The Legend of El Duque

by J. R. Roberts

  “And if you bite me, bitch, I’ll kill you,” he told her.

  She considered it briefly, wondering if she’d be able to get out of the room before he could grab her by the throat, or grab his gun.

  * * *

  Clint awoke, got out of bed, and walked to the window, which overlooked the front of the house. There were already hands working with stock in the corral, and several men were riding out to do their chores. Clint had often wondered what it would have been like to settle down on a ranch. The times that he’d been a guest—like now—had already seemed pleasant, but he’d also been around during trying times, and he didn’t think he’d be comfortable for very long. There was just too much to be done, and too many people to keep track of.

  He washed up and packed his saddlebags for his trip to Mexico, then went downstairs for breakfast.

  EIGHT

  True to his word, Werter made sure Clint had a full breakfast—steak and eggs and flapjacks, along with some fresh biscuits. Lizzie was there to eat with them, but it was just the three of them.

  “Clint,” Lizzie said, “aren’t you the least bit afraid?”

  “Of what?” he asked.

  “Well, of what might happen,” she said. “Have you been to Mexico before?”

  “Many times,” he said. “In fact, I have some friends there.”

  “Then maybe they can help you.”

  “Maybe they can,” Clint said. “I’ll have to check while I’m down there.”

  “I’ll certainly worry less if I know you have help,” she said.

  “About me,” Clint asked, “or the bull?”

  “Oh, you . . .”

  * * *

  After Steiger blasted his load onto the whore’s face, he kicked her out of the room and got himself dressed. He’d gotten his three dollars’ worth, so he gave her time to wash up first.

  “Do me a favor,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Next time you have three dollars, spend them on somebody else.”

  “I’ll spend it on a whore who don’t talk so much,” he told her.

  Once he was dressed, he went downstairs, found the sheriff in the lobby.

  “I was just comin’ up to see you,” Lane said.

  “You got more information?”

  “I do,” Lane said. “Let’s find the others. I think I know the route Adams will be takin’ when he leaves here. With that information, you can get ahead of him.”

  “That’ll keep us from havin’ to trail him,” Steiger said. “He’ll never see it comin’.”

  “Come on,” Lane said, “let’s find the others so you fellas can get goin’.”

  “If I know them, they’re at the whorehouse,” Steiger said. “Yesterday was nickel night.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Clint went outside to the barn to saddle Eclipse. Werter came in as he was tightening his cinch, carrying some supplies.

  “I remember the way you like to travel, so I put some supplies into a burlap sack.”

  “Thanks.” Clint took the sack and hung it on his saddle horn.

  “And here’s the money.” Werter handed Clint a leather wallet. Clint took a look inside, saw a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills.

  “And here’s some spendin’ money for you,” Werter said, handing him another roll of bills.

  “Much obliged.”

  “You want part of your fee now?” Werter asked.

  “This isn’t part of it?” Clint asked, indicating the roll.

  “No, I’m coverin’ your expenses,” Werter said.

  “Well then, you can pay me when I get back and the job is finished,” Clint said. “Once that bull is safely in your corral.”

  They walked out of the barn together. Some of the men by the corral stopped to watch. Clint didn’t see Ed Hagen anywhere, hadn’t seen the foreman since the day before. Also, Lizzie was missing.

  He mounted up.

  “Was that true what you told Lizzie about Mexico?” Werter asked. “You got friends there?”

  “I do.”

  “You going to try to get one of them to help you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What route are you going to take?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “You sure are closemouthed about this.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing, Bill,” Clint said. “After all, word got around about you buying the bull, didn’t it?”

  “You think one of my men talked?”

  “One, or more.”

  Werter rubbed his jaw.

  “I find out who it was, I’ll fire his ass, and then burn it.”

  “I wish you luck.”

  “Naw, I wish you good luck, Clint,” Werter said. “Send me a telegram when you get there.”

  “I will,” Clint said. “See you soon.”

  Werter threw Clint a salute before he rode off.

  * * *

  Tibbs walked all the horses out of the livery and handed Steiger the reins of his. All four men mounted up and looked down at Sheriff Lane.

  “You want us to kill ’im, Sheriff?” Steiger asked.

  “I want the money,” Lane said. “I don’t much care how you get it.”

  “Okay,” Steiger said. He looked at his men. “Let’s go.”

  Lane watched the three men ride out, heading south. He only hoped the information he’d gotten about Clint Adams’s route was right. The quicker Steiger and his men got this done, the faster he’d be rich.

  * * *

  Clint headed south from the Werter ranch, but as soon as he was out of sight, he headed west. This route would probably add a day to his trip, but he’d talked openly the day before about heading straight south. That meant he had no intention of doing so.

  Besides, there was a little something he had to take care of in a town called Sublette.

  NINE

  Sublette was a busy little town that had only one thing Clint was interested in—a telegraph office. From here he could send a telegram without anyone being the wiser.

  He rode into town and found the office immediately. He had more than a few friends who lived down near the border, and over the border in Mexico. Men whom he would trust to watch his back. There was a border town with a telegraph office, where he could stop in before crossing. He handed his messages to the clerk, asking for replies to be sent there. Hopefully, by the time he got there, the answers would be waiting.

  “Send those right off, please,” Clint said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He watched the key operator send the messages, then left and walked with his horse to the saloon across the street. One beer and then he’d be on his way.

  * * *

  Steiger, Tibbs, and Jerome rode south and had to go only a few miles before Steiger realized what had happened.

  “What is it?” Jerome asked as Steiger halted their progress.

  “He didn’t go south,” Steiger said.

  “How do you know?”

  “No tracks.”

  “That just means he didn’t go directly south from the ranch,” Tibbs said.

  “We’re gonna have to fan out, look for his trail,” Steiger said.

  “What other way could he have gone?” Jerome asked.

  “Lots of ways,” Steiger said. “If I was him, I woulda gone east or west first, then south.”

  “What do we do if we can’t find his tracks?” Jerome asked.

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes,” Steiger said. “Right now fan out and look real hard. I wanna pick up his trail soon.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Tibbs said.

  “If you see anything,” Steiger said, “fire two shots with your rifle.”

  “Right,” Jerome said.

 
“Now scatter!”

  * * *

  Sheriff Lane went back to his office after Steiger and the others left town. He did some paperwork, then left the office and went to the Brass Bucket Saloon. He got himself a beer, took it to a table, and waited. Before long the man he was waiting for came in, got himself a beer, and joined him. There was nothing strange about two men having a beer together. It all appeared very casual.

  “The boys get off okay?” the man asked.

  “Early.”

  “That’s good.”

  “They headed south,” Lane said. “I hope you’re right about that.”

  “That’s what Adams was talkin’ about doin’ last night,” the man said. “If he changes his plan, the boys will have to adjust.”

  “They might not be smart enough to do that.”

  “Steiger’s plenty smart,” the man said. “The other two just have to do what he says.”

  “Maybe you better tell me exactly where Adams is goin’,” Lane said. “Just in case the boys send me a telegram askin’ me that.”

  The man hesitated.

  “Come on,” Lane said, “you already went against Werter by givin’ me information. Where’s the harm in tellin’ me everythin’?”

  The man didn’t speak, just sipped his beer.

  “Don’t tell me you’re feelin’ guilty.”

  Ed Hagen stared intently at Sheriff Lane.

  “Yeah, I am feelin’ guilty,” he said, “but that don’t matter. I gotta start thinkin’ about my own

  future.”

  “And with that money,” Lane said, “you’ll have a future, won’t ya?”

  “Yeah,” Hagen said, “yeah, I will.”

  “Look,” Lane said, “I’ll get us two more beers and then you can tell me where Adams is goin’. If the boys can’t pick up his trail, they can ride on down to Ol’ Mexico and get there ahead of him. Be there waitin’ for him.”

  “Yeah,” Hagen said, “yeah, okay.”

  “Atta boy,” Lane said, standing and slapping Hagen on the back. “I’ll be right back.”

  TEN

  Clint had himself a beer without attracting any attention to himself, then went outside, mounted up, and rode out of Sublette. From there he headed due south. Heading for Colorado. He thought about stopping in Denver to see his friend Talbot Roper. Maybe he could get Roper to tag along and watch his back, but he’d already sent the man a telegram. If Roper was available, he’d meet Clint at that little border town, or send him a reply. He had also sent telegrams to Bat Masterson, Bass Reeves, and a couple of friends across the border in Mexico. They all had their own lives, but if they were available, they’d be there to help him.

  It would be some time before he reached the Mexican border. Riding through Colorado and New Mexico, he might even think of somebody else he could ask for help. There was a man named John Locke who lived just outside Las Vegas in New Mexico. He was certainly a possibility. Looking for help from someone in Arizona or Texas would just be going too far out of his way. Don Pablo Sandoval was expecting him to arrive at a certain time, and to be more than a few days off from that would not do. The man undoubtedly had other offers for his prized bull. Clint had to get there in time, and make the buy.

  * * *

  It took them a full day to find his trail. They had to double back to the Werter ranch, pick it up, and follow it precisely. It led them to Sublette, where Steiger sent Sheriff Lane a telegram.

  Tibbs and Jerome were waiting in the saloon when Steiger entered with the reply.

  “What’s he say?” Tibbs asked.

  “He leaves it up to us,” Steiger said. “We can follow his trail and try to catch up, or head for Mexico in a straight line and possibly beat him there.”

  He didn’t add that the words “you idiots” were in the telegram several times.

  “So,” Tibbs asked Steiger, “what do we do?”

  “Instead of trying to catch him, I’d rather get ahead of him,” Steiger said. “Let’s ride for Mexico.”

  “Now?” Jerome asked.

  “After a quick somethin’ to eat,” Steiger said.

  “Good,” Tibbs said. “I’m starved.”

  * * *

  Clint bypassed Denver a few days later and camped just outside Canyon City. In the morning he’d ride in and replenish his meager supplies. He thought about stopping in Trinidad later in the week before leaving Colorado, but Bat Masterson was long gone from there. He’d rather bypass that town and then stop in Taos for more supplies. He was only carrying enough for a few days at a time, but a packhorse simply would have slowed him down too much.

  He’d been sleeping lightly when he camped, feeling that it was better to expect trouble than not. He managed to get some sleep, depending on Eclipse to warn him if anyone got close to their camp. The horse was better on watch than most men Clint had ridden the trail with.

  He awoke in the morning, made himself some coffee, and had beef jerky for breakfast before dousing the fire, saddling up, and hitting the trail again. He didn’t see anybody trailing behind him, but more important than that, he didn’t have that feeling between his shoulder blades that he got when someone was on his trail. That could mean only one thing to him. He’d managed to hide his route from them, so they were heading straight to Mexico, trying to get there ahead of him.

  At least that would make the ride to the Mexican border less of a concern.

  ELEVEN

  MEXICO

  JUST OUTSIDE QUERETARO

  Don Pablo Maria Cortero y Sandoval stepped out onto the portico, holding in his hand a glass of sherry. His segundo, Carlos Montero, came from the other direction and stopped in front of him.

  “Well?” Don Pablo asked.

  “The bull is fine, jefe,” Montero said.

  “Both of them?”

  “Sí, both are fine.”

  “Good,” Don Pablo said, “we want to make sure we sell our American friend a healthy bull.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  Don Pablo studied the man for several moments, then said, “Well, speak up, man. You have something on your mind.”

  “It is El Duque,” Montero said. “I do not think we should be selling him.”

  “We are not selling him, Montero,” Don Pablo said, “I am.”

  “Sí, señor,” Montero said, “I understand, but I do not think—”

  “I do not pay you to think, Montero,” Don Pablo said.

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Go, see to the bulls,” Don Pablo said. “Treat them both like royalty.”

  “As you say, jefe.”

  Montero, a man in his mid-thirties, turned and left. Behind Don Pablo his wife stepped out onto the portico.

  “My husband,” she said, “do you think you should treat Montero in such a way?”

  “I treat my men as I see fit, my dear.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Antonia de la Huerta y Sandoval was some thirty years younger than her husband. They had been married two years, and she knew he had married her just to have her on his arm. He loved no one the way he loved his daughter, Katerina, who was only a few years younger than Antonia.

  “Would you like another drink, my husband?” she asked, taking his empty glass from him.

  “Yes, I would,” he said. “Gracias.”

  As she turned to go back into the hacienda, Don Pablo said, “Where is Katerina?”

  “Your beautiful daughter is out riding,” Antonia said.

  “By herself?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I have told her over and over—”

  “Sí, but she is headstrong, is she not?” Antonia asked.

  “Indeed,” Don Pablo said. “Indeed, she is.”

  “I will get your drink, and then I must go to town. I won’t be long.�
��

  “As you wish,” Don Pablo said, turning away again.

  Antonia nodded, and entered the house.

  * * *

  Montero went to the barn and saddled his horse. He rode away from the hacienda out into the hills west of the rancho. There he found Katerina Sandoval waiting for him by her horse. He dismounted and ran to her. Taking her into his arm, they kissed.

  “Have you talked to my father?” she asked.

  “I have.”

  “About us?”

  “No,” he said, “not yet.”

  “About what, then?”

  “About El Duque.”

  She dropped her arms and stepped away from him.

  “That bull!”

  “He is selling your future, Katerina,” he said. “Our future.”

  “It is only a bull.”

  “El Duque is a prized bull,” Montero said.

  “There is the other.”

  “Unproven.”

  “My father values him enough to sell El Duque.”

  “For money.”

  “Is money so distasteful to you?”

  “I want only what you have coming,” Montero said.

  “And I want to be your wife, Carlos,” she said. “You must speak to my father.”

  “I will,” he said, “I promise, but the time must be right.”

  “And when will that be?” she asked.

  “Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”

  That did not make her happy.

  “I must get back,” she said.

  He helped her mount her horse.

  “My love,” he said, “I promise—”

  “I am beginning to tire of your promises, Carlos,” she said, and rode away.

  * * *

  An hour later, in a deserted shack located farther west, Carlos kissed the smooth flesh of Antonia’s breasts, teased her nipples with his tongue while she cradled his head.

  On the outside the shack still looked deserted, but inside they had created a small love nest where they could meet and be together.