by J. T. Edson
Every eye turned towards him. The talk died down as he took his place on the table and planted a boot on the bulging saddlebags that lay before his vacated seat. Boasts of what would be done to el Cuatro, the Four, should they be foolish enough to try and take those saddlebags, died away. Laughter and song finished for all knew the ugly way of Chavez’s temper when he had been drinking.
Of all the men at the table probably the least worried were the three Texans. Whang, tall, lean, tanned to the color of old leather, sat watching everything with cold, disapproving eyes as he drank tequila without any apparent effect. Dooley was short, stocky, a pocket Hercules with a wry sense of humor which little appeared to worry. Clapper looked tall, thin and slow, but could handle a gun with speed. All knew full well just how much Chavez depended on their backing for his success and continued life. They depended on Chavez’s name to help them to do their work below the border, for Americano del Norte bandits were regarded by their Mexican counterparts as unwelcome interlopers who supplied too stiff opposition to the local industry. The Texans did not mind being regarded as Chavez’s men for they considered it safer to raid in Mexico rather than across the line.
For all that Whang did not approve of Chavez’s drinking or boasting.
‘I am Enrico Chavez. The fastest gun in the world. Only I could have brought these bags of money so far in safety. Where are these Tejanos who call themselves el Cuatro? I tell you where they are. They are hiding, afraid to show their faces to the great Chavez. I am not like this Barrio, this great soldier, they fear me.
‘What do you think, Whang?’ called Chavez, but did not wait for an answer. ‘I tell you all,’ he paused and slapped the Tiffany grips of his Colt, ‘let any man among you try and touch these sacks. Just let him do it once and before his hand travels three inches he will be dead.’ Once more he paused, looking around the room in a challenge. ‘Come on, who will—’
Faintly the men heard the call of a whippoorwill sound from the rear of the building, from each side, then the front door. Whang, like the others, heard the call and knew something to be wrong. Even as he opened his mouth to give orders, he heard a faint rattling sound in the chimney and saw something drop on to the fire, saw a spurt of flame lick up. Then a dull roar sounded. The fire burst apart, flying in chunks, soot rolled down the chimney and billowed out.
At the same moment the front door burst open and a small man holding two strange looking Colts appeared at it. The kitchen door burst inwards and a tall handsome giant stood framed in it, also holding a brace of guns. The side windows shattered in, at the right stood a black dressed, babyishly innocent looking youngster whose cold red-hazel eyes looked along the barrel of a rifle he aimed at the table. From the roof came a crash and a sound of somebody or something rolling down it.
‘Stand still, all of you!’
Dusty Fog roared out his order as he burst in. The silence which fell when Chavez mounted the table had worried him at first, then he heard the man’s boastful words and guessed what was happening. Dusty could see he had guessed at the right amount of powder to leave in the flask, enough to make a good bang but not so much that it blew the roof off.
For once in his life Whang found he had thought too slowly. He sat very still for he could recognize the black dressed Texan at the right window. A man didn’t take chances with the Ysabel Kid, not happen he wanted to grow any older.
With a belly full of bottled brave-maker to help him Chavez did not think. His hand started to claw out his gun. From the door Dusty threw up his right-hand Colt and fired fast. He could see the man carried too much tequila and shot to wound. His aim was off, yet it gave him maybe the luckiest shot of his life. The bullet, instead of taking Chavez’s leg bone to pieces, ripped the heel from his left boot. Losing his balance Chavez toppled over backwards, flailing his arms as he went over the table edge and landed on the floor. From the way he lit down it did not look like he would rise again for some time.
After pitching the powder horn down the chimney, Waco turned and made a rolling dive down the slope of the roof. Going up he had taken care to make no noise but on the way down he figured it didn’t matter, especially when he heard the boom of the explosion. He felt himself leave the edge of the roof and lit down on the ground rolling, like he’d come off a bad horse. The fall jarred him, but he came up fast, drawing his guns as he ran to the front door, passing Pancho who covered the room from the left side window.
‘Get up, mister,’ Dusty ordered, looking straight at Whang. ‘Then let your gunbelt drop.’
‘Do it, Whang,’ warned the Kid. ‘That’s Dusty Fog talking.’
‘Heard tell you rode with him, Kid,’ Whang answered.
He rose slowly to his feet and unbuckled his gunbelt, making sure his hands stayed well clear of the guns. He knew the Kid well, knew also that the Kid rode with Dusty Fog. The shooting of Chavez had not escaped Whang’s notice either. He doubted if Dusty meant to hit the boot heel, but also knew he would not miss a man-sized target if he shot at one.
Even as Whang removed his gunbelt and let it fall to the floor, he saw a tall youngster enter behind Dusty. A youngster who also held two guns. Dusty must have been expecting this youngster for he did not turn, but spoke over his shoulder.
‘Get a rope, boy. A good long one. Take the innkeeper with you, he’ll likely know where there’s one. If not get your own.’
By the time Waco returned with a couple of ropes taken from the Chavez men’s saddles, Dusty had disarmed all the men. Waco did not need to ask what his next move was. He and Mark each took a rope and started to fasten the hands and feet of the men. It would have been death to object for these men knew their business. Mark had been a lawman in Quiet Town under Dusty and Waco learned much from his pards. The groaning, still unconscious Chavez was also secured and Dusty came forward to take up the saddlebags.
‘Bust the weapons,’ he ordered.
‘You can leave Whang, Dooley and Clapper’s, Mark,’ drawled the Kid.
‘Obliged to you for that, Kid,’ grunted Whang. ‘I don’t reckon we’ll have any guards left out there, though. I telled Enrico to put more out, or let one of us three go, but you know what he’s like.’
‘Sure pleased he didn’t though,’ put in Dooley. ‘I don’t want to be on no guard with you sneaking around with that ole knife, Kid. I’d likely get all killed off afore I gets that fancy officer’s uniform Marcus’s promising me.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ the Kid replied. ‘Like you done tying in with a two-bit pelados like Marcus.’
‘Offers a fair return for the effort, or words to that effect,’ grinned Whang. ‘Or so Enrico keeps telling us.’
In the cantina’s big main room Dusty stood with the heavy saddlebags slung over his shoulder. He took no chances and opened them to make sure they contained the money, for he did not wish to have made the raid and then find himself carrying a load of old iron, or lumps of lead. He did not need to bother. In his arrogant assumption that nobody dare attack them, Chavez refused to take any precautions and the bags contained the money all right.
‘Let’s go!’ Dusty told the others, after glancing around to make sure all the Chavez men and the innkeeper were secured. There would be other people in the building, in fact, Mark had returned to the kitchen to quieten the hotel staff who came running when they heard the explosion. They would release the prisoners soon enough after the Texans rode out. ‘Get the hosses boy.’
‘Don’t be any rush to wave us good-bye though,’ warned the Kid. ‘I’ll be around and watching.’
Seven – Marcus – Boss or Dupe?
The big house which had once belonged to Don Francisco Almonte had been built in the good old days of the Spanish colonization, like el Camino Real. In those early days hostile Indians, resisting the efforts of the priests to convert them and turn them into slaves of the Conquistadors, made life uncertain enough for folks to want a substantial house and defenses around them.
So Casa Almonte had been stoutly
built and looked capable of standing up to anything short of a full-scale attack by an Army and field train of artillery. The main house stood as firm and splendid as it had when first built, two stories high with stout old walls both around and within it. Around the main house stood a ten foot high, stone wall with a parapet around the inside upon which men could stand and fire upon their attackers. Only one way gave entrance to the grounds, through the large double gates which, at this moment, stood open but guarded by surly men in their ragged uniforms.
Around the house lay open land, the nearest cover being a half circle of woods over three-quarters of a mile away. This might have been fatal against the artillery of a siege train, but few Indian bands had even seen artillery and none owned such a thing as a cannon. Even these days the walls offered good protection for few rifles, except for the rare, powerful Sharps and Remington single shot models on sale north of the line, could do anything effective at three-quarters of a mile.
Standing at his post, one of the sentries saw the approaching party of riders and drew the other’s attention to them. He recognized them and felt puzzled as he waited for them to draw near.
When Chavez left the house, he and his men had been riding good horses. There had been fifteen men in the party. Only six returned, Chavez, his head wrapped in a ragged, dirty and blood-smeared bandage, the three Texans and the pair of half-breeds. They rode poor, bony horses, using plain and ordinary saddles.
‘Get out of my way, fool!’ snarled Chavez, to the nearest sentry. ‘Quick, before I slit your ears.’
The party rode in through the gates, astride the innkeeper’s horses, the first to come back from being scattered. They were sorry looking horses and incapable of any kind of fast movement. So it had been two days since the raid, and now, well past noon, they were returning to tell Marcus they had lost the money.
Sitting or lounging around in the grounds were many men, vicious looking and deadly, the sweepings of a dozen and more bandido gangs and all wearing dirty, ill-fitting uniforms. The grounds, with what had been fine looking gardens, now carried a look of neglect, rubbish piled high, refuse, horse droppings spread before the house, showing how little care the Marcus men had for property.
Chavez’s arrival caused something of a stir amongst the men and they came crowding forward, but one look at his face stilled any thought of asking questions or making ribald comment.
‘El Cuatro,’ whispered a voice, and the crowd took up the words.
Looking straight ahead, Chavez ignored all of them. His eyes studied the stately shape of Casa Almonte, the lines of stables around the walls, the general elegance which not even the occupation by Marcus’s men could hide. His eyes turned to Whang and they held an avaricious glint.
‘It is a pity that such a fine home should be in the hands of a fat pig who does not appreciate it,’ he said.
‘Yep,’ answered Whang, then went on dryly, ‘He ain’t going to appreciate us losing all that money, neither.’
That was why Chavez brought the Texans and the half-breeds along with him. He could rely on them to back him and also to agreed with any story he told. The men Marcus sent along would report on what really happened, provided they arrived, for Chavez gave his remaining gang members certain instructions on the matter.
Leaving their horses to be cared for by the half-breeds, Chavez led his three Texans into the hall. His nose wrinkled with distaste as he looked around. The hall’s floor had mud tramped in and never cleaned. Food, broken and empty bottles lay scattered around. The stairs leading to the second floor had lost their carpet and the portraits of Almonte’s ancestors showed signs of having been used for target practice for both gun and knife.
‘Where’s Marcus?’ asked Chavez of a corporal who came from a side room.
‘In the library, señor.’
Without another glance at the soldier, Chavez walked to the big double doors of the library and thrust them open.
General Marcus turned, snarling out, ‘I said I was not to be disturbed—’
He was a big man, heavily built, running to fat since his elevation to the rank of general. His face had a brutish, piggy look about it which a small moustache did nothing to hide. His uniform fitted as well as could be expected, for his body did not lend itself to a good fit, and carried much gold braid. There had been a time when he ran a band of prime cut-throats by the fear of his presence, but he tried to live it down. In his attempts at gentility he used sickly perfume to hide the fact that he rarely if ever washed and to mask the ever present stench of stale sweat around him.
The angry words he might have said died in his throat. He stared at Chavez as if unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. The other occupant of the room rose so hurriedly as to tip over her chair.
Although she now wore a sober black riding habit and had her hair taken severely back, Dusty or any of the others would have recognized her as the young woman at the dance in Salvamiento.
‘You have delivered the money for the weapons, no?’ asked Marcus, although common sense told him this to be impossible.
‘We have delivered the money no,’ drawled Whang calmly.
Marcus had been stepping forward, but he stopped in his tracks like he had run into a brick wall. The girl came forward, the quirt she always carried while amongst Marcus’s rabble tapped her side ominously.
‘You mean that you have the money?’ she asked.
Removing his hat, Chavez exposed the bandage more fully and pointed to it. ‘They attacked us—’
‘El Cuatro?' she interrupted.
‘Not only them, but some twenty vaqueros,’ lied Chavez, looking the girl in the eye without flinching as he did so. ‘I fell wounded and unconscious and when I recovered it was all over. All your men died in the fighting, Marcus. My own men were forced to surrender. Señorita le Plonchet, what could they do, under the rifles of so many men?’
‘Sure was dangerous,’ drawled Whang.
For a moment he thought Margarita le Plonchet would round on him and lash out with her quirt. Which same would be unfortunate for Whang did not aim to let even the boss lady of this whole damned fool shebang lay a quirt on him.
‘You mean you let them come down and take the money?’ she asked, looking at the lean Texan.
‘They just wouldn’t have it any other way.’
A sound, almost a scream of rage, rang from Marcus. His hands clawed at his collar, ripping it open in his fury.
‘Those four!’ he screamed, no other word could describe the sound. ‘El Cuatro! What do they want with me? Why do they hound my men?’
‘Almonte and the Ysabel Kid was close, like pappy and son,’ Whang answered. ‘You’re sitting in Almonte’s home and folks reckon you might know where the old-timer’s done hid out.’
Marcus looked almost on the verge of a fit. His eyes bulged out, his mouth hung open and he staggered towards the table in the center of the room. Instantly Margarita sprang before him, her face set and savage.
‘Stop it!’ she snapped. ‘Marcus, you heard me. Stop it!’
Slowly the mad light left Marcus’s eyes. She watched him for a moment, then turned her cold gaze to Chavez, looking him over from head to foot. He had taken the dead sentry’s boots, which were not of the quality he usually wore, and his clothes looked disheveled. Yet he did not have the appearance of a man who fought hard and long.
‘You came to us, like the other men, because of your fear of what Lerdo’s promises about removing the bandits might do to you,’ she said. ‘General Marcus and I trusted you with a great deal of money, because of your reputation. You have failed us.’
If he felt embarrassed at the words Chavez hid it. ‘I did my best. Barrio, with fifty men, could not run down the Four. They have struck at your men, taken much money. Now, with the aid of vaqueros, and from a well laid ambush, they have robbed me. You did not tell me who the Four were. We all know the wartime fame of Captain Fog. Had I known I might have taken stronger precautions.’
N
one of the others spoke, but all knew that el Camino Real had been built to make the laying of ambushes very difficult, if not completely impossible. Margarita looked at the men for a long moment, tapping the quirt against her leg.
‘This Vincent, the seller of arms,’ Marcus said. ‘He has many men?’
‘Enough,’ the girl answered, guessing what he had in mind. ‘Besides we have need of his services again.’
Chavez walked to the table, helped himself to a cigar, lit it and paced the room with it clamped between his jaws. His eyes went to the gloomy old pictures around the room. One of Francisco Almonte which glowered down from a side wall. Then he shrugged and joined the others.
‘Collect more taxes,’ he suggested.
‘We have tried,’ snarled Marcus. ‘If it was that easy I wouldn’t mind. Those four thieving sons of swine have robbed us of more than half of all gathered, to say nothing of weapons destroyed and horses lost.’
After helping himself to a cigar, sniffing at it, then taking a handful and stowing them into his pocket, Whang asked, ‘What you fixing in to do?’
Margarita and the other two did not reply for none of them had any idea of what they had to do now. Whang watched them, noting the way Marcus looked to the girl for guidance. He had noticed this before and, knowing Marcus, had made his own deductions from it. All too well Whang knew Marcus’s standing amongst the bandido bands. Pure luck and nothing more gave him his present position and in Whang’s considered opinion Marcus did not have enough sense to pack sand into a rat-hole. Yet there were brains behind this business, of that Whang felt sure. More brains than Marcus possessed. The question Whang asked himself was whether Marcus was the top man, playing a double game by pretending to be his usual hawg-stupid self, or merely a dupe, a figurehead who happened to be in a position of use to the real brains.