I was navigating by time. Figuring our speed over that rugged terrain at two miles per hour, I calculated that it should take us until roughly eight-forty on my watch—two hours—to put us opposite our destination. However, it was only a few minutes past eight o’clock when Antonia tapped me on the shoulder and pointed east.
“I think far enough,” she said. “I think Piedras Negras there. We look?”
I studied her face for a moment, wondering how much more she knew than she’d told me. If anything. Maybe I was borrowing trouble. After all, some people have a sharper sense of country than others, and my primitive time-and-velocity calculations weren’t infallible. We could have made better progress than I’d estimated. Or Arturo could have been dealing in short kilometers.
“Sure, if you think so,” I said.
I led the way to the top cautiously, by way of a brushy notch that afforded good cover. We crawled to a vantage point from which, still hidden, we could look out across the valley. As Arturo had said, you couldn’t miss them. Apparently there had been a prehistoric volcanic disturbance in the mountains across the way, accompanied by a lava flow that had hardened as it cooled, like black fudge, and had then been split into jagged blocks by centuries of erosion, bite-sized candies for a rock-eating giant, casually spilled out of a great bowl in the mountainside opposite. From the north-south road that was clearly visible over there, presumably the same road we’d seen on our first view of the valley, lower down, a small track ran up into the disorganized jumble of black stone blocks.
I said, “If there’s a village, it’s got to be right up in those rocks. We can’t cross over to it here without being seen, the damn valley is too open. It seems to get narrower up above, and I think I see better cover there, so we’d better keep going another kilometer or so. Then we’ll slip across and come back down the foothills on the other side. We can hope they won’t be expecting trouble from the north. A superannuated gent like pore ole gray-whiskered H. H. Cody, plumb exhausted from being chased from country to country, feeble from loss of blood, wouldn’t be likely to make any wide five- or six-mile mountain detours, even assuming that he was still capable of getting around on foot. What do you say?”
There was no answer. I looked sharply at my companion; she was staring across the valley with odd intentness.
I asked, “Do you see something? Have they got a man watching in those rocks?”
“Qué dice? Oh… oh, yes, I think I see man moving. Not see now.”
I didn’t think she’d seen any man, but I said, “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to rest and watch for a bit, see if anybody goes in or out. Hell, we’ve got all day.”
I got out the telescope, and we settled down comfortably in the brush. Antonia slipped off a moccasin and picked a thorn out of her foot.
“You have plan, Cody?”
I said, “Well, I think I’m probably going to kill somebody, if you want to call that a plan. I’m getting a little tired of being ambushed and hunted. I think it’s time to do some ambushing and hunting. Maybe I can make somebody mad enough to do something stupid.”
“Somebody? What somebody?”
“Well, I’m hoping for a mystery man called Sábado, but I’ll settle for your friend Carlos Mondragon, if you’re still of the same mind about him.”
“If you mean I kill him, I am still of mind. You think I find that político here?”
I shrugged. “I think trapping Cody is basically a gringo operation, but they do like to use guerilla manpower when they can, like when they laid for me near Cananea, and even earlier when they arranged for the killing of Will Pierce and Millie Charles way down east of Mazatlán.”
“You think they make follow those two clear to Mazatlán; and then, on road to Durango, poof!” She made a chopping motion with her hand.
“Poof is right,” I said. “Actually, that pursuit may have been Mondragon’s own idea. He knew that Pierce was looking for the arms; hell, since Pierce hadn’t been paid for them, they were still his, weren’t they? His ticket back to financial respectability, maybe, if he could find somebody else, somebody with money, to buy them off him. Mondragon was undoubtedly informed of Pierce’s visit to Arturo and his jaunt up this way, with the pretty lady in the white pants. It seems likely that he was as intrigued by the couple’s subsequent mad dash south as I am. He couldn’t help but think that Pierce had spotted something at Piedras Negras that gave him a clue to the whereabouts of the weapons and that he was heading south to check it out. I figure Mondragon loaded his murder crew into his little brown van and went after the couple to see what they were up to. When it began to appear they were leading him on a chase to nowhere he moved in on them, in his usual impatient fashion, tried his usual crude, muscular brand of interrogation, and wound up, as usual, with some dead bodies and no information.”
Antonia said, “Not much bright, this Mondragon.”
“Well, he’s desperate; if he’s ever going to get his revolution off the ground, he’s got to have those arms. Of course his Yankee paymaster, who didn’t give a hoot about the weapons now that the whole deal had gone sour, found the killings quite satisfactory. It wasn’t feasible for him to silence everyone connected with the ill-fated arms deal; but he could at least take care of those who were likely to make trouble for him north of the border. As far as he was concerned, the only good Pierce was a dead Pierce, and the same went for Cody after he had the bad judgment to let it be known that he was going to spend his honeymoon in this area, presumably snooping. I figure the paymaster—call him Sábado—made a new deal with Mondragon: ‘Take care of all these embarrassing Yankee characters for me, wipe them off the map, and you’re welcome to the damned weapons if you can find them.’ Which means, I figure, that Mondragon is right over there across the valley somewhere, waiting for us with his merry machete-men so he can carry out his part of the bargain. You may get a shot if you can figure out the right place to lay for him.” I glanced at her. “Of course, it’s likely to be risky. It could even get you killed.”
She shrugged in the inimitably fatalistic way they have. “All peoples die. You let Antonia look though glass, please?”
“Sorry. Anytime.”
I watched her as she adjusted the telescope to her vision. She looked cute trying to squinch her left eye closed as she peered through it; but something about her expression wasn’t cute at all. She passed the instrument back without speaking.
I asked, “Did you see anything?”
“Nada. No hombres. Only birds. Maybe we go now, hey?”
She backed off the crest and started away at a good clip. I paused to take a final look through the little scope. I couldn’t see any birds, except for a hovering buzzard, and you always see those. I couldn’t see any hombres either. I had to hurry to catch up with Antonia. She made no move toward letting me resume the lead; she just kept loping along ahead of me in her lithe and silent way. She seemed to know where she was going. She found a twisting pass through the hills that took us over into General Santa Anna’s valley, which we crossed by way of various arroyos and brushy gullies that hid us, we hoped, from any lookouts posted up high to the south of us, if they should bother to look our way. There was, as I’d said, no reason why they should. We hoped.
Then we were in the Santa Anna foothills and climbing. The week-old bullet crease and the days of inactivity were telling on me seriously now. The phony chest bandage impeded my breathing. Cody’s clumsy boots didn’t help, and maybe the fact that the kid was half my age gave her an additional edge; but I was damned if I was going to be outwalked or outclimbed by a lousy little Native Mexican wench wearing paper-thin moccasins and wrapped in a lousy blanket. I plugged along grimly in her wake.
“So. Now very careful. We look from top.”
Following along breathlessly, I’d almost run into her when she stopped. She pointed to the top of the ridge we’d been climbing, where it came to a knobby point.
“From there see Piedras Negras, I think,” Antonia said.
“Would they be likely to have a sentry there?”
“Sí. Could be man other side. Bad place for climb but good place for look.” She hesitated. “I go?”
“Sure, you’re quieter in those moccasins,” I said. “You scout it out, since you obviously want to. But if there is a sentry, let me deal with him. I’ve had more sentries to practice on, probably, than you have… Oh, just one thing. A favor, Antonia.
She made the inevitable Spanish response: “It is yours.”
“I’d like to borrow your .22.”
She frowned. “You want my little automatic gun you say no good? You make joke?” she asked. When I didn’t speak, she shrugged. “I say is yours, okay, is yours. Here.” Watching me hide it, she laughed with comprehension. “I see, you need very small gun for the boot. Muy bueno!”
Then we stood for a moment, facing each other. She was very foreign to me in that moment. In the next hour—hell, in the next few minutes—she might betray me completely, or she might lay down her life for me, and I wouldn’t be surprised either way. She removed the serape and gave it to me to hold. Without her high heels and the bulky blanket she was almost tiny.
She gave me her beautiful big grin. “Not much lag, hey?” she said slyly.
“Don’t rub it in. Just go away and let me finish catching my breath,” I said. “Antonia.”
“Sí.”
“Be careful.”
She rose on tiptoe and kissed me lightly on the cheek and was off up the slope, silently, fading from sight in the sparse brush almost at once. I sat down to wait, a little chilly in the shade of a bush since I’d worked up a good sweat on the way up. The same buzzard was still circling lazily over Piedras Negras, or where I figured Piedras Negras ought to be. He’d been joined by a friend. Or maybe they were two brand-new zopilotes. I guess all buzzards look alike to me.
I examined the serape she’d left with me, lumpy at one end with her small red shoes; there were pockets in the coarse material to hold them. There was also a partial box of high-speed .22s, but I left it there; no sense packing a hideout gun and then lugging extra ammo where it would be found by the first man to shake me down. Not that I expected to be caught and searched, but it was in the realm of possibility…
“There is one man.” Antonia had returned as silently as she’d departed. “Sit against rock, smoke cigarette, I smell, a hundred meters easy.”
“Yank or Mex?”
“He is gringo, I think. Much yellow hair like girl. Talk on little radio. No hear good, too far, but words sound ingles.” She’d retrieved her serape and was putting it back on as she spoke.
I said, “They do love their electronics.” I glanced at my watch. “That would have been just about ten o’clock; maybe he checks in on the hour. I can’t think of any reason a gringo would be up here except to help them get me. Well, Cody. So I guess I’m entitled to get him if I can. Did he have a rifle?”
“Sí.”
“A real rifle or an assault rifle?”
She frowned, not quite sure of the distinction. “It was long gun with telescope and the handle to be pulled and pushed, very anticuado. Old-fashion.”
“Hey, a bolt-action job with a scope. Well, that figures; it’s good sniper country. Okay, I can use that gun.” I took out the flat little Russell knife and checked the edge; but Jo Beckman hadn’t dulled it significantly with her surgery. “You wait here, please,” I said to Antonia.
She shook her head quickly. “I come with, por favor. Very quiet, Antonia, stay back enough, okay?”
I frowned at her for a moment. That she knew more than she was telling was obvious. She’d led us to this vantage point without hesitation; clearly she’d been in the area before. She was keeping something from me, and any sensible pro would have strangled her on the spot rather than run the risk of having her, loaded with guns, behind him. I saw that she knew exactly what I was thinking and found it amusing. Anyway, I liked the kid, and too much suspicion can be counterproductive, and to hell with it.
“Sure,” I said. “You’d better carry this damn conspicuous hat of Cody’s for me. Next guy I impersonate, I hope he goes in for berets or small black beanies. Where do I find this cigarette-happy character?”
Antonia took the hat and rifle. Something had changed between us; my gesture of confidence had made a difference, although I couldn’t have said how.
She said, “If you make to the right, a la derecha, and climb only fifty meters, maybe, and progress around hill, you will see big stone with tree behind. He is there. Vaya con Díos, amigo,”
I couldn’t help remembering that the last Mexican citizen who’d bid me go with God was the one who’d sent me into this elaborate mousetrap. But you have to trust somebody; and the man was exactly where she’d said he would be. I wished for a nice dark turtleneck and some durable pants and some silent shoes, or at least just the silent shoes; but there was a considerable breeze rustling the brush and grass of the hillside, and he wasn’t really listening for footsteps. He didn’t expect to have to deal with anything close enough for him to hear it. He was just looking off to the south and west, every so often making a careful scan of mountains and valley with a pair of big binoculars, 7x50s by the look of them. Night glasses, suggesting that he’d been up here watching for us since before dawn; he was getting bored and tired now.
As Antonia had said, he had shoulder-length blond hair streaming out below a wide-brimmed hat, General Custer style. Well, poor Custer lost his scalp at the Little Bighorn or the Greasy Grass or whatever you want to call it. I waited for a good rushing gust of wind, pitched a pebble beyond him, and while he was half-raised looking that way, got an arm around his face from behind and cut his throat with the three-inch Russell blade, learning that the flat, little all-steel knife, while very good for concealment, became quite slippery when wet. Well, you can’t have everything.
An odd, low, warbling birdcall made me look around, still holding him. Antonia was crouched on the slope above me.
“Make okay?” she whispered. “Bueno. I come down, hey?”
I shrugged. If she wanted to see a dead man, that was her concern. Sliding down to me, she had her look, her face quite without expression, which must have taken some doing. I mean, when you sever a man’s carotid and jugular you get a lot of blood and it isn’t nice. Antonia didn’t even gulp once. She just reached out her hand for the knife I still held.
“I clean.”
“Not if you’re going to jab it into the ground like I’ve seen some dodos do it. I spent a lot of time putting a good edge on that blade.”
“You think estúpido? Clean with grass, okay?”
While she was busy, I planted the guy back where he’d been, seated against his rock. Checking, I found that he carried no IDs, not even phony ones. A right-hip holster held the same model four-inch-barreled Colt as I’d found in Cody’s paper-bag collection. His binoculars were kind of messy; but I found a clean handkerchief in his pocket with which to wipe them, and hung them around my neck. His hat, which had come off, I put back on his head, tipped over his eyes. His little two-way radio, fortunately, had escaped the flood; a red indicator light showed that it was turned on and, presumably, receiving, although there seemed to be nothing to receive at the moment. I hooked it onto my belt with the clip provided. Then I turned my attention to the rifle leaning against the rock beside him.
In this day of complex automatic weapons, there’s something beautifully simple-minded about a bolt-action rifle, basically just a steel tube with a removable plug at one end fastened to a piece of wood. This was a Ruger M-77 with a barrel that looked very slim and clean because there was no front sight to mar its lines; there was no rear sight either. There was only the big variable telescope, one modern accessory I’m happy to adopt since it makes long-range shooting much easier. I hoped the dead man had sighted it in carefully; there was no way for me to check it out now.
I wasn’t too happy about the caliber: .243, or 6mm. With its little, 100-grain
bullet—there are lighter slugs but for a man-sized target like Horace Hosmer Cody he’d have picked the heaviest generally available—the .243 is a marginal cartridge as far as I’m concerned, losing a lot of its punch beyond three hundred yards where a 180-grain, .30-caliber projectile is effective well past six hundred. But at least I had a rifle, which was a relief; this was not good pistol country. A half-gallon canteen of water let me rinse myself off a little better. There was also a half-full quart Thermos of coffee lying beside the green backpack in which he’d brought his gear to this viewpoint. Inside the pack I found a box of .243 cartridges, which I pocketed, 100-grainers as I’d guessed, and two sandwiches done up in neat little baggies. I poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Antonia, who gave me my hat and my well-cleaned knife in return.
“Ham or cheese?” I asked.
“Queso, por favor. Here, you drink a little.”
We stood there eating the dead man’s sandwiches and passing his coffee cup back and forth since, inconsiderately, he’d only brought the one that came with the Thermos. It was callous of us, I suppose, but it had been a long, dry, hungry morning; and I’ve seen dead men before; I was only surprised that the girl could take it so casually. Most girls I’d known wouldn’t have eaten for a week after being exposed to such a horrible sight. As if reading my thoughts, she wiped her mouth and looked down at the body approvingly.
“You kill good,” she said calmly. “Like Indian. Maybe join tribe, hey?” She flashed a grin at me to show it was a joke.
“Just waiting for an invitation,” I said. “What tribe?”
The Frighteners Page 25