Dillinger (v5)

by Jack Higgins

  Dillinger drove into the courtyard and pulled up at the bottom of the steps. As he got out, a little girl ran out of the front door, tripped and lost her balance. As she started to fall, he moved forward quickly and caught her.

  She was perhaps three years old and wore a blue riding suit with a velvet collar and brass buttons. She was frail, her brown eyes very large in a face that was too pale for a land of sun.

  Dillinger set her on her feet gently and a woman moved out onto the steps and gathered the child to her. 'Juanita, how many times have I told you?' She looked up at Dillinger. 'My thanks, senor.'

  She was a slender woman with greying hair and a black dress buttoned high to the neck. She wore no jewellery and her face was lined and careworn, the eyes moving ceaselessly from place to place as if she was continually anxious about something.

  As Dillinger removed his hat, Rivera appeared on the porch. He stood there looking at his wife, saying nothing, and she took the child by the hand and hurried inside.

  Rivera turned to Dillinger. 'I'd intended coming with you to the mine, but there are matters I must attend to here first. Rojas is already there. He'll show you over the place. I'll be along later.'

  He went back inside.

  Too bad, Dillinger thought. If he'd known, Rose could have driven with them instead of taking the horse. She could have sat between him and Fallon up front, her left thigh against his right thigh.

  Dillinger drove away, following Fallon's directions up out of the valley. The heat was increasing. He could feel the sweat from his back soak through his shirt.

  Finally, they came over the crest of a hill and saw a valley below. Dillinger had seldom seen a more dismal sight in his life. There were perhaps twenty or thirty crumbling adobe houses with a dung heap at one end and what appeared to be an open latrine running straight through.

  There was a well in the centre of the village and a woman was in the act of lifting a pitcher of water to the ground as they approached. She was in an advanced state of pregnancy, her belly swollen. She paused, obviously tired, and Dillinger got out of the car.

  He took the pitcher from her and said, 'Donde su casa?', surprising himself at the bits of Spanish he had picked up by just listening.

  She pointed silently across the street. He walked before her and opened the door. There was only one room and it had no windows. It took several moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the half light. When they did he saw an old woman stirring something in a pot over a smouldering fire. A few Indian blankets in the corner were obviously used for bedding, but there was no furniture. He put down the pitcher, his stomach heaving at the smell of the place, and went outside.

  'That place isn't fit for a dog to live in,' he said as he climbed back into the car. 'Isn't anyone doing anything for these people?'

  'Rose does what she can. So does Father Tomas. He's the best friend they've got, but they're like zombies. Rivera has the men doing a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day. They're worked so hard they don't give a damn about anything anymore.

  Rose's horse was tethered beside a buckboard outside a house at the other end of the village and Dillinger braked to a halt.

  'Is the mine far from here?'

  'Just over the rise, three or four hundred yards.'

  'You walk on up. I'll join you later.'

  Fallon trudged away up the street and Dillinger approached the hut just as Rose, hearing the car, came out. She looked tired and pale and there was sweat on her face. Dillinger took the canteen from the Chevrolet and handed it to her. 'You don't look too good.'

  'There's not much air in there, that's all.' She poured a little water into the palm of one hand and rubbed it over her face.

  'Who's inside?'

  'Father Tomas. I'd like you to meet him.'

  Dillinger followed her in. The place was exactly the same as the other, the room half filled with acrid smoke from the fire of dried dung. A man lay on a filthy blanket in the corner, an Apache woman crouched at his feet.

  A white-haired old priest sat beside him on a small stool, gently sponging the damp forehead. Dillinger leaned closer. The skin on the man's face was almost transparent, every bone clearly defined. He was obviously very ill.

  The priest clasped his hands together and started to pray, his face raised to heaven, a single shaft of sunlight through the smoke hole lighting upon the white hair.

  Dillinger made his way outside, Rose following him. From his pocket he took the flat bottle of tequila Chavasse had given him against emergencies and he unscrewed the cap and swallowed.

  He turned to look at her. 'Can't anything be done?'

  'My father had a plan, a wonderful plan. At the far end of the valley, above the hacienda where the streams run down from the snows of the sierras, he wanted to build a dam. With its waters, the whole valley would have flowered.'

  'And your uncle doesn't see things that way?'

  'I'm afraid not, senor,' Father Tomas said, emerging from the house behind them. 'Don Jose is interested only in obtaining as much gold as these wretched people can squeeze from the mine. When he is satisfied that the well has run dry he will leave for what to him is a more favourable climate.'

  'This is Senor Jordan, Father,' Rose said. 'The one my uncle forced into coming here.'

  The old man took Dillinger's hand. 'I heard what happened in Hermosa last night, my son. God moves in his own good time. Perhaps Don Jose made a mistake when he tricked you into coming here?'

  Before Dillinger could reply two horsemen galloped down the hill, one behind the other, and turned into the street. Rojas was slightly in front and he reined in so sharply that his horse danced sideways on its hind legs, crowding Dillinger, Rose and the old priest back against the wall, splashing them with mud.

  His companion was a Mestizo in a battered red straw hat. A man who had turned against his own people. He had coarse, brutal features and a hide whip dangled from his right wrist.

  Rojas sat there glaring at Dillinger. Two of his teeth were missing and his lips were twice their normal size. A livid green bruise stretched from his chin across the left side of his face to the eye, almost closing it.

  'What do you want?' Father Tomas said.

  'I've come for Maco. The swine's not turned up for work again.'

  'He's too sick,' the old man said.

  'They're always too sick.' Rojas dismounted. 'They know we need every available man at the mine and take advantage of it.'

  He took a step forward and Dillinger put a hand against his chest. 'You heard what Father Tomas said.'

  Rojas moved back and his right hand dropped to the butt of his revolver.

  'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' Dillinger said calmly.

  Through the stillness they could hear the rattle of the steam engine that operated the conveyor belt up at the mine and the thin, high voices of the Indians calling to each other. The Mestizo with the whip fidgeted nervously, avoiding Dillinger's eye. Rojas turned without a word, scrambled into the saddle and lashed his horse into a gallop.

  Dillinger turned to Father Tomas and Rose. 'I think it's time I took a closer look at this mine.'

  Rose climbed into the saddle of the horse. 'I'm returning to Hermosa now. Will you be coming in this evening?'

  'You sure you want to keep company with a desperate character like me?'

  'Perhaps I can make you see the error of your ways.'

  'I doubt it, but I tell you what you can do?'

  'What's that?'

  'You can buy the champagne this time.'

  She smiled, and he slapped the horse on the rump and it galloped away.

  He drove out of the village, following the track up to a small plateau that was like a shelf in the face of the mountain. Water, splashing in a dozen threads from the snow-capped peak, had been channelled to run through a stoutly constructed shed, open at both ends.

  It was a scene of great activity. Near the mouth of the mine, the old steam engine puffed smoke, drawing in a steel cable that hau
led trucks laden with ore along a narrow track.

  Dillinger got out of the Chevrolet and headed toward the ore shed. Fallon emerged to beckon him in. 'Come see this,' the old man said.

  Inside the ore shed the only piece of machinery was a steam-operated crusher. Two Indians fed its flames with wood. The heat was unbearable. The water ran into a great tank lined against leakage with clay and there were several cradles and two puddling troughs. The Indians who worked at them were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining with sweat.

  'Why doesn't he bring in more machinery? If the mine's producing anything like a return it would pay him.'

  'I told you, they closed it in 1893 after the rock came down on more than fifty Indians. Since I've been here we've had so many cave-ins I've lost count. Men get killed all the time.'

  'Then the timbering must be at fault. Don't tell me Rivera's trying to save money there, too?'

  Fallon shook his head. 'The mountain's just waiting to come down on all of us. Every time you cough in the tunnel a rock comes down. That's why we daren't use any more machinery. The vibration might be all that's needed.'

  They paused beside three wooden cabins and he opened the door of the first one. 'This is where we live.'

  It was plainly furnished with table and chairs, two bunks and an iron stove in one corner.

  'Who uses the other two?' Dillinger asked.

  'One of them is the powder store. Rojas lives in the end one.'

  'Where is he now?'

  'Went into the mine about five minutes ago, looking like murder. I pity any poor devil in there who gets in his way.'

  They walked beside the rails past the steam engine, and entered the mouth of the tunnel. Dillinger had expected it to be cooler in the tunnel. Instead, the heat was worse.

  'What's wrong with the ventilation in here?'

  'The air shaft was blocked by a rock fall a couple of months ago,' Fallon replied. 'Rivera gave orders to leave it alone and concentrate on bringing the ore out.'

  'Hell, that sounds dangerous to me. Didn't you tell him that.'

  Fallon shrugged. 'He said we hadn't got the time to waste.'

  They turned a corner and the sunlight died, leaving them in a place of shadows illuminated by lanterns and guttering candles. When they reached a fork Fallon hesitated. 'There are two faces, north and south. Rojas could be at either.'

  They stood to one side as a truck moved past them pushed by half a dozen weary, dust-coated Indians. Fallon lifted a lantern from a hook in the wall and led the way into the darkness.

  Gradually, Dillinger was conscious of faint sounds, and a light appeared. The tunnel narrowed until they had to stoop and then it opened into a low-roofed cavern, badly illuminated by several candles.

  Ten or twelve Indians crouched at the rock face swinging short-handled picks. Others gathered the ore into baskets, which they emptied into another truck. The air was heavy, thick with dust and almost unbreathable.

  Dillinger turned away and moved back along the tunnel. He paused once, leaning against the wall, and coughed harshly, trying to clear the dust from his lungs. There was a sudden slide of pebbles from the darkness above.

  'See what I mean?' Fallon said.

  Dillinger didn't reply. He turned and moved back along the tunnel. Suddenly a man cried out in pain, the sound echoing flatly through the darkness.

  Dillinger started to run, and gradually the light increased as he came out into the main tunnel and saw several Indians crouched against the wall, their truck tipped on to its side, ore blocking the track.

  With one hand Rojas kept an old, grey-haired Indian down on his knees. In the other he wielded a whip. It whistled through the air and curved round the thin shoulders, drawing blood. The old man cried out in pain.

  When the whip rose again, Dillinger spun Rojas round and sent him crashing back against the wall. The Mexican gave a cry of rage and came up from the floor, drawing his revolver.

  Dillinger moved in fast, ramming one arm against the man's throat, grabbing the gun hand and forcing the barrel towards the floor. For a moment they swayed there and suddenly the revolver went off.

  The sound re-echoing in the confined space was like a charge of dynamite exploding and the earth seemed to tremble. As the Indians cried out in alarm, the mountain rushed in on them.

  9

  Dillinger remembered thinking, 'This is it,' as everything seemed to cave in all around him. He'd thought that once before in a small bank, an easy job, and as he'd gone out the door carrying a bagful of bills he saw ten feet ahead of him a man too old still to be a cop pointing his .38 at him from a distance nobody could miss at. 'This is it,' he'd thought, but the policeman's gun clicked, a misfire, and Dillinger had kicked the weapon out of the cop's hand, jumped on the running board of the waiting car that took him on the grit road to safety. That was the time he decided never to do a job without the protection of a bullet-proof vest.

  A bullet-proof vest, even if he'd had one on, is no protection against a mine cave-in. Dillinger lurched forward, groping his way through clouds of dust. He tripped and fell on his hands and knees. He lay there for a moment, coughing and choking, and then scrambled up a sloping ramp of rubble to where light gleamed between stones.

  He pulled at them with his fingers and Fallon and Rojas appeared on either side of him, the Mexican obviously gripped by fear. A few minutes later the gap was wide enough and they crawled out into the sunlight followed by four Indians.

  A crowd was already running toward them from the ore shed and Father Tomas came over the hill behind them in his buckboard. He reined in a few yards away and jumped to the ground.

  'How bad is it?'

  Fallon's face was a mask of dust. 'I think the whole damned mountain's fallen in.'

  Dillinger took the bottle of tequila from his pocket, swallowed some and passed it to Fallon. Rojas was sitting on a boulder, his head in his hands, dazed. Dillinger handed him the bottle of tequila and said roughly, 'Get some of that down you and pull yourself together.'

  Rojas took a long swallow, coughing as the fiery liquid burned into his stomach. He got to his feet and wiped his mouth.

  'How many men are still inside?' Dillinger demanded.

  'I'm not sure. Twenty or so.'

  Fallon scrambled on top of the boulder and addressed the crowd in Spanish. 'Those men in there haven't got long. If we're going to do anything it's got to be now. Get pick-axes, shovels, baskets - anything you can lay your hands on.'

  Dillinger and Fallon led the way up the slope and started to pull boulders away from the entrance. Everyone joined in, even the old priest, forming a human chain to pass the earth and stones backwards as they progressed farther into the tunnel.

  The gap through which they had made their escape was widened until it would admit a dozen men with equipment. Lanterns were passed through and Dillinger stripped off his shirt and examined the wall of rock that filled the rear of the tunnel.

  It was hot. The air was heavy with the settling dust. Fallon moved beside him. 'We've got to keep on digging. At least we've got the tools.'

  Rojas crawled through the darkness to join them. He reached up and touched the ceiling. Immediately several flakes of stone peeled away.

  'It wouldn't take much to bring down the rest.'

  'We'll be all right if we're damn careful,' Fallon told him, trying to sound confident.

  They laboured feverishly in the weird, dust-filled light, stripped to their waists, sweat glistening on their naked backs. Rojas proved to be a pillar of strength, his great hands lifting, unaided, rocks which Dillinger and Fallon would have found difficulty in moving together. Behind them a line of Indians formed up, passing back the baskets of stone and earth.

  They worked in shifts, supporting the roof with fresh timbering as they advanced, but progress was slow. The lack of air and the great heat made it impossible for anyone to last for longer than half an hour at a time at the face. By the middle of the afternoon they were no more than forty fe
et into the tunnel.

  Just after three, Rojas, in front, let loose a groan.

  'What is it?' Dillinger demanded.

  Rojas turned, the whites of his eyes shining in the lamplight. Dillinger crawled forward into the narrow cutting they had cleared into the heart of the rockfall. An immense slab of stone weighing at least five or six tons was stretched across their path.

  Fallon crouched at his side and whistled softly. 'We haven't a hope in hell of moving that by hand.'

  'What about dynamite?' Dillinger said.

  Rojas sucked in his breath sharply. 'You must be crazy. Half a stick would be enough to bring down the rest of the mountain.'

  'If there's anyone still alive back there they're going to die anyway,' Dillinger said. 'At least we'd be giving them a sporting chance.'

  He crawled back along the tunnel past the line of Indians and emerged into bright sunlight. The whole village seemed to be there, women and children included, some squatting on the earth, others standing as they waited patiently.

  Dillinger thought, whoever thinks robbing a bank is dangerous ought to try this some time.

  An Indian handed him a bucket of water and he raised it to his lips, drinking deeply before pouring the rest over his head and shoulders. Then he noticed Rivera.

  'How bad?' Rivera asked.

  'We've gone as far as we can with pick and shovel. There's a five-ton slab blocking our way.'

  'Have you tried splitting it?'

  'It would take hours by hand,' Dillinger said. 'Dynamite is the only answer.'

  'It could also bring the whole place down.'

  'Maybe, but there are at least twenty men in there according to Rojas. If we don't get them out within three or four hours they'll be dead.'

  'You don't even know that they are alive now.'

  'For Christ's sake, we've got to try,' Fallon said.

  'He's right,' Dillinger said. 'They deserve some sort of chance.'

  Rivera said, 'I am not going to destroy the source of gold to save a few Indians. You can try to reach them with pick and shovel. On no account will you use dynamite.'