Outside the sun blazed down hotly, and Ginny shuddered, shrinking from it. With a perfunctorily apologetic glance at Steve, the lieutenant offered her his arm. Lagging slightly behind, pretending to look around curiously, Steve noticed the wrinkled Mexican peasant sitting dolefully on the edge of the cracked wooden sidewalk, huddled in his serape. The man, a refugee or a beggar by all appearances, appeared to be dozing, and yet Steve caught the white gleam of an eyeball as the man’s look slipped sideways and away.
“Hey, that pore old guy looks like he ain’t had a square meal in years! Take this, amigo, buy yourself some supper—”
The man scrambled in the dust after the carelessly tossed coin, his thanks a gabble in some obscure Indian dialect.
D’Argent and Ginny had stopped, and the lieutenant sounded annoyed.
“Really, monsieur! You should not encourage this kind of scum! Give them a peso and they expect it—and they’d turn around and put a knife in your back the next moment.”
“Ah shucks—can’t see a man looking as skinny and starved as he does,” Steve said mildly. “We’ve seen too much of that since we been here, haven’t we my dearest?”
“I prefer not to discuss unpleasant things,” Ginny said sharply, refusing to play his game, whatever it was. Although she was unpleasantly aware of his presence at her elbow as they continued to walk up the street, she pretended to ignore him, saving her smiles for the Frenchman instead.
The French had set up their makeshift headquarters in the only sturdy-looking adobe structure, which happened to be the local jail. But, as d’Argent explained quickly, he was occupying the jefe’s quarters next door, and he had seen to it that they were clean and comfortable.
“Jails always did give me a funny kinda feeling,” Steve commented conversationally. “Got yourself any prisoners locked up in there?”
“Only one,” d’Argent said, a trifle impatiently. “In fact, we think the man we have may be a Juarista spy—he did not seem to have any particular business here. Tomorrow we shall question him and find out.”
“Oh?” The American actually seemed interested. “Think you’ll get anything out of him? From the talk I’ve heard, these—whatever you call ’em—they’re tough customers.”
“We have our ways, monsieur. Believe me, if the man we have in jail is one of those filthy Juaristas, he’ll be happy to confess when my men are through with him.”
“I guess your laws out here are different from the law back home. Suppose he ain’t a spy after all?”
D’Argent shrugged, his eyes bright. “We all make mistakes, monsieur. And this is war. The man’s explanations did not satisfy us, and after a while, one has an instinct…” he ended his sentence with an expressive shrug, but all the same, he felt almost relieved when the cigar-puffing American did not persist with his questions. He had been in Mexico two years, and yet the torturing of a man was not something he enjoyed. He had seen French soldiers, often mutilated before they were killed, and had no compunctions about carrying out Marshal Bazaine’s orders to execute any suspected Juaristas without the formality of a trial. This was war, after all! But although the firing squad was one thing, torture, even though it was sometimes necessary, was hard on the stomach. He could order it, if he had to, but preferred not to watch it.
Fortunately, he had two American mercenaries standing guard over the prisoner right now—hardbitten gunmen from across the border who would rather earn big money for fighting the Juaristas than take their chances with the law in their own country. One of them, a tall, pale-eyed Texan who called himself Tom Beal would do the “questioning” of the prisoner. The lieutenant had seen Beal work before, and Beal enjoyed this kind of thing. He and the other man, who was known only as Blue, worked well together. They were both fast with their guns and completely ruthless; and they had already proved their worth as scouts, tracking down roving bands of Juarist “guerillos” who came and went like shadows, preferring to strike at the French soldiers from ambush rather than face them in battle.
The faithful Sergeant Pichon had done his best with the rather shabby quarters formerly belonging to the jefe. The floor had been polished, and the addition of a few handwoven rugs of local manufacture added color. As for the meal, there was no need for apologies here. Pichon had excelled himself—adding his own special touch to what had been available. Proudly, d’Argent served a dry white wine with the chicken, and was flattered when Madame Gray agreed with him that the vintage was one of the finest for that particular wine.
The American, her husband, ate stolidly and concentratedly, drinking down the wine as if it had been nothing but water. A waste, on such an undiscriminating pig, d’Argent thought to himself with a grimace.
But Madame Gray—Ginette—she was different! Such beauty and elegance was all too obviously wasted on her husband, and François d’Argent found himself growing more and more intrigued as the meal progressed. He made a perfunctory apology to the American for speaking in French, but the big man had merely waved his cigar expansively and told him to “go right ahead.” What kind of a man was he? The kind, no doubt, who would stoop to using his wife to further his business ambitions, using her as bait. And just as obviously, all was not well between them.
Once for a short while, the conversation turned to politics, and it appeared that madame, like d’Argent himself, had hoped that the southern states would win the recent civil war in America. Her husband, on the other hand, had merely raised an eyebrow and advised her that politics was not a woman’s province.
“Oh—but you’re insufferable!” she had burst out angrily, and her husband had grinned condescendingly, looking across at the lieutenant as if for support, with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
Hastily turning the conversation to more personal matters, d’Argent discovered, by dint of careful questioning, that the young woman was well-read, to add to her other accomplishments. Her French mother had died when she was young, but her father, also an American, was still living.
“You’re from Louisiana then, surely?”
“Alas no, monsieur! I’d hoped to stay there longer, especially in New Orleans, but Papa was in such a hurry to reach Texas…” Here she paused rather thoughtfully, as if unwilling to continue.
“Oh, and that is no doubt where you met your husband?” d’Argent said encouragingly.
“I—yes, I did meet monsieur in Texas,” she said shortly. She might have said more, having drunk enough to make her bold, but at that moment her fool of a husband stood up abruptly, his chair falling over with a clatter. D’Argent noticed that he swayed slightly on his feet.
“You gotta—gotta excuse me for a while. Damn good food that! But I think I need—need some fresh air—they got outhouses around here?”
Ginny blushed vividly, her face a mask of embarrassment and disgust and d’Argent, anxious to be rid of her husband, even if it was only for a little while, intervened tactfully.
“Ah, monsieur, my apologies! Let me show you.”
“No—no—wouldn’t dream of bothering you. Just you tell me where an’ I’ll find it—bet it’s out back, huh? Jes’ like home…”
Smiling vaguely, stumbling as he walked, the bearded American fumbled his way to the back door which opened onto a small courtyard where the house formed an ell with the back of the jail itself.
The dolt! Let him find a convenient spot to relieve himself. Perhaps, with luck he’d pass out. But at least he’d provided a golden opportunity for François himself, and he intended to make the most of it.
“I apologize, madame, for allowing your husband to drink too much,” d’Argent said softly. “But I must confess that I have longed to be alone with you from the first moment I saw you! You cannot imagine how your loveliness has captivated me—I could gaze for hours into your green eyes—admire the softness of your lips—”
The young woman seemed a trifle confused, but d’Argent caught her hand, pressing it urgently.
“I’m infatuated with you! I say this to you
so suddenly, so soon, because we are at war, madame! I might never see another woman as lovely as you again—you’ve swept me off my feet.”
He was pulling her towards him when the shot rang out. D’Argent jumped hastily, guiltily almost, to his feet, while the young woman made a frightened smothered sound.
“Mon Dieu! The Juaristas!”
At that moment, the big American appeared in the doorway, a foolish, embarrassed grin spread over his face.
“Sorry. Sorry if I startled you, didn’t mean it to go off, y’know. All I was doin’ was checkin’ the loads, see, an’ the damn gun went off! Can’t unnerstand it.”
Before d’Argent could find words, Ginny said coldly, “And why, pray, did you find it necessary, suddenly, to see if your gun was loaded?”
“Huh?” The American’s glance went from d’Argent to his wife and back again. He looked puzzled. “But honey, you know darn well I always start to checkin’ my gun when I see the way guys look at you.” He glanced at the dumbfounded lieutenant, still smiling. “Real jealous son-of-a-gun I am—just ask Ginny! Men are always lookin’ at her, and I jes’ keep getting mad. Even though I know my little babydoll here wouldn’t give any of ’em the time of day. She hates makin’ me mad, don’t you angel?”
D’Argent had begun to look a trifle alarmed, his face reddening. Surely the man had not overheard? If he’d been a Mexican, he’d have had him taken out and shot, but he dared not meddle with an American citizen, especially one with such a pretty and well-born wife—if she were well-born, and not just a little governess who had married for security.
The woman was speechless with fury, her eyes flashing, but d’Argent managed to find his voice, and was ashamed that it sounded so placating.
“B-but monsieur!” he said, stammering slightly, “you surely do not think that I—”
“Ah heck, of course not! No, you bin real nice to us both, hasn’t he, love? An’ you ain’t Ginny’s type at all. But I sure didn’t like the way some of your men back there acted—I tend to brood on things, and I got to thinking—an’ it made me mad, I guess!”
“Monsieur—” d’Argent said a trifle wildly, “I have already apologized for my men! But if you wish it…”
An urgent knocking at the door, and Sergeant Pichon’s alarmed voice gave him the opportunity to break off and he straightened himself with some relief. “I’m afraid, monsieur, that your accidental shot has caused some alarm among my men. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I will explain to them.” With a curt bow for the American and a languishing look at his wife, d’Argent opened the door quickly and went into the front room where Ginny could hear him complain in French that the stupid Americaine, the clumsy imbecile, was playing with his gun and—the closing of the door cut off the rest of his words, and Ginny, coming to her feet, turned angrily on Steve.
“Steve Morgan, I’ve had enough of this—this miserable imposture! I mean to…”
He took a swift step forward and gripped her wrist hard enough to bring an exclamation of pain to her lips; all the foolishness and drunkenness falling away.
“John Gray’s the name, and you’d better remember it! And as for what you mean to do, Ginny, then you’d best think carefully first. They’ve got Paco Davis in that jail. I know it’s him for sure now. He came to the window when I fired that shot, and I mean to get him out.”
She saw the old reckless light dance in his eyes and gasped.
“But that’s crazy! The town’s full of soldiers, as you know well enough. You’ll get yourself—”
He laughed suddenly. “Killed? But that should please you, love. Shouldn’t it? All I’m asking is that you don’t try to stop me from trying. If they do end up getting me, I’m sure it’ll prove very convenient for you.”
“I’ve no desire to be left at the mercy of a troop of soldiers who haven’t seen a white woman in months—especially if the man they think is my husband has just been executed as a traitor!” she retorted.
“Try to look on the bright side of things. Perhaps the handsome young lieutenant will keep you for himself,” he said softly. His eyes smiled down into hers, and for an instant she imagined that he intended to kiss her. But the moment passed, with the distant slamming of the front door. He released her and dropped into a chair, long legs stretched negligently before him as he reached for his glass.
D’Argent, apologizing for his delay in returning, poured more wine. He had noticed that Madame Gray looked flushed and rather sullen when he entered the room, and that she rubbed at her wrist almost absentmindedly. So! Had her clumsy ox of a husband dared hurt her? Perhaps the man really was jealous, in which case, would more wine only make his jealousy uglier, or would it put him to sleep?
The lieutenant made a point of trying to draw the man out, but he seemed to have no conversation, unless it was about cattle, and he found himself answered mostly in monosyllables. Certainly, the American looked sleepy. He had drunk an enormous amount of wine, and his eyelids seemed to droop, while he had not even the manners to smother his yawns. Even the young woman had become silent and rather thoughtful—perhaps she was afraid of her husband, although that had not seemed to be the case earlier.
“Gettin’ awful late—fall asleep right here if I don’t get to bed,” the American announced suddenly, his voice slurred.
“But, monsieur, another drink! See, the bottle is only half-empty, and I would hate to have to throw away good wine. Why, monsieur, I thought you Americans prided yourselves on being hard drinkers!”
D’Argent felt his cunningness at throwing out a challenge rewarded when he saw the scowl on the big man’s face.
“Whaddya mean, you thought—sure, we can hold our liquor better than anyone else, I bet!”
Triumphantly, d’Argent watched the American reach forward for the bottle, tilt it over his glass. He could not forbear stealing a glance at the woman, and was flattered when he found her eyes on him. The corner of her lips tilted upward very slightly in the beginning of a smile before she dropped her eyes demurely. So—she knew what he was up to, and she approved! He began to feel more hopeful.
When the sharp rapping came at the door, therefore, d’Argent was understandably annoyed; he was even more disturbed when the door opened abruptly, before he’d had time to answer. Americans! They had no idea of tact, of protocol!
The man who came in, closing the door carelessly behind him, was Tom Beal, one of the men who was supposed to be guarding the prisoner. How dared he intrude?
“Beal! What are you doing here? I thought I had told you—”
“You told me to let you know the minute our prisoner wanted to start confessin’. Well, it appears he’s in the mood to do just that. But he wants you to hear it.”
Beal was very tall and thin, with a high-cheekboned, rather cadaverous face. His hair was straw-colored and plastered down against his bony skull with sweat and hair oil.
His eyes were pale blue and expressionless, and Ginny could not help wanting to shudder when they touched her briefly.
Of them all, only Steve, his glass held to his lips, seemed completely unconcerned.
As a matter of habit, Tom Beal studied the room first, although he had been in here before. He was a killer by profession, and watchfulness was an instinct with him. He wore one gun, its holster tied low on his hip, and he set down the rifle he usually carried with him by the door, after he was sure how many people were in the room. It was the sort of pointless courtesy, he’d learned, that French officers insisted upon. And as long as it was safe, why not? They paid good money for his services, after all.
Beal had noticed the woman first—the minute he entered the room he had sensed her presence; knew right away that she was American, young and quite beautiful.
Like to get me some of that—the thought flashed through his mind. It had been a long time, too long, since he’d had an American woman, especially one like this, with the bloom not yet worn off.
Because he was in the French lieutenant’s quarters, and b
ecause of the woman’s presence, Beal made a mistake he would not normally have made. He let his guard relax, studying the woman openly while he spoke to the Frenchman. And because of it, he barely noticed her husband, who in any case was leaning tilted back in his chair sipping greedily at a glass of wine. He’d heard the French soldiers talk and had already dismissed the man contemptuously as a weak drunk. It was the woman—the woman that mattered.
D’Argent had not missed the way Beal’s eyes seemed to grow even paler as he let his lust show openly, and the fact annoyed him. The man had no right to walk in as he had, and he had even less right to stare.
“You interrupted me, Beal. You were speaking of the prisoner?”
With some difficulty, Beal brought his eyes back to d’Argent’s frowning, rather pompous face.
“Oh—yeah. Well, seems like he suddenly decided to confess, like I said—particularly when I started tellin’ him all the methods I planned to use to get him to talk.” Beal smiled wolfishly. “Says he knows where they hide out in the hills by here, but he’ll only spill it to you, personal. Guess he thinks you might give him a pardon.”
“I give no pardons to confessed Juaristas,” the lieutenant began sternly. “But of course, the man need not know that until after he has confessed, I suppose! Yes, I think….”
Bored by the lieutenant’s self-important speech Beal let his eyes wander again.
They went past the woman, who was suddenly whitefaced and still, her head bent; and beyond to the bearded man who lounged so silently in his chair, the glass of wine still in his hand, as if he could not bear to let go of it.
Beal started to move his eyes away indifferently when something, some half-remembered spark of familiarity tugged at his brain, drawing his gaze back to the other American. Like most professional gunmen, Beal relied largely on his instinct, and the reason he’d stayed alive this long was that he believed in playing his hunches—messages sent like faint tremors from his subconscious mind. Instinct, more than memory, told him now that he’d seen this man before, and under different circumstances. And there was also the way the man was looking at him now, watching him steadily and coldly through very dark blue eyes that contrasted strangely with the black beard and hair.
Sweet Savage Love Page 27