He sat that way for a little while, then suddenly she let him pop free. He opened his eyes just as she threw herself on top of him, pushing him down to the mattress on his back. She reached between his legs, held his cock, and then sat on it, taking it all the way inside her hot, steamy cunt.
“Oh, Jesus,” he said as her heat closed around him.
“Sí,” she said into his ear, “Jesus Cristo!”
After that, the bed began to jump.
FIFTEEN
Consuelo collected all the empty plates, then turned to look at Clint, who sat on the bed, completely spent. First he’d been riding for days, and then Consuelo had ridden him long and put him up wet. He was still trying to catch his breath.
“I bring you breakfast in the morning, señor?” she asked.
“I think,” he said, “I better come over to the cantina for breakfast, Consuelo.” He wanted to get an early start, and was afraid that if he let her in his room in the morning, that wouldn’t happen.
She looked disappointed and said, “Sí, señor. Will I see you then?”
As she went out the door, he almost called her back, but decided against it. He really needed to get a good night’s sleep, and if he called her back, that sure as hell wouldn’t happen.
“Good night, señor,” she said as she went out the door.
“Yeah,” he said as the door closed, “good night.”
In the hall, Consuelo encountered Lupita, coming out of Manolito’s room. The younger girl took some of the plates from her. They smiled at each other and went down the stairs.
* * *
In the morning, Clint dressed, packed, and walked down the hall to Room 7 with his saddlebags and rifle. He banged on the door with the rifle butt. Manolito opened the door and peered out blearily. He was wearing his shirt, open, and little else.
“I guess Lupita got you to your room last night all right, huh?” Clint asked.
“What? Oh, yeah, she sure did.”
“Well, get yourself dressed and meet me in the lobby in five minutes.”
“Five?”
Clint held up five fingers and said, “Cinco.”
“I understand,” Manolito said. “I will be there.”
Clint went downstairs and found Eduardo behind the desk.
“I’m checking out,” he said, “and so is Room 7.”
“Sí, señor,” Eduardo said. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”
Clint wondered if Eduardo knew how much he had really enjoyed his stay.
“Yes, it was fine. Thank you for the food last night. I’ll be going to the cantina for breakfast before I leave.”
“My cousins will be happy to see you, señor.”
Clint was paying the bill when Manolito came stumbling down the stairs.
“Sorry,” the young man said. “I am not awake yet.”
“You’ll wake up at breakfast,” Clint said. “Come on. I paid for your room already.”
“I told you I have money.”
Clint waved away the young man’s protest and said, “Come on.”
They left the hotel and walked across the street to the cantina.
“Is this where Lupita works?” Manolito asked.
“Yes, with her many cousins apparently.”
“Male cousins?”
“I’m sure there are some male cousins,” Clint said, “maybe even brothers.”
“I don’t like brothers,” Manolito said. “I have never gotten along with brothers.”
“You have brothers?”
“No,” Manolito said, “I have a sister, and I know what I would do to any man who touched her. That is why I do not like brothers.”
“Well,” Clint said, “let’s just go inside, mind our manners, and have breakfast. After that we’ll be riding out of town.”
“Mind my manners,” Manolito said. “I can do that.”
SIXTEEN
Two plates of huevos rancheros later, Clint and Manolito were sitting drinking coffee.
“How old did you say you were?” Clint asked.
“Twenty-two.”
“Jesus,” Clint said, “if I remember right, your pa must be in his sixties.”
“Seventies.”
“Potent bastard, isn’t he?”
“He was,” Manolito said. “My mother is twenty years younger than he is.”
“Is she still with him?”
“She is.”
“And your sister? How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“Tell me about your father’s injury.”
“We had a horse on our rancho,” Manolito said, “A black devil he was. No one could ride him.”
“Don’t tell me . . .”
Manolito nodded.
“My father insisted that someone had to break the devil, so he mounted him and rode him. He almost had him, too, but in the end the devil threw him, and then stomped on him, low on his back.”
“What’s the doctor say?”
“He may walk again, he may not,” Manolito said. “It does not matter. He is still El Patrón.”
“What the hell was he doing on that horse at his age?” Clint said.
“My father will not bend to age,” Manolito said. “If he had been able to ride, he would have come here instead of me.”
“I never should have sent him that telegram.”
“But you did,” Manolito said, “and now I am here.”
“Yes, you are,” Clint said.
Manolito took his gun out and laid it on the table.
“You think this is only a pretty gun? It is not. I can hit anything I want to hit with this gun.”
“A man?”
“Eh?”
“Have you ever killed a man with it?”
“No . . . not yet,” Manolito said.
“It’s not an easy thing, killing a man,” Clint said. “Not an easy thing to do, not an easy thing to forget.”
“Do you remember the men you killed?”
“Every one of them,” Clint said. “They’re in bed with me every night.” Clint reached out and pushed Manolito’s gun closer to him. “Put it away.”
The younger man picked it up and holstered it.
“In fact, I think maybe you should go home, Manolito,” Clint said.
“No, I cannot,” Manolito said. “My father told me to come and help you, and that is that I will do. And you must start calling me Mano.”
“All right,” Clint said, “and you call me Clint. All I’ll need of you is your knowledge of Mexico.”
“You have it!” Mano said, spreading his arms expansively.
“I’m not going to want to run into any patrols while I’m in Mexico.”
“We will avoid them.”
“I don’t trust the so-called law in your country.”
“Who does?” Mano asked. “I will show you the way, but where are we going? And what are we doing?”
Clint told him.
“A bull?”
“A prized bull. El Duque.”
Mano’s eyebrows went up.
“I have heard of this bull,” he said. “He is a legend.”
“Well, he’s a legend on his way to the United States.”
“And you are a legend,” Mano said. “Two legends!”
“Let’s get going.” Clint stood up, threw some money down on the table.
Consuelo and Lupita did not follow them out, did not beg them to stay. The two cousins had gotten what they wanted the night before.
Outside Clint looked up and down the street.
“There’s something you should know,” he said.
“What?”
“They’ll try to stop us.”
“Who?”
“Men,” Clint said.
“On both sides of the border. They’ll try to steal the money I’m carrying, or they’ll try to take the bull.”
“Then I must tell you something.”
“What?”
“I can guide you there, and we can avoid patrols,” Mano said, “but that will be much more difficult coming back with a bull.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I guess we’ll have to take our chances.”
SEVENTEEN
“I don’t like it down here,” Tibbs said.
“What’s wrong with it?” Jerome asked. “The women are fine.”
“It doesn’t feel right down here,” Tibbs said. “Hell, we’re in another country.”
“So?” Steiger asked.
“This ain’t America,” Tibbs said.
They were sitting their horses on a hill, overlooking the flat desolate Mexican landscape.
“So?”
“What do we do if we run into the law?”
“Nothin’,” Steiger said. “Right now we ain’t doin’ nothin’ illegal.”
“We ain’t expectin’ him to just come ridin’ up on us, are we?” Jerome asked.
“No,” Steiger said. “We’ll have to find him.”
“What? Down here?” Tibbs asked.
“Down here.”
“Do you even know where we are?” Jerome asked Steiger.
“Of course I do,” Steiger lied.
* * *
They left Nogales, riding side by side.
“My father told me about you,” Mano said. “I mean, over the years, he’s talked about you.”
“He has?”
“Is it all true?”
“Since I don’t know what he told you, I can’t answer that question.”
Mano studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “I won’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I think maybe I will find out during this ride.”
“You might at that.” Clint looked behind him.
“Are we being followed?”
“No.”
“And that bothers you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The word went out that I was carrying a large sum of money,” Clint said. “I can’t believe that nobody is going to try to take it.”
“Then if they’re not following us, where are they?” Mano asked.
Clint pointed ahead of them.
“Out there maybe.”
“In front of us?”
“Best way not to be spotted following someone is to be ahead of them.”
Mano reined his horse in. Clint rode a few feet on before stopping and looking back.
“What is it?”
“It is very easy to get lost in Mexico,” Mano said. “Especially if you are a gringo.”
“So?”
“If they are out there,” Mano said, pointing south, “we should go there”—he pointed west—“or there”—he pointed east. “Let them try to find us, then.”
“Lead the way,” Clint said. “You’re the guide.”
Mano turned them west.
“If the word is out that you have a lot of money,” Mano said, “then there are probably men on this side of the border looking for you, too.”
“You’re probably right,” Clint said. “And they won’t be getting lost, will they?”
They rode until dusk, avoiding the few small towns they came within shouting distance of.
“Should we make a fire?” Mano asked.
Clint thought a moment, decided in favor of it—mostly because he wanted coffee. But also because a fire out here wouldn’t necessarily belong to them. There had to be other people setting up camp.
Clint built a fire, prepared coffee and beans, then passed Mano a plate and a tin mug.
“Hijo de un cabron!” Mano swore, after sipping the coffee.
“What is it?”
“That part of my father’s tales is right,” Mano said. “Your trail coffee is strong.”
“The way I like it.”
Mano put the mug down between his feet, scooped some beans into his mouth with a wooden spoon.
“He also said you were a great trail cook,” Mano said, “and if you ever wanted to hang up your gun, you could run a fine chuck wagon.”
“Not with the trail drives drying up,” Clint said.
“My father would hire you,” Mano said. “We still drive cattle down here.”
“No thanks,” Clint said. “For as many men who like a cook’s food, there are that many who don’t. You can’t please everyone.”
“Well . . . I like these beans,” Mano said, holding the plate out to Clint. “More, please.”
EIGHTEEN
Carlos Montero pulled on his boots and looked over his shoulder at Angelina Sandoval, lying naked on the bed. Her skin was dappled with perspiration.
“Where does he want you to go?” she asked.
“You should know.”
“He does not discuss his business with me,” she said. “I am only his wife.”
“Mexico City,” he said. “To the bank there.”
“Why you?”
“I am the only one he trusts to carry money,” Montero said.
“That must make you very proud.”
He stood up, grabbed his gun belt, and strapped it on.
“It did once. But he still treats me like just another vaquero.”
She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees.
“And you want to show him you are more, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, now is your chance,” she said. “Instead of going to Mexico City, you can stop that money from coming here. And get it!”
“I am not a thief!”
“You would not keep the money for yourself,” she said. “You would hand it over to my husband. That would prove your loyalty to him.”
“And if he finds out we are sleeping together?” he asked. “Would that prove our loyalty to him?”
She smiled.
“Don’t you worry about my loyalty,” she said. “Just do as I tell you.”
Montero turned to face her, and there was nothing amorous about his attitude.
“That is what your husband keeps telling me.”
“Carlos,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm, “I value you as a man, and as an ally. Does my husband do that?”
“No.”
“And what I tell you to do,” she said, “is for the both of us.”
He thought a moment, then said, “All right. What would you have me do?”
“Listen carefully . . .”
* * *
They broke camp, having ridden together for three days. Mano kicked sand on the fire, then turned to go to his horse.
“Hold on,” Clint said.
“What?”
“It’s time for me to see how you handle that gun.”
Mano looked down at the gun in his holster, then put his hand on it.
“Do you want me to draw?”
“Do you fancy yourself a fast draw, Mano?”
“I am pretty quick, I think.”
“Let me see.”
Happily, Mano dropped his hands to his side, then went for his gun. He had barely touched it when he found himself looking down the barrel of Clint’s weapon.
“Wha—” He had not even seen Clint draw, it had been that fast.
“It’s not always the fastest draw that keeps you alive, Mano,” Clint said, holstering his gun. “Being accurate is more important than being fast.”
“I think I am accurate,” Mano said, but he did not sound as sure as he had a few moments ago.
Clint looked around, then said, “Okay. See that dead tree over there? The branch st
icking out?”
“You want me to hit the tree?”
“I want you to hit the branch, but I want you to cut it in three. Start at the end, make three shots, and by the time you’re done, the branch should be gone.”
Mano studied the tree for a few moments, then turned to face it.
“No fast draw, Mano,” Clint said. “Just show me what you can hit.”
“Sí, señor.”
He took a deep breath, drew his gun, then sighted down the barrel.
“Doing that, you’re sure to miss,” Clint said.
“B-But I must take aim.”
“Don’t aim,” Clint said, “point.”
Mano pointed his gun, but then dropped it.
“What you ask cannot be done.”
Clint drew and fired three times rapidly. The branch grew smaller with each shot, and finally was gone. He quickly reloaded his gun before holstering it.
“Madre de Dios,” Mano said.
“Never holster your gun until you’ve replaced the spent shells,” Clint said, “or someday you’ll draw your gun and find the hammer falling on an empty chamber.”
“Sí, señor.”
“All right,” Clint said, “just hit the trunk of the tree.”
Mano nodded, then drew his gun and fired three shots, all hitting the tree dead center.
“Not bad.”
Mano replaced the spent shells and holstered the weapon.
“But that’s different from shooting at a man,” Clint said.
“When the time comes,” Mano said, “you will be able to count on me, señor.”
“I hope so, Mano,” Clint said, “for both our sakes.”
As Clint turned away Mano said, “Clint?”
“Yes?” Clint turned back.
Mano took a coin from his pocket and flipped it into the air. Clint drew without hesitation. He fired three times. The coin jumped in the air three times before hitting the ground.
“Jesucristo!” Mano said.
He hurried to the coin and picked it up. It had a chunk taken out by each bullet. He turned to see Clint walking away.
The Legend of El Duque Page 5