. They usually get through about ten o'clock. We get them as they come out the door an' hustle them back inside. That way, they can open the safe for us; we don't have to blow it."

  "All right with me," Charlie said. "What do you think, Max?"

  Max looked at Ed. "They carry guns?"

  "I reckon. You afraid of gunplay?"

  Max shook his head. "No. I jus' like to know what to expect"

  "How much you think we'll get?" Charlie interjected.

  "Fifty thousand, maybe more."

  Charlie whistled. "Fifty thousand!"

  "You'll drift over here one at a time. Quiet. I don't want no one to be lookin' at us. We'll meet in back of the bank at nine thirty sharp." Ed looked at them and they nodded again. He started to walk away, then came back. He peered at Max. "Ain't I seen you someplace before?"

  Max shrugged his shoulders. "Mebbe. I been aroun'. You look familiar to me, too."

  "Maybe it'll come to me tomorrow night." He started to walk down the alley.

  Max watched him until he turned into the street. He turned slowly to Charlie. "There's somethin' about that man. I got the feelin' I should know who he is."

  Charlie laughed. "Let's go. Mike'll be wonderin' what happened to us."

  * * *

  "Set yourself!" Ed whispered hoarsely. "They're comin'!"

  Max pressed tightly against the wall near the door. On the other side of the doorway, Ed and Charlie were waiting. He could hear the sound of two men's voices as they approached the door inside the bank.

  They all moved at once as the door opened, pushing it inward with sudden force.

  "What the hell's goin'— " a voice said from the darkness inside. It was followed by a thud, then the sound of a body falling.

  "You keep your mouth shet, mister, if you want to keep livin'!" There was a frightened gasp, then silence. "Git them into the back room." Ed's voice came harshly.

  Max bent swiftly and pulled the fallen man along the floor toward the back. There was the sound of a match behind him and then a lamp cast a tiny glow in the back room. He pulled the man into the room. He slumped and lay still when Max let him go.

  "Check the front door!" Ed hissed.

  Max ran back to the door and peeped out. The street was quiet and deserted. "No one out there," he said.

  "Good," Ed said. "Let's get to work." He turned to the other of the two men. "Open the safe."

  The man was in his late fifties. He was staring at the man on the floor with a horror-stricken look. "I— I can't," he said. "Only Mr. Gordon can. He's the president, the only one who knows the combination."

  Ed turned to Max. "Wake him up."

  Max knelt beside the man. He turned his face. The head looked peculiar, the jaw hung slack. Max looked up at Ed. "Ain't nothin' goin' to wake him up. You caved his head in."

  "My God!" the other man said. He seemed almost ready to faint.

  Ed stepped around to front of him. "I reckon you're goin' to have to open the safe, after all."

  "B but I can't," the bank clerk said. "I don't know the combination."

  Ed hit him viciously across the face. The man fell against a desk. "Well, learn it, then!"

  "Honest, mister," he sobbed. "I don't know it. Mr. Gordon was the only one. He was— "

  Ed hit him again. "Open that safe!"

  "Look, mister," the man begged. "There's over four thousand dollars in that desk there! Take it and don't hit me any more, please. I don't know the combination— "

  Ed moved around the desk and opened the center drawer. He took out a package of bills and stuffed it into his jacket. He walked around the desk and stood to front of the kneeling bank clerk. "Now, open the safe!" he said, hitting the man again.

  The man sprawled out on the floor. "I don't know, mister, I don't know!"

  When Ed drew his foot back to kick him, Max touched his shoulder. "Maybe he's tellin' the truth."

  Ed stared at him for a moment, then lowered his foot. "Maybe. I know how we can find out fast." He gestured at Max. "Get back on the door."

  Max walked back through the bank to the front door and looked out again. The street was still deserted. He stood there, quietly alert.

  Ed's voice came to him from the back room. '"Tie the bastard to the chair."

  "What are you gonna do?" the bank clerk protested in a weak voice.

  Max walked back and looked in the room. Ed was kneeling in front of the potbellied stove, stirring the poker in the live coals. Charlie straightened up from tying the clerk and looked at Ed curiously. "What're you doin?"

  'He’ll talk if this red-hot poker gits close enough to his eyes," Ed said grimly.

  "Wait a minute," Charlie protested. "You think the guy is lyin', kill him."

  Ed got to his feet and turned on Charlie angrily. "That's the trouble with you young ones nowadays. You got no guts, you're too squeamish. He can't open no safe if he's dead!"

  "He can't open it if he don't know the combination, either!"

  "You don't like it, scram!" Ed said savagely. "There's fifty thousand bucks in that there safe. I’m goin' to git it!"

  Max turned from the door and started back toward the front of the bank. He had taken about two steps when he was stopped by Ed's voice, coming from the
back room.

  "This’ll work, believe me," Ed was saying. " 'Bout ten, twelve years back, Rusty Harris, Tom Dort an' me gave the treatment to an ol' buffalo-skinner an' his squaw— "

  Max felt his stomach heave and he reached for the wall to keep from falling. He closed his eyes for a moment and the scene in the cabin came back to him — his father hanging lifelessly, his mother crumpled on the floor, the orange glow of the fire against the night sky.

  His head began to clear. He shook it. A cold, dead feeling replaced the nausea. He turned toward the back room.

  Ed was still kneeling in front of the stove. Charlie stood across the room, his face white and sick. "The ol' miser had gold stashed somewhere aroun' the place. Everybody in Dodge knew it— " Ed looked up and saw Max, who had crossed the room and was standing over him. "What're you doin' here? I tol' you to cover the door!"

  Max looked down at him. His voice was hollow. "Did you ever git that gold?"

  A puzzled look crossed Ed's face.

  "You didn't," Max said, "because there wasn't any to start with."

  Ed stared at him. "How do you know?"

  "I know," Max said slowly. "I'm Max Sand."

  Recognition leaped into Ed's face. He went for his gun, rolling sideways away from Max. Max kicked the gun from his hand and Ed scrambled after it as Max pulled the white-hot poker from the fire. Ed turned, raising the gun toward Max, just as the poker lunged at his eyes.

  He screamed in agony as the white metal burned its way through his flesh. The gun went off, the bullet going wild into the ceiling above him, then it fell from his hand.

  Max stood there a moment, looking down. The stench of burned flesh reached up to his nostrils. It was over. Twelve years and it was over.

  He turned dully as Charlie pulled at his arm. "Let's git outa here!" Charlie shouted. "The whole town'll be down on us in a minute!"

  "Yeah," Max said slowly. He let the poker fall from his hand and started for the door. Mike was holding the horses and they leaped into the saddle. They rode out of town in a hail of bullets with a posse less than thirty minutes behind them.