by Neil Hunter
“What gave you the idea, Bodie?” Lon asked.
“Remembered how we fooled that Yaqui. Baited him and when he bit I dropped him. We use the same move on Castillo. Make him think the business is at the mine, and once his back’s turned we move.”
“Bodie, you’re a sneaky bastard. Smart — but sneaky!”
They reached Xanatlan an hour before noon the next day. It was a dismal place, a ragged collection of stone and adobe huts set down on an empty plain. The rain and wind of countless years had eaten away at the buildings, leaving them scarred and pitted. Xanatlan looked old, even by Mexican standards. It also looked deserted. There didn’t seem to be anyone about when Bodie and Lon rode in. A window shutter, wood turned gray with age, swung to and fro on creaking hinges, moved by a hot breeze coming in across the flat plain that also brought hissing curtains of fine dust that rattled against the sides of the huts.
Bodie reined in, glanced at Lon, and shrugged.
“Come on then you bastards! Show your ugly faces! Or did I hear wrong and this place is full of old women!” Bodie’s voice boomed out across the silence, faded, and was replaced by the low moan of the wind.
Then: “Who are you to disturb our peace? Speak! And be careful what you say this time!”
Bodie glanced in the direction of the challenge. In the door of one of the huts stood a broad-shouldered Mexican. He had long black hair and a drooping mustache. There was open hostility in his brown eyes and a cocked gun in his right hand.
Bodie climbed down off his horse and strode over to the man.
“Name’s Bodie. I’m looking for some men who’re good with guns. I come to the right place?”
“Perhaps,” the Mexican said. He glanced beyond Bodie to where Lon sat his saddle. “If it was true what would you be wanting these men for?”
“A child’s job,” Bodie said. “One that your mother could do.”
“Then why come to us?” the man asked. “You should have asked my mother first.”
Bodie smiled thinly. “You were highly recommended.”
The Mexican rubbed his jaw. “What is this work?”
“I need someone to act as a decoy. To create a diversion.”
“So. And while this… diversion…takes place you will be doing something else?” The Mexican waited for an answer. He got none. Curiosity drew him outside the hut, his arms folded across his chest. The gun was still in sight, still cocked. “And the price?”
“When the job is over — all the silver you can carry,” Bodie told him.
The Mexican’s eyes shone with unconcealed greed. “Silver? Do not joke with me, gringo. You do not look like a man who could own so much wealth.”
“I don’t. But I know where to get it.”
The Mexican studied Bodie for a time. He glanced over his shoulder, back inside the hut, then leaned closer to Bodie. “I think we could all talk better over a jug of pulque,” he suggested.
“So do I,” Lon said. He dismounted and joined Bodie.
“I thought you didn’t drink?” Bodie asked.
Lon smiled. “Once in a while I let myself taste the evil stuff — just to remind me of the white man’s weaknesses.”
The hut was long and low. Tables and chairs were scattered about the earth floor and at the far end was a wooden counter. Xanatlan might have lacked some of the everyday amenities, but it boasted an adequate cantina. As Bodie moved across the floor he became aware of the smell hanging heavy in the air: a mingled odor of sweat and liquor. He was aware too of the eyes that watched his every move. There were close to a dozen Mexicans seated around the cantina. Every one of them carried a gun, many of them sporting a pair of revolvers. Dark, hostile faces turned towards Bodie, earthy hardness reflected in the weathered features. Bodie remembered what Father Lucero had said about the men of Xanatlan; one look at the faces in the cantina and he knew damn well that they were capable of anything.
They sat at a table. The Mexican called out and a jug of pulque was brought. Three glasses were banged down on the stained table. The Mexican poured the pale drink.
“What do you think of Armando Castillo?” Bodie asked.
The Mexican’s face hardened. “Castillo is a pig! He wants everything and expects the world to live by his word of law! He is a man without pity or honor! He calls himself a Grandee, but he acts with the mind of a savage!”
“You crossed paths with him before?”
The Mexican pushed back his seat and stood up. He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off. He turned his back towards Bodie, exposing the mass of crisscross white scars that marked his flesh.
“Look at them, Bodie! Look well and remember!”
He turned round, pulling his shirt back on. Sitting down he refilled his glass and took a long swallow. It was as if he were trying to wash away a bad memory.
“Two years ago some of Castillo’s riders caught me crossing his land. All I was doing was shortening my journey. They took me to Pueblo Diablo and tied me to the whipping post. Castillo himself began the beating. They whipped me for three hours and left me to hang there overnight. The next day they hung me over my saddle, roped me in place and set my horse loose. When I finally returned to Xanatlan it took me many weeks to recover. They say I screamed in my sleep for many nights. The pain is gone now, but I carry the marks still. Nor am I the only one to suffer at Castillo’s hands. Most of the men here have suffered because of Armando Castillo. Many others are dead.” The Mexican filled his glass again, staring across the table at Bodie. “Tell me what you want, amigo, and you shall have it! To go against Castillo is my pleasure!” He held out a hand to Bodie. “I am Elfego Rojhas.”
Concealed behind the ridge overlooking Castillo’s mine, Elfego Rojhas and the six men he’d picked to accompany him listened as Bodie outlined his plan for the last time.
At the back of Bodie’s mind was the nagging thought that the whole scheme depended on Castillo sending his men from his ranchero when the shooting started. If he didn’t it would all be wasted. But right now it was their best chance, and if Armando Castillo was as fanatical about his silver as all the talk implied, then he would send his hired guns.
Rojhas turned and grinned at Bodie. “We are ready, Bodie,” he said. “If my day goes well I might even get to kill a few Castillo men!”
“I’m damn sure you will,” Bodie said.
He and Lon mounted up and moved off. They rode in a wide loop that would take them away from the mine and bring them to Pueblo Diablo from the rear.
Elfego Rojhas had explained about Castillo’s virtual fortress of a town. The place had once been a Spanish settlement, a town built around a great hacienda. Now it was Castillo’s own town, housing his workforce and his hired guns. A walled-in town overlorded by Castillo himself — and the place Bodie and Lon had to infiltrate.
Bodie had allowed two hours. In that time he and Lon had to be in position, ready to take Victoria Castillo out from under the guns of her father. Two hours — which would bring them to noon — the time Elfego Rojhas and his men started their diversion.
The ride was long and slow. The heat and the dust made it uncomfortable, and Bodie was beginning to think he’d never see the inside of a bathtub again. He felt as if he hadn’t washed for weeks, and he was already sporting a thick mass of stubble across his face.
An hour before noon Bodie and Lon drew rein in a stand of trees overlooking the town of Pueblo Diablo.
“What was it you were saying?” Lon asked. “We just slip inside, grab the girl, and slip out again.” He scratched his nose. “Indeed this is great magic of white brother!”
“Balls!” Bodie muttered. “Come on, you loco Indian, and see how it’s done.”
They spent the next half hour circling the walled town, keeping to the thick scrub, until they reached a spot along the west side. Here they found a place where the land fell away into a dry creek bed. Dismounting, they tied their horses.
“According to Rojhas, Castillo’s hacienda backs up to this
section of the wall,” Bodie said. “Let’s hope he knows what he’s talking about.”
They worked their way to the base of the wall, flattening themselves against the crumbling granite. The wall rose to a height of about twelve feet, green moss sprouting from the joints of the massive stone blocks.
“Let’s go,” Bodie said.
Lon stood up, facing the wall, leaning against it with his hands. He didn’t even blink when Bodie climbed up onto his wide shoulders. Reaching up, Bodie gripped the top edge of the wall and dragged himself up, using the rough joints between the stone blocks as footholds. Peering over the top he checked that it was clear. He waved a hand in Lon’s direction and the Kiowa tossed up his coiled rope. Bodie caught the end and wrapped it round his waist, bracing himself as Lon began to climb. Together they lay on the wide ledge on top of the wall and looked down into the grounds of the sprawling hacienda.
They were above a garden thick with trees and shrubbery that shaded the silent place. Here and there flowers bloomed in splashes of brilliant color. Their scent was heavy in the still air. Beyond the garden stood the house itself. It was an amalgam of stone, wood and adobe, blended together to form a building capable of housing a small army — which it possibly might, Bodie thought. There was no basic shape to the place. It had started, perhaps, as a smaller structure, which over the long years and changes of ownership, had been added to and improved upon. Now it was complete — a vast, almost formless building in true Spanish style; it was solid, ornate in places, yet gave the impression that nothing could disturb its monolithic strength.
Bodie dropped down from the wall, Lon close behind him. They moved to the side of the house, losing themselves in the thick shrubbery, and waited, watching the front of the place. A wide, cobbled courtyard curved away from the hacienda, flanked by trees. High, scrolled iron gates opened out onto a curving drive that led down to the central plaza of Pueblo Diablo.
The distant sound of gunfire reached Bodie’s ears as flat, brittle cracks. First there were only a few ragged volleys, then over the next few minutes the shooting built up into a steady, almost precise fusillade.
Lon glanced at Bodie. “For a Mexican that ain’t bad timing!”
They sweated out the next ten minutes. Bodie watched the front of the house with mounting frustration. What the hell was Castillo playing at? Did he intend to stay where he was?
Abruptly men began to appear from the house. Horses were brought. Rifles flashed in the sunlight. Orders were shouted back and forth. Bodie noticed there were a lot of white faces among the dark Mexicans. Preacher Kane’s bunch!
“There’s that feller Rivera,” Lon pointed out.
Bodie had already spotted the man. But he was more interested in the man alongside Rivera. He knew somehow that he was looking at Don Armando Castillo himself; there was a manner in which he sat the saddle of his big black horse which spoke of his heritage. He was in his mid-forties, thick hair streaked with gray. Yet there was a strength in the high-boned face that even age couldn’t mar. It was the face of arrogance, of a highborn Grandee. It was also the face of cruelty — the face of merciless dedication to his own ambition.
“You figure that’s Castillo?” Lon risked.
“Well, it ain’t the stable boy!”
They watched the group of riders sweep out of the courtyard and through the open gates.
“You set?” Bodie asked.
Lon nodded. They ran for the rear of the hacienda, crossing the garden again. A narrow path led them to a stone-slabbed terrace. Beneath a curving arch a wide doorway revealed a long room. It was dominated by a great dining table around which stood a couple of dozen chairs. The white walls were hung with paintings and from the ceiling swung glittering chandeliers. They crossed the room, making for the door that led into the main house. Bodie paused in the doorway, checking the way ahead. A wide passage lay in front of them, with countless doors leading off. At the far end of the passage was a large reception hall. Bodie moved quickly along the passage, Lon keeping an eye on their rear. Their boots clicked loudly on the tiled floor. Bodie wondered how many of Castillo’s men were still in the house; he knew the man wouldn’t take his whole force with him.
His deliberations were interrupted by a sudden movement off to his left. Bodie spun round, his Colt raised and ready to use. He found himself face to face with a young Mexican dressed in spotless white cotton. The Mexican took one look at Bodie and Lon and made to run. Bodie caught the scared look in his eyes, and reached out to grab hold of the man’s arm. He jerked the Mexican round, slamming him back against the wall, then rammed the muzzle of the big Colt into the man’s taut stomach.
“Señorita Castillo?” Bodie snapped.
The Mexican’s eyes widened and he moaned softly. The moaning stopped when Bodie clipped the man alongside the jaw with the barrel of the Colt.
“Señorita Castillo, feller! And quick!”
The Mexican pointed across the hall to a wide staircase leading to the upper floor. Bodie shoved him in front, forcing the man up the stairs. On the landing they were faced with more passages. Bodie prodded the Mexican with the muzzle of the Colt and the terrified man led them along one passage, bringing them to high double doors.
“Señorita Castillo!” The Mexican croaked the name, indicating the door with a trembling hand.
“Graçias!” Bodie said and laid the barrel of his Colt across the Mexican’s skull. Before the man had hit the floor Bodie had turned to the doors, putting his shoulder to them.
The big doors swung open. Bodie and Lon stepped inside the room, and came face to face with the daughter of Don Armando Castillo.
Chapter Eight
Even in the heat of the moment, knowing that time was something they didn’t have. Bodie found himself pausing to take a long look at Victoria Castillo. He hadn’t thought much about her physical appearance. Now there was no way of avoiding it. Her beauty was breath-taking; jet black hair that reached her waist; angry dark eyes that revealed the proud spirit burning in her lithe, slim, yet full-breasted young body. He caught a quick impression of a sensuous mouth in the smooth oval of her face, the red lips parting to reveal neat white teeth — and then she had turned away and was running across the room to an open window.
Bodie went after her, reaching out to catch hold of her arm. He yanked her away from the window, feeling her resistance. She spun round, yelling something in rapid Spanish. Her free hand clawed at his face, long nails tearing his cheek. Bodie swung her away from him, the force of the movement sending her face-down across the wide bed, long legs bared as her dress rode up. She rolled as she hit the bed, trying to reach the far side, failing to see Lon. He stepped in close as she came to her feet, swinging one big hand, with a deceptively easy motion. It caught her across the side of her fragile jaw and she folded back onto the bed and lay still.
“Pick her up and let’s get the hell out of here,” Bodie said, making for the door. Lon swung Victoria Castillo over one shoulder and loped after the man hunter.
They reached the stairs and started down. Without warning a figure stepped into view from behind a pillar on the far side of the hall below. Bodie saw an angry dark face turned up towards him. Then a gun rose, exploding with a heavy sound, powder smoke wreathing the muzzle. The bullet clipped Bodie’s left sleeve in passing, tearing a splinter of wood from the stair higher up. The man ran across the hall, heading for the stairs, firing as he came and yelling in Spanish.
“Damn!” Bodie cursed. He ducked in towards the stair rail, swinging his Colt round. One foot slipped on the polished stair and he slammed up against the rail, grunting at the pain. He triggered a shot at the approaching man without aiming. His bullet screamed off the tiled floor, leaving a long white scar behind. The closeness of his shot made the man pull back a fraction. It gave Bodie a chance for a second shot. This time he took a moment to aim. His bullet ripped open the man’s left side, just above the hip. Blood and bits of flesh burst from the man’s ripped shirt. He twisted to t
he floor, dragging himself across the tiles, leaving behind a slimy trail of dark blood.
“Move it, Lon!” Bodie yelled.
They clattered to the bottom of the stairs and ran across the hall, making for the passage that would take them out of the house.
Now they could hear voices and the hammer of running feet.
Two men appeared from one of the side passages. They were both Americans. Bodie recognized one of them as the stocky, tobacco-chewing gunman from the village; the man’s face still bore the marks of the encounter. As the stocky man lunged at Bodie there was the sound of a shot. It had come from Lon’s rifle. A man screamed. Then a writhing shape struck the wall, slithering loosely towards the floor. The white wall suddenly bore a glistening smear of red. There was no more time to look as the stocky man smashed into Bodie. The man hunter almost went down. He saw the dull gleam of a knife in the man’s hand. Bodie drew back, sensing the blade cutting through the air. He twisted to one side, his body protesting against the violent movement. The top of the blade sliced through his shirt, biting into his flesh; a sharp burst of pain streaked across Bodie’s shoulder and chest and he felt the warm slickness of flowing blood ooze down his body. Bodie lunged forward while the stocky man was still trying to regain his balance. The heavy Colt smashed down across the man’s face. Bone cracked and blood dappled the flesh. The man gasped, his free hand reaching up to touch his injured face. Bodie shouldered him back a step, jamming the muzzle of the Colt against the man’s body. He pulled the trigger, dogged back the hammer and fired a second time. The heavy bullets ripped the man’s body open, pulverizing his internal organs, then blasted their way out through the small of his back in a hideous welter of blood and pulped flesh. The man catapulted across the hall, his body squirming. He cried out once before his body struck the floor and then lay twitching in a spreading pool of his own blood.
Lon was halfway across the garden area by the time Bodie burst out of the house. Dropping Victoria Castillo ungraciously to the ground Lon helped Bodie gain the top of the wall. Then he picked up the unconscious girl and lifted her over his head. Bodie swung down from the top of the wall, caught the girl around the shoulders and hauled her up beside him. Then he dropped the rope for Lon. As the Kiowa reached the top of the wall figures emerged from the house and began to fan out across the garden.