When the bearded gringo with the long curls and blue glasses stepped in from the sandstorm, it was Fiero who booted Sucio in the shins under the table.
“Maldito!” Sucio cursed, glaring at Fiero. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Fiero nodded, his eyes over Sucio’s shoulder. He did not make any sudden moves, but beneath the table, his hand touched the Smith and Wesson in the buscadero holster on his belt.
Sucio half-turned in his chair and fumbled his hand in surprise. He didn’t even have his rifle. He’d left it on his horse.
The gringo was pale with dust, from the black crown of his wide-brimmed hat down to the toes of his shoes. He was not a vaquero, for no spurs clung to his heels, though he seemed to clink when he walked. No star or shield hung on his chest, so he was no lawman either. He was of slight build, and his eyes were hidden by blue spectacles. Two girlish curls of dark hair fell over his ears. He was all in black like a preacher, but a shiny pistol rode on his right hip.
“Room for one more?” the gringo said.
Sucio pushed his chair back with a groan of wood on wood and began to stand, but Fiero hissed at him.
“Siéntate, pendejo.”
Then he looked up at the gringo and smiled, gesturing to the empty chair on his right. “Sure, señor,” he said, in his friendliest sing-song American. “Just let us finish this hand.”
The Rider walked over to the table, slowly. The dirty one with his back to the door watched him with blatant distrust, but he was slow, and not to be feared. The smarter one continued to smile, but only let his eyes linger for a moment, before returning to his cards. He was quick, and would have to be watched. The rest of the saloon was empty but for a thin Mexican boy who stood behind the bar counter, looking fearful. Half drained drinks sat in dusty glasses on the tables among scattered cards. Cigars smoldered in brass ashtrays, discarded.
“It’s so goddamn hot in here,” the quick one said, taking his big sombrero off his head and fanning his dusky face lightly. He half-turned in his chair and called out to the boy. “Hey, muchacho! Why don’t you get that fan going? That’s what it’s for, right?”
The quick one turned back to the table and grinned again at The Rider. He set the big sombrero on his right knee.
“That goddamn kid. Sometimes I think he don’t speak no American and no Espanish neither,” he chuckled.
The Rider watched as the boy behind the bar began to crank something unseen. Then he felt a change in the still air. He looked up and saw the big cloth blades of a fan above the table swirling in slow, concentric motions above them.
“That’s better. Pretty goddamn fancy, no?” the quick one said, still grinning, his eyes like cocked pistols. “This is a rich town, señor.”
The Rider nodded. For such a remote town, they did have a lot of luxuries—the telegraph, the columned house, this cantina with its fan and brass ashtrays.
“It seems like a nice place,” The Rider said. “And so generous.”
The quick one continued to beam. He said something in Spanish to his friend and the man smiled faintly.
“Where are all the people?” The Rider asked pointedly.
The quick one’s lips closed finally around his teeth, but he did not relax his grin.
“Oh, they’re just all at work. Let us finish this hand so you can play. Why don’t you sit down already? You want a drink?”
The Rider took the seat to the right of the quick one.
“No thank you.”
The two Mexicans resumed their play, and the slap of the cards on the liquor-stained table joined the howl of the wind outside and the rickety creaking of the big fan overhead. The Rider glanced at the boy behind the bar.
He was a slight youth of about sixteen or so, with smooth, swarthy skin and curly black hair. His clothes were simple creamed corn cotton. His dark eyes studied the strange looking gringo at the table with a mix of disbelief and desperation.
The game ended with a gleeful cackle and a trio of kings from the quick one, and a grunt and a pair of twos from the slow one.
The quick one leaned across the table and dragged his winnings closer. Beneath the wide sombrero on his knee, The Rider watched the hidden hand toil briefly at something and then return to a seemingly natural position. Leaning back in his chair, he saw that the pistol was now missing from the quick one’s holster.
The Rider smiled, and the quick one smiled too, for he had not seen the gringo’s eyes move behind his blue lenses.
“Maybe you would like to shuffle the cards, señor?”
The Rider shook his head slowly.
“No, it’s your deck.”
The quick one shrugged and gestured to the slow one, who took up the deck, still staring at The Rider as he began to slowly riffle the cards.
“Fiero?” said the slow one.
Fiero wrinkled his brow and nodded, then went back to smiling at The Rider.
“Perdón, señor,” said Fiero. “Sucio here only knows how to play five card stud. Is that alright with you?” His eyes glistened like a cat’s, secure in the knowledge of the gun beneath the sombrero.
“Sure.” The Rider returned the smile. “I’m afraid you won’t find me much of a challenge. I’m not really a very good card player. But I would like the company after such a long walk.”
Sucio shuffled the cards deliberately, as though it were an honor bestowed upon him. Fiero never let Sucio shuffle the cards. He wondered why Fiero had not killed the gringo yet, and again cursed himself for not having brought in his rifle. He considered running down the street to tell Scarchilli about the gringo, but he supposed Fiero knew what he was doing.
He began to deal the cards.
“Where did you come from?” Fiero asked.
“North.”
“And where are you going?”
The gringo shrugged.
“South.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m The Rider.”
Fiero said nothing. For a man wanting company the gringo had little use for conversation.
The cards slid one after the other around the tabletop. Once Sucio accidentally passed The Rider two cards, and broke the rhythm of his dealing. All the while The Rider and Fiero looked each other in the eye, and Fiero smiled.
The light breeze of the overhead fan made dealing even more difficult for Sucio, and twice he had to catch his own cards from blowing off the table.
“What’s the ante?” The Rider asked when his fifth card streaked across the table to his hands.
“How about two dollars?” Fiero ventured, smiling and removing two American dollars from his shirt pocket. They clinked in the middle of the table.
Sucio began fishing in his own pockets.
The Rider slapped down a couple of coins.
“How about five? I’m feeling lucky.”
Sucio looked at Fiero, but Fiero ignored him, his face again splitting into the obnoxious grin.
“OK, five dollars is fine.”
The Rider watched Fiero take out more dollars and place them on the table. His pocket clinked with the promise of more. For what looked to him to be a couple of border trash banditos, these two were doing well for themselves. The gold dust in the dun’s saddlebags told of that. Perhaps the watch with the portrait of the woman inside belonged to whatever hapless person they had bushwhacked for their prize—some wealthy traveler, or a lost merchant, maybe a miner.
To his left, Sucio grumbled in Spanish.
Fiero turned a disapproving eye on his partner and hissed.
“Well now the ante is cinco. So shut up and play.”
The Rider’s hand was decent enough. Two jacks, a two, a four, and a ten. He opted to drop the two and the four, and the one called Sucio dealt him another ten, a three, and an ace of diamonds.
Sucio frowned a lot and muttered. He was a novice card player, to be sure. The Rider was no card player himself, but he knew the basics from his time spent in places much like this one. He suspected,
of all of them, Fiero had the advantage at a gaming table. He wondered if he could handle his pistol as well as a playing card. He thought of the gun palmed under Fiero’s big hat like a waiting ace, and believed he knew the answer.
Fiero raised the stakes two dollars. He always grinned. It could very well be a bluff. The Rider was curious, but he was not here to beat the man at cards.
He sat back in his chair, and pulling out two dollars, he called.
The quick one lay down three somber kings and a pair of deuces.
Sucio slapped his hand down without showing. “Maldito!”
The Rider overturned his own hand with a shrug.
The quick one laughed and pulled in his winnings, then raised an eyebrow at The Rider, still grinning.
“Again, señor?”
The Rider nodded.
“Sure, sure. But you deal this time.” The Rider reached across and took the deck from in front of Sucio and passed it to Fiero.
For the first time Fiero’s smile faltered.
“Señor Rider.” He turned his eyes to regard Sucio. “Do you got a problem with Sucio’s dealing?”
Like a dog poked with a stick, Sucio seemed to awaken and look sharply at The Rider, his lips pursed and his fists knotted on the table.
“No, no,” The Rider said, holding up his palms. “No offense meant. I just thought a change of pace might be nice. And it’s just Rider.”
Fiero did not like the funny looking gringo with his puta curls. He thought perhaps now that the gringo had guessed his pistol was in his hand, and was calling him out.
He sat back in his chair and did not grin. Under his hat, his thumb began to tug at the hammer.
The Rider’s hand reached up to his breast, but before his fingertips had disappeared within his coat, Sucio had leapt to his feet and overturned his chair with a crash.
The Rider and Fiero did not move. Fiero did not get the sense that the gringo was reaching for a gun.
The Rider smirked.
“Sit down, pendejo!” Fiero hissed.
Sucio stood for a moment, glaring tensely at the gringo, who did not acknowledge him. Then he stooped down and righted his chair.
“I’m afraid you’ve cleaned me out of cash,” The Rider said.
He reached into his pocket and took out the gold watch and chain.
“But I’m willing to wager this that I win the next hand.”
At the sight of the gold watch, both bandits’ eyes lit up, but for different reasons. Whilst Fiero’s look was born of sheer gold lust, Sucio felt a heat wave of anger, for the watch had come from his own saddlebags.
He wanted to kill the gringo right there. He wanted to jump him and strangle him. But he stopped, his anger quelled as he remembered Fiero.
The gold watch had come from the pockets of the alcalde of this town. When they had taken Polvo Arrido, Scarchilli had forbade them from taking anything of value for themselves from the inhabitants. Everything was to be turned over and divided equally. But when Sucio had found the fine gold watch, he had stashed it in his bandanna, knowing full well he would not see it again if he didn’t. Scarchilli or El Brujo Negro would get it, and he would have to settle for dust and coins.
Now, if he killed the gringo and took the watch back, Fiero would probably make him turn it over to Scarchilli anyway. He thought that if he tried to tell Fiero the watch was his, Fiero would not believe him, and would know Sucio had taken it from the alcalde, as his daughter’s picture was inside. He would tell Scarchilli and the jefe would be angry, maybe kill him.
The Rider set the glittering watch down on the table, and Sucio’s eyes followed its descent.
How could he get the watch back, unless he won it? He was a miserable card player, and he knew it. If Fiero dealt, he would have no chance. The man was a cheat—and a good one.
Fiero sat forward and said, “Alright, Rider. I’ll deal.”
Fiero wanted the gold watch. If he killed the gringo and took it, Scarchilli would expect him to give it over. But if he won the watch from the gringo in cards, and then killed him, Scarchilli would have no right to it. Neither would Sucio be able to contend. The watch would be his. Then he would shoot the gringo.
He balanced his pistol on his knee, leaned forward, and took up the deck.
The Rider watched the oily grin return to the quick one’s face as his nimble hands began to shuffle the deck in an expert blur.
The cards hissed across the table. Out of the corner of his eye, The Rider saw the boy behind the bar watching.
The Rider’s hand attested to the skill of the Fiero’s card savvy; a two of diamonds, a four of clubs, a nine of spades, the queen of diamonds, and a leering one-eyed jack of clubs. His hand was about as ripe with possibility as a mare in a pen full of geldings.
He glanced at Sucio, who was furrowing his brow and pursing his lips, shuffling cards back and forth in his hand as though some special sequence might miraculously change their value.
Of course, Fiero was smiling.
The discards came around, and Sucio fiddled with his cards. The Rider traded in his two and his four and came back with a pair of queens. Fiero did not swap a single card from his hand. He was sly alright, and probably knew what everyone at the table had.
The Rider caught Fiero’s eyes.
“So what do I get if I win?”
Fiero’s eyes did not falter. He shook his head and laughed in The Rider’s face.
“Maybe we’ll let you walk out of here, eh?”
“Well then,” said The Rider. “I should probably raise the stakes.”
Fiero leaned back, and his right hand slipped back under his sombrero.
“And how are you gonna do that, gringo?”
The Rider reached into his coat again with his fingertips and slowly produced the bag of gold dust he’d taken from Fiero’s horse.
He leaned back in his chair, almost enjoying the look of utter rage that fell across the Mexican’s face.
“I call,” The Rider said, and flipped the bag of dust over to Fiero, who without thinking, tried to catch it.
The Rider fired his Volcanic unseen under the table, punching a hole in Fiero’s midsection, sending him tipping back to the floor with a crash. His sombrero rolled away, and the pistol beneath was flung aside. The gold dust spilled out in a glittering cloud that settled slowly over his body.
The Rider stood and cocked the Volcanic to fire again, but Fiero did not stir. He only gurgled and gazed up at the fan, his legs propped up on the chair.
Sucio had already gone crashing through the swinging doors, and The Rider had time to step behind the bar where the Mexican boy was huddled before he came rushing back through, rifle in his hands.
“Hijo de puta!”
Sucio spit foam and cocked his empty rifle.
He raised the rifle up to his shoulder and fired nothing. He looked once at the empty rifle, surprised. He never left the rifle unloaded. He threw it aside and glanced at Fiero’s gun.
The Rider pointed his pistol and shook his head in warning.
Sucio dove for the pistol and The Rider blasted him twice.
Sucio staggered back through the doors and collapsed in the street, the sand blowing an instant grave over him.
The Rider turned to the boy, still half-crouched behind the bar, speechless.
“Where are the rest of the people in this town?”
The boy said nothing, only stared at the pooling death on the floorboards around the card table.
“How many bandits?” The Rider urged, reloading his pistol.
“Who are you, señor?” The boy stammered, looking scared. “You ain’t the marshal.”
“No, I’m The Rider. How many are there?”
“Quince—fifteen.” The boy looked at the dead men again. “You killed them.”
“Yes. Now there are thirteen. Do they have a chief?”
“They call him Scarchilli. He’s living in the mayor’s house with the black man and the mayor’s daughter.”
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“What black man?”
“I don’t know his name. He’s a brujo.”
The Rider cocked his head at the boy.
“A what?”
“Witch,” said the boy. “He makes the people do what Scarchilli wants. He keeps the storm going.”
“Where are the townspeople?”
Suddenly there came from outside, above the howl of the wind, the sound of many boots clomping down the boardwalk.
The Rider turned toward the door and gestured to the boy.
“Get down.”
He didn’t need to tell him at all.
Three Mexicans came to a halt outside the bat wing doors of the saloon. The Rider heard the shuffle of a few more on the boardwalk as he stepped out from behind the bar.
The middle man had a hard, unshaven face, brown from the sun, in which his dark eyes shone like cannon bores. His black eyebrows knotted across a wrinkled, thick forehead. He was shorter than The Rider, but he walked tall. His shoulders were broad and his neck bullish. His hair was unruly and streaked with either dust or age, The Rider couldn’t tell which. His puggish nose was many times broken, and a pink scar ran lightly from his left nostril down beneath his bearded chin, enhancing an already harsh and imperious natural sneer. When he smiled he looked like the Devil’s uncle.
He leaned forward casually, and folded two thick and hairy arms over the tops of the swinging doors. He rested his chin on his big hands.
As he did so, the two men at his flanks produced rifles and laid them across his shoulders at either side, aiming them in at The Rider. The rifles cocked simultaneously, and two dark faces in sombreros appeared on the other ends.
“Draw one last breath, gringo,” he said in an authoritative, but casual Spanish accent. “Tell me why you killed my men.”
His men. Then this was Scarchilli.
“They tried to cheat me,” The Rider said, not lowering his own pistol.
“Fiero. He was a sly one,” Scarchilli said, motioning to the man dead on the floor.
“Not that sly,” said The Rider carelessly.
Scarchilli smiled, and pushed his way inside. The two riflemen remained in the doorway, skinny shadows in cotton and leather that sprouted from the depths of their massive hats.
Merkabah Rider: Tales of a High Planes Drifter Page 8