by Jory Sherman
“Well,” Smith said. “You see anything?”
“Wayne, I liked to choke on what I saw. I don’t know how many are out there, but I saw Charley lyin’ there, not movin’, and I seen Riley tryin’ to hide hisself. Didn’t see Kip, but someone’s hidin’ in the bushes shootin’ at someone way down in them trees at the side of the hotel. That ain’t all I seen, neither.”
“Well, spit it out, Earl,” Smith said. “You think we got all night to chew the fat?”
“You know that kid, the one Charley was sayin’ was here? Has a thousand-dollar price on his head?”
“Zane?”
“Yeah, that one. He’s got him a beard, but it’s him all right. He’s hiding behind that little wall out there, squarin’ off with Riley. He seen me, too, and I skedaddled before he threw down on me.”
“You dumb son of a bitch,” Smith snarled. “You should have shot him on the spot.”
“You just told me to look, Wayne. That’s what I did.”
Wayne scratched his jaw, let out a sighing breath.
“Well, them boys got themselves into it. It’s up to them to get theirselves out,” he said. “Let’s light a shuck before Zane and whoever else is out there comes in here. I ’spect this place will be swimmin’ with lawmen pretty damned quick.”
The three men threw their keys on the counter and headed for the rear entrance.
“Do you want a copy of your bill?” the clerk called out. “Are you gents checking out?”
Smith didn’t answer.
In moments, the three men were gone, riding their horses into the dark of night. The sound of gunfire faded as they increased the distance between them and the Posado del Rio.
“Where we goin’, Wayne?” Crisp asked.
“Someplace where nobody can find us,” Smith said, his jaw hardening to stone.
That Lew Wetzel Zane was a thorn in his side, all right. Maybe he should have gone out there and put his lamp out. He was thinking that, but he had thought the same thing back in Pueblo after he killed Carol and the kids. He had a chance then to kill Zane and, instead, he had hightailed it. Maybe the other man out front was that U.S. marshal he had knocked cold that day in Pueblo. Likely, he thought.
Well, that was two on his list.
Yes, sir, the very next time he saw either one of them, he’d give them lead poisoning.
The bastards.
26
LEW CRAWLED UNDERNEATH THE HORSE. HE FELT ITS CHEST, cradled each ankle with a caressing touch, opened its mouth, and looked at its teeth. This was the horse Marylynn had liked out of all they had seen in the yards, a small steeldust gray with black topknot, mane, and tail. The horse stood about fourteen hands high, he figured. No scars on its hide, no blanket burns.
“Well?” she said when he had finished and stood up. They both stood there, appraising and admiring the horse. The horse eyed them, too, and Lew saw a native intelligence there that raised its value several points.
“A good, sound horse. Gelding, about four years old, good teeth, sound legs.”
“Oh, I think he’s a beauty, Lew.”
“He looks like a big mouse.”
“Don’t you talk about my horse that way,” she said.
“He’s not your horse yet. Have to wait until they run him into the arena where you can bid on him.”
“How much do you think he will cost?”
“Shouldn’t be much. Have to see what the bidding starts at. You could pick him up real cheap.”
“When am I going to meet this U.S. marshal? Blackhawk, is that his name?”
“Oh, he’ll show up directly. Before noon, I reckon. He’s working this morning.”
“He almost sounds like a friend, the way he stuck up for you last night at that hotel.”
“You mean keeping the local constabulary from dragging me off to jail.”
“Yes, and making you a deputy and all.”
“A temporary deputy. It suits his purposes. He’s not a real friend. If he had Wayne Smith locked up, he’d be dragging me back to Arkansas to stand trial.”
“Oh, Lew, I hope he’s got more compassion and sense than to do that.”
“Oh, he has some compassion, all right. And he’s got sense. But he’s sworn to uphold the law, and the law says I have to stand trial.”
He didn’t like to think about it. He knew he would not get a fair trial back in Berryville. He would go up against a hanging judge, and the judge would see to it that he got his neck stretched on the gallows.
The horse walked away. There was the heady scent of sweat, manure, hay, and grain in the air. He had never seen so many horses penned up in one place. There must have been forty head at least in the various corrals. Some looked like Thoroughbreds, and he saw a couple of Spanish Arabians—sleek, black, handsome animals—along with a swaybacked mare or two, several cow ponies with cropped manes and bobbed tails, and even some mules and burros.
They could hear the voice of the auctioneer inside the sales barn, his rapid staccato delivery sounding like a foreign language.
“We’d best get inside, Marylynn,” he said. “You don’t want to miss bidding on the big mouse.”
“Oh, you,” she said.
She was wearing her new skirt and boots and the flat-crowned hat that gave her a jaunty look. Lew thought she was a very striking woman and could not help but notice the barely concealed glances other men gave her when she walked by. This morning she looked positively regal and self-assured, which he thought added to her comeliness.
They sat in the middle of the center tier of stadium seats looking down at the horses in the arena, each held by a handler, each haltered. One of the horses drenched the already soggy ground with a stream of yellow urine while another hoisted its tail and left a pile of horse apples that steamed like something recently removed from an oven. The musty scene of the vapors wafted their way while the auctioneer rattled on with his “biddy biddy twenty dollars do I hear twenty-five?”
Finally, a handler led in the steeldust gray gelding. Marylynn perked up. She carried a Mexican fan that she now folded and held in her lap. Her eyes glittered with anticipation.
“Don’t look too eager, Marylynn,” Lew said. “Let’s listen to how the bidding goes.”
“Oh, I want to get right in there,” she said.
“Wait.”
The auctioneer handed some papers to the man next to him, standing just below the pulpit. Then he glanced at another sheet the man handed him.
“This little gelding is four years old, saddle broke, good bottom, good legs, make a fine little cow pony. The bidding will start at ten dollars.”
Then he put the paper down and looked up, glancing around the arena at the spectators. Shills stood at various places, acting as spotters for the auctioneer, who would recognize any bidder and acknowledge the bids.
“Well, biddy biddy, I got ten, do I hear twenty, what’llya bid, who’ll bid it, ten, I got twelve, lookin’ at a bid fifteen, what’llya bid and fifteen, bid it up, bid it up,” all in rapid-fire delivery.
“Hold up two fingers,” Lew said.
Marylynn held her arm up, two fingers extended.
“Does that mean two dollars more or twenty?” she whispered to Lew.
“Bidup, biddybiddybidup, I got twenty, here’s a twenty, do I hear twenty-five, will he do it, bid it, bid it, bid it, thirty, I got twenty, biddin’ it, biddin’ it, will it, will it, will it bid up bid up bid uppy twentyfive gimme thirty, gotta get thirty, biddin’ it, bid’ll it go, what’ll it go in a bidup, biddy up, bid gimme thirty…”
Marylynn bought the horse for forty dollars. The man she was bidding against dropped out at thirty-eight dollars.
“Good price?” she asked Lew.
“A bargain. You sold that outlaw horse for thirty, so yours cost you only ten bucks.”
“That’s right,” she said, a smile as big as the sunshine on her face.
Lew helped her saddle her new horse, while Marylynn strutted and gloated, petted an
d raved about it.
“What’re you going to name it?” he asked. “Horse needs a name.”
“What do you think?” she said.
“Mouse.”
“No, no, not Mouse, you cad,” she screeched. “He’s a noble steed, a wonderful horse. I love him, I just love him. I’ll think of a name. Just let me think.”
They were getting ready to ride out when Horatio rode up.
“This must be Miss Marylynn Baxter,” Blackhawk said, doffing his hat to her.
“Marylynn, this is Marshal Horatio Blackhawk. Horatio, this is Marylynn.”
“Let’s have some lunch,” Blackhawk said. “Follow me. Mighty fine horse you bought, Miss Baxter, a lot of fire in him. He looks like he got all smoked up in one.”
“That’s it,” she exclaimed. “That’s what I’m going to name him.”
“Fire?” Lew asked, pretending total innocence and ignorance.
“No, no,” she protested. “Smoky. That’s perfect for him. Look, he loves it.”
Smoky was switching his tail up and down, probably swatting at flies, but he did seem to step out when she spoke his name.
Lew smiled.
“Good name,” he said.
“Perfect,” Blackhawk said.
The marshal led them to a short, squalid street some distance from the main square of Santa Fe. It was called Mercadito, and the street was lined with a number of businesses all selling fresh vegetables, meats, and sundries, mainly to the Mexican population. People strolled, mingled, shopped, sat on wooden crates, smoked, told stories, and hawked their wares, including sandals and clothing. The little cantina/café was called La Boca, and there were tables and chairs both inside and outside. The outside tables sported large umbrellas, which provided shade. A cool breeze blew down the narrow street, and the small roofs in front of the shops provided extra shade.
“Good food here,” Blackhawk said while they were tying their horses to a hitching post with several large dowels driven into the wood. He swatted half a dozen flies as he walked Lew and Marylynn inside to a table at the back. He sat at the chair that gave him a good view of he entrance. He indicated that Lew and Marylynn should sit on either side of him.
“You expect trouble here?” Lew said.
Blackhawk shook his head. “Nope. But I like to increase my odds whenever I can.”
“Are you a gambling man, Marshal?” Marylynn said.
“No. That’s the point. But odds are odds, in life as in cards. And you can call me Blackhawk, if you would.”
“Not Blackie,” she said, a teasing tone to her voice.
“Not Blackie, thank you.”
They all laughed. A young waitress came over and dropped printed cards in front of each of them. The cards were obviously handmade out of heavy cardboard, tinted with some kind of pastel ink or paint. The items on the menu were written in flowing, legible script.
“How did you find this place, Blackhawk?” Lew asked.
“A Santa Fe constable told me about it. They protect the people who work here and keep the criminals out. I thought it would be ideal for our private talk. Also, it’s near a place I want to show you. A place where I think, in two days, I’ll be able to catch Wayne Smith and arrest him for murder and grand larceny.”
They each ordered the luncheon platter: carne adobo, frijoles, arroz, cebullas, y manzanas fritas.
“I’m buying,” Blackhawk said. “Rather, the United States government is paying.”
“Bebidas?” the waitress asked. “Cerveza, tepache, leche o te.”
They each ordered tea with a slice of lemon.
“Find out anything?” Lew asked after the waitress had left. “What’s this about arresting Wayne Smith in a couple of days? That Cinco de Mayo thing?”
“Do you see that poster on the side wall there?” Blackhawk said, inclining his head toward the wall to his left.
“I see it,” Marylynn said. “It’s in Spanish, though.”
Lew read it. It announced a grand celebration of Cinco de Mayo on May 5. This was Tuesday, the third, so the fifth was on Thursday, two days hence.
“What is it?” Lew asked.
“Gringos think it’s Mexican Independence Day, but it’s not. It marks the day the Mexicans beat the French down in Vera Cruz, driving out Maximilian and his wife, Carlota. Our General Pershing helped the Mexicans beat the French by giving them arms, and the Mexicans have been grateful ever since.”
“What has Cinco de Mayo got to do with Wayne Smith?” Lew crunched on a tortilla chip that the waitress had brought in a wicker basket with a napkin lining. He dipped the chip in salsa casera, which lit a fire in his mouth.
“The big honcho here in Santa Fe, the head hidalgo, is a man named Hector Lopez de Vega. He’s a close friend of Porfirio Diaz, who is the president of Mexico. Every year, on the fifth of May, Lopez sends a stagecoach down to Mexico City as a gift to Porfirio. So it’s a celebration of a great victory, and a chance for Santa Fe to show it still cares about their people in Mexico.”
“So, just a stagecoach?” Marylynn asked.
Blackhawk smiled. “A stagecoach loaded with money, Marylynn,” he said. “With an armed escort, charros, who are superb horsemen and crack shots. But I think Smith got to one of Lopez’s men, bribed him, and plans to rob that stagecoach before it ever leaves Santa Fe.”
“What proof do you have of that?” Lew asked.
“I tracked Moon’s movements for the past two months. He bought a lot of drinks for a man named Ernesto Garcia, who works for Lopez. Who is, in fact, like his exchequer, kind of an accountant. Lopez owns a lot of businesses here in Santa Fe and in Taos. He is a very wealthy man. But he’s also very tight with his money. Of course, there are resentments among some of his employees. And they resent him sending all that money to Mexico City every year.”
“How much money?” Marylynn asked.
“Forty thousand dollars in silver and gold coin,” Blackhawk said.
Lew let out a low whistle and reared back in his chair.
A waiter came out with a tray, set their warm plates in front of them. He asked if there was anything else they needed, and Blackhawk told him no and dismissed him.
“So, how do you plan to catch Smith?” Lew asked.
Blackhawk spread a napkin in his lap and picked up a fork.
Marylynn seemed hypnotized. She just sat there and stared at Blackhawk, her eyes wide, glistening like sapphire marbles in the pale light.
Lew swatted at a fly that buzzed in front of his nose and listened to the Mexicans outside chatter in liquid Spanish about the weather and fornication. Laughter bubbled up from the conversations and floated inside the café above the hum of diners speaking in low tones over their meals.
“That’s where you come in, Zane,” Blackhawk said.
“Me?” Lew said.
“Yeah, you’re going to earn your deputy’s pay on Thursday, and I’m hoping Miss Marylynn will help you pull it off.”
Blackhawk smiled, but said no more as he speared a chunk of adobo on his fork, chewing it methodically while trying to suppress a conspiratorial grin.
Lew shook his head. He was beginning to feel a deep sense of dread.
He had no idea what Blackhawk had in mind, but he knew, without asking, that he was liable to end up a dead deputy.
Marylynn started eating and looked at Lew, nodded at him to tend to his meal.
He managed a weak smile, but his stomach churned like a maelstrom of bitter, noxious bile. He wanted to run and take Marylynn with him, run to some place where Blackhawk would never find him, never want to find him.
Someplace far far away.
27
LEW HAD THE EERIE FEELING THAT BLACKHAWK WAS LEADING them through a ghost town. They rode down a deserted street, the vacant windows dark and ominous. Tumbleweeds clung to the rotting boardwalk along a row of crumbling adobes, the lettering on their exteriors long since faded to illegible scrawls. There wasn’t a dog or a cat to be seen.
Blackhawk seemed to be enjoying their discomfort. Marylynn looked apprehensive whenever he glanced over at her. She looked so small and vulnerable atop Smoky, but she clutched her handbag with her new pistol in it, as if she were ready to fight at the drop of a Stetson.
They turned onto another street, or what was left of it. The buildings there were all caved in, and debris littered the street—crumpled up old newspapers, part of a small keg, a wagon tongue, a yoke weathered to a gray hulk so that it looked like a cracked bone from some prehistoric beast, rusted tin cans, pieces of leather gnawed by rats, dusty bottles, broken glass, a child’s doll, no more than rags with its shredded cloth and eyeless head.
“A small tornado came through here many years ago,” Blackhawk said. “Killed people, destroyed everything inside the buildings, scared the hell out of the people. The Mexicans say this place is cursed.”
“Horatio, you’re scaring me,” Marylynn said.
“Don’t mean to. Just a little bit of history in case you were wondering.”
“I’m wondering why in hell you brought us here,” Lew said. His stomach had started to roil again, and he could hear the wind keening through the open windows, whispering in the shadows of old broken adobes. “It’s like a ghost town.”
“That’s just what it is, really,” Blackhawk said. “And I think that’s why Lopez de Vega chose it for his annual mission.”
Then, all of a sudden, there it was. They came upon an old abandoned freight office, with a loading ramp of broken and weathered boards and a faded sign that read RENALDO FREIGHT & HAULING. Two old corrals attested to its abandonment, with only a few gray poles standing, others stacked up in a pile of tumbleweeds and blown sand.
A jackrabbit stared at them, then bolted away, bounding over detritus that was unidentifiable.
“There it is,” Blackhawk said. “Renaldo was killed when the twister roared through here.”
On the other side, they saw the ruins of wagons, with spokeless wheels twisted into shapes that bore no geometric identities, and there were the bones of horses, stark and white as if they had been bleached, and skulls, their empty sockets seeming to stare at them from a nameless graveyard.