Catlow (1963)

by L'amour, Louis

  Moving with infinite care, he got several stones and eased them into place among the rocks to make a better barricade. As he slipped the last stone into its notch a bullet smashed against the rock, spattering him with a hail of stinging stone fragments. Then it was quiet again.

  The last light faded, stars appeared, and the face of the desert became cool. His canteen with its small bit of water was tied to his saddle, but the dying horse had fallen upon it. For all the good it could be to them, it might have been a mile away.

  The long night began. Recalde awoke, and the two men talked occasionally in whispers. Weariness lay heavily upon Ben Cowan, and he fought to keep his eyes open. He tried to moisten his cracked and bloody lips, but his tongue was like a stick in his mouth, for he had drunk little of the water, saving most of it for the wounded man. It was with an effort that he could make himself heard when he spoke.

  Where was Catlow now, he wondered. Far to the south of him, no doubt, and not even aware that Ben was in Mexico.

  And what would Cordelia Burton be doing now? He thought of her cool, quiet beauty, of the kind of wistful assurance that was so much a part of her. Bijah Catlow was a fool to be risking his neck in Mexico, with such a girl waiting for him back in Tucson.

  Through the night Recalde's muttering became disconnected; he talked of his home, of his father and mother, of his sisters. His head twisted from side to side, and once he cried out in the night.

  At last day came with a feeble grayness over the far-off Sierra Madre ... the fainter stars vanished, and the few bright ones faded--all but one, which hung alone long after the others had gone. His eyes red-rimmed from heat, dust, and exhaustion, Ben Cowan waited for what was to come, staring around him.

  Recalde was sleeping ... well, let him sleep then. If he was lucky, he would never wake.

  They came out of the gray dawning like rolling clumps of tumbleweed, so swiftly and silently that at first he thought his eyes deceived him. Their feet made scarcely a whisper in the soft sand, and they ran bent far over to offer little target.

  More had come up during the night ... how many were there? Six? Eight?

  They had not taken a dozen strides before his six-gun shattered the silence with its long, deadly roll of unbroken sound. Slip-shooting, he emptied the gun with no break in the roar of sound, then dropped the gun and caught up his Winchester.

  Two Apaches were down ... another was dragging a leg, seeking shelter. Cowan dropped the Winchester muzzle on the nearest man's chest and squeezed off his shot; then he turned and fired without lifting the butt to his shoulder, and saw another spin half around.

  Recalde came up on one elbow, firing.

  An Apache sprang over the rock barrier and Ben Cowan struck with the rifle butt, holding the rifle shoulder high. He heard the bones in the man's face crunch, and then he whipped the rifle around and shot into another--a running Indian.

  Running?

  With a thunder of hoofs, a cavalry detachment swept by their little fort, guns blasting. Even as the fleeing Apache neared the brush a saber cut him down, chopping through his skull to his eyebrows, so that the soldier had to put a foot on the Apache's shoulder to wrench the blade free.

  Recalde caught a rock and pulled himself erect, clinging to its top. "Senor!" he shouted. "I told you they would come! It is my soldier! My compadres!"

  General Juan Bautista Armijo smiled tolerantly. "I thank you, my friend, but what you suggest is impossible. No such treasure is known to me, and even if it were, our soldiers would make theft impossible."

  Ben Cowan spoke again. "Senor, I do not wish to dispute you, but I have information that two millions in silver and gold are to be moved from its hiding place and transferred to Mexico City, by order of the President himself."

  The General's expression was unyielding, but his eyes were not unfriendly. "I am sorry, senor. Such is not the case." He paused. "I should be most curious to know the source of such a story."

  "It is a rumor, and only that." Briefly, Ben Cowan outlined the story, and coupled it with Catlow's boast and the appearance and disappearance of the Mexican soldier. Yet even as he repeated it, he realized on what a flimsy basis he had constructed his theory. He felt a little ashamed, for there could be no doubt that the basis of the story was weak.

  "I am sorry, senor," Armijo repeated, "but I do thank you for your interest. I also wish to extend our thanks for saving the life of my brother-in-law."

  "I do, however, have your permission to search for Senor Catlow and those with him? And to arrest them if I find them?"

  The General waved his hand. "Of course! We have thieves enough of our own without wishing to keep any of yours. Take him, and welcome! If there is any way in which we can assist you, you have only to call on us."

  When they were outside, Recalde shrugged a shoulder. "You see? I was sure he would not believe you, and as for the treasure--"

  "He knew about the treasure."

  Recalde looked at him skeptically. "Do you think so? He seemed amused by the amount. After all, amigo, two million dollars--it is a very great deal."

  "He would have been a fool to even hint at it. After all, there are plenty of men in Mexico who would not hesitate to try to steal that much. The fewer who know the better."

  "This man, this Catlow ... you know him well, then?"

  Cowan explained as best he could the strange relationship between himself and Catlow: never quite friends, never quite enemies; always a respect, each for the other.

  Recalde listened, his pale face attentive. He nodded at last. "I see ... it is, ah--delicate." He glanced at Cowan. "He may kill you, senor. He may, indeed." And then he added, "Or you may kill him."

  "I have thought of it," Cowan said. And then he added, "I would like to get him out of this alive."

  "It will be most difficult. If he makes the attempt to steal it--always admitting the treasure does exist--he will be killed. The General, my brother-in-law, has small liking for bandits. He is a just man, but stern."

  Ben Cowan glanced at the Captain. Recalde had no business even being out of bed. It was exactly a week since they had arrived in Hermosillo, and this was the first time Recalde had been out. Even now he walked slowly, and with a cane.

  Day after day and night after night Ben Cowan had searched the town, but he had found no sign of Catlow or any of his men, nor of Miller.

  Where was the treasure? Where would the attempt be made? A dozen men against an army ... Surprise would be needed, and time ... rarely could they be found together.

  All the while, Ben Cowan had the uneasy feeling that he himself was being watched, and he thought back to the night someone had taken a shot at him in Tucson--had it been Miller? It might have been Rio Bray, or Old Man Merridew ... except that the Old Man would not have missed.

  His mind reverted to the problem of the theft. Surprise, of course; but time ... time to get away with a treasure that could not be easily carried. Gold and silver are heavy, easily noticed, and sure to cause comment. It is easy, perhaps, to imagine gaining possession of a treasure worth millions, but it is something quite different when one actually has to move it.

  When Ben Cowan had seen Recalde safely home, he strolled up the street to a cantina he had chosen to frequent, and pondered the problem over a bottle of cold beer.

  How could the bandits get away? Burros or mules would be needed, and an escape route that was foolproof. Of course there was no such thing, but Bijah Catlow would have a plan. Impulsive he might be, but he was cunning as a wolf when cunning was needed.

  Ben glanced around the room. It was almost deserted, for the siesta hour was near. Soon even these few would be gone. Catlow might choose to make his strike at such a time, and it was a thought to be remembered. If he could move when most of the town, even the soldiers, were napping, he might have a chance, and it was just the sort of idea to intrigue him.

  Despite the insistence of Recalde, Ben Cowan was living at the Hotel Arcadia. Recalde had relatives in the town, and i
t was with them that he was living and recuperating from his wounds; but Ben Cowan wanted to be in the midst of things where he could see and hear what was going on, and consider his problems without paying attention to the courtesies of a private home.

  The last Mexican had now left the cantina, and the proprietor glanced hopefully at Cowan, obviously wishing he would go. Ben finished his beer, decided against suggesting that he be allowed to remain and drink another bottle, and strolled out into the sunlight.

  Hermosillo, with a population of less than fifteen thousand, was a pleasant little city on the banks of the Rio Sonora, lying among orange groves and gardens. Outside the town the valley was dotted with grain fields, and all was green and lovely. Now the streets were deserted, and Cowan missed the slender, graceful girls of Sonora, noted for its beautiful women.

  He loitered under the shade of the huge old trees in the Plaza, and deep within their shade he must have been invisible to the man who stepped suddenly from a narrow wooden door in a side street off the Plaza.

  As the man emerged, he took a swift glance around him, then hurried up the street. His confidence that at this hour he would be unobserved made him miss seeing Ben Cowan standing under the tree only fifty yards away.

  The man was Bob Keleher, who had been with Catlow on the trail drive, and who had been with him at the campfire when Catlow killed Mercer.

  To attempt to follow Keleher in the empty streets would only betray Cowan's presence in Hermosillo, of which they might not be aware, and to make the man wary of exposing the hiding place chosen by Catlow.

  At the building Keleher had left, the shutters were up and the door closed, but Ben Cowan, who had spent his week getting acquainted with Hermosillo, remembered the place as a leather-worker's shop. The man dealt, as Moss Burton did, in fancy bridles, saddles, hand-tooled boots, and such things, doing his work on the premises in full view of the passers-by, for the shop's front was open when business was being carried on.

  In one back corner there was a curtain of bridle reins hanging down from the thick cluster of bridles hung from hooks on the wall, near the ceiling. Those bridle reins made a perfect screen for whatever might lie behind. In the other corner there was a door leading to the living premises. But now the shutters were up, and aside from the door to the street, the shop front presented a blank wall to the eye.

  Was Keleher only visiting in that house? Seeing a girl, perhaps? Or was this the hide-out of the gang, or some of its members?

  Leaving the shade of his tree, Ben walked slowly to the next street. He glanced along it and saw that except for a large carriage gate there was only a blank wall. Walking up the street, he paused opposite the carriage gate and peered through the crack where the two doors of the gate met. He looked into a paved patio where an old wooden-wheeled cart stood, its tongue resting on the ground. The building just beside the gate was obviously, judging by the smell, a stable. He could see a part of the rear of the house where the leather-worker lived, but it was only a blank wall with one second-story window that was tightly shuttered.

  Walking further on, Cowan satisfied himself that the place had only two entrances, one at the front, and the other through the carriage gate at the back.

  He returned to the Plaza and sat down on a bench and smoked a cigar while he considered the situation. From where he sat he could look up the street where the shop was situated, and after a moment he turned his attention to the building across the street from it.

  On the second story of that building there were windows from which the leather shop might be observed. He considered briefly the idea of renting a room there, if one was available, and then decided against it. Unless there was a back entrance, his own coming and going could be too easily observed--anyway, he was not yet sure he had discovered anything of importance.

  The siesta hour was almost past when Rio Bray came into the street and entered the door by which Keleher had left. Presently people began to appear on the street ... after a little, shutters were taken down and life resumed its normal movement. Ben Cowan lighted another cigar and loafed in the shade, idly examining a newspaper.

  The shutters of the leather shop came down and business, such as it was, resumed. From where he sat Ben could see part of the shop's interior, but nobody else came or left whom he recognized.

  He started to fold his newspaper, preparatory to leaving, when someone paused near him. He saw the polished boots, the obviously tailored uniform trousers, and looked up into the face of General Juan Bautista Armijo.

  "She is lovely," the General commented, "is she not?"

  For a moment Ben Cowan did not realize what he meant, and then he saw the girl.

  She was standing, poised and assured, on the street corner near the leather shop. Where she had come from he did not know, but he could see that she was, indeed, very striking-looking.

  "I expect the General has seen her closer than this; but yes, I think she is pretty." Cowan got up, and Armijo turned to smile at him.

  "You are still with us, senor. We are honored. Have you located your man?"

  "No, not yet."

  "You still believe he is here?"

  "Perhaps not here, but certainly not far away."

  Armijo dropped a cigarette into the dust and rubbed it out. "There will be a ball at my regimental headquarters this evening. I have asked the Captain to bring you, senor."

  When he was gone, Ben Cowan looked thoughtfully after him. Had his sudden appearance here been an accident? Or was the General having him watched? Did General Armijo, perhaps, know of what was going on at the leather shop?

  There was room enough in that stable for a dozen horses to be hidden.

  The girl on the corner had turned suddenly and was coming toward him.

  Chapter Fourteen.

  In the shadowed coolness of the living quarters behind the leather shop, Bijah Catlow made his final plans. The door that led to the cellar where he and his men waited opened from behind the curtain of bridles, as Ben Cowan had half suspected.

  There was a hallway of stone ... the remainder of the house was of adobe, and of later construction. A stone stairway went down into the vast, ancient cellar. Here there were no windows, for the ceiling of the cellar was six feet below ground level, and as a matter of fact, its existence was unknown to the people of Hermosillo.

  The builder of the adobe, itself one of the earliest buildings in the town, had utilized what remained of the ruin on this site. It was only after the house was built, when making excavations for repairs, that he had found the vast underground room. Being a wise man, and a discreet one, he had mentioned the find to no one, and he and his sons had finished the work by themselves.

  The origin of the ruin was a mystery. This might have been the site of some planned mission, where construction had ceased because of Apache attacks ... records of many such had vanished from the country with the Jesuits. Or it might have been still older ... perhaps an Indian ruin reaching back in time even before the Aztecs.

  The owner of the leather shop had himself been a bandit, as his father had been before him, and from time to time, through revolution and change, they had found use for the ancient cellar.

  There was an exit, a secret way that opened into the stables ... this had been built by the present owner's grandfather on the principle that not even a rat trusts himself to one hole only. In the planning of the present robbery, Pesquiera, the owner of the leather shop, had shared his secret with Bijah Catlow. But now they were of two minds. Pesquiera wanted the gold brought into his cellar and held there until the chase had died down. Bijah Catlow wanted it spirited out of the country quickly. As a matter of fact, Bijah did not entirely trust his Mexican partner nor his nephew, the deserter who had come to him in Tucson.

  Pesquiera had known of the treasure for years, but had known only approximately where it was hidden; and Lerdo was shrewd enough to see that living nearby to guard it were loyal members of a family distantly related to his own. There had been no chance un
til now, when the treasure would be moved, to lay hands upon it.

  Bijah had an idea that, once that treasure was hidden in the secret cellar, some accident would happen to destroy his men and himself, or a trap would be laid for them. He preferred to trust himself to the open desert and the risks of flight, no matter how great they might be.

  He sat alone now at a table, and stared at the glass of beer before him, but he was not thinking of the beer. He was thinking of what lay before him.

  In a corner, some thirty feet away, several of the men played at cards. In a nearby room, others were asleep. He had been careful to allow none of them to be seen around town, and the men he had on watch at a particular point changed watches only during the time of siesta.

  Two things disturbed him. One of these was what he had learned of the character of General Armijo. He was no lackadaisical office-holder, but a competent and experienced soldier and a man of the desert. He had behind him twenty years of war in the field. He had fought in revolutions in his own country, against the French, and against the Apaches. Armijo had only recently been transferred to Sonora, but he knew the country. Bijah Catlow had not reckoned on Armijo.

  The other factor that worried him was the whereabouts of Ben Cowan. Bijah had neither seen nor heard of him since that night in Tucson, but he was all the more worried because of that.

  He rubbed the stubble on his broad jaw and swore softly. The other men were restless, and he did not blame them, sitting for days in a dark cellar, unable to show their faces on the street of a town known for its beautiful women. And when they did emerge it would only be to make a quick strike and escape.

  For a moment he stared gloomily about the room. Catlow was nothing if not a perceptive man, and it came to him suddenly that he had taken a direction that might keep him among such associates, and in such surroundings for the remainder of his years. He might spend his life hiding in abandoned ranch houses, cheap hotel rooms, on the dodge, never sure from one minute to the next when the law might come up to him. He glanced at the table across the room ... there was only one man in the lot whom he really liked--Old Man Merridew.