Rio Matanza (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 2)

Home > Other > Rio Matanza (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 2) > Page 4
Rio Matanza (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 2) Page 4

by Wayne D. Dundee


  "What do you mean 'they'?" Kendrick interrupted.

  "I mean him and the girl. She had her horse stabled here, too, so naturally—"

  "What girl?"

  O'Toole was sitting on a sawed section of tree trunk that was tipped on end and shoved over near the corral railing. He craned his scrawny neck and looked up at Bodie. "Mister, if you keep interruptin' me every three or four words I manage to get outta my mouth, it's gonna take a real long time for me to tell you what you're tryin' to find out."

  "Okay." Kendrick held up a hand in surrender. "I'll keep my trap shut, you do the tellin'."

  "He had a girl with him. A Mexican gal," O'Toole continued. "She showed up in town a couple days ago. While you fellas was out after the bank robbers. She stabled her horse here—a big black beauty of a stallion—and then, ever since she got to town, she's been hangin' 'round over at that Mexican joint, the Tequila Rose. Reckon that's where your friend Turpin must've run into her."

  "And she rode out with him?"

  "For a fact." The livery man reached up and scratched behind his ear. "Tell you the truth, if she hadn't been with him, I ain't so sure I would't've loosed the dogs on Turpin and taught him the good manners to come back around when I was open for business in the mornin'." His mouth split into a wide, toothless grin. "But that blamed girl had on some kind of split skirt, see. And the way she was sashaying around, all restless-like, she kept flashin' glimpses of bare leg damn near to the top of her thighs … Clouded my mind is what it did. Made me swing my door open wide and hop right to it as far as seein' after their needs. Like some droolin' old damn fool at a hoochie-cooch show, I was … She had mighty fine legs, though, and I got me some real good looks. Plus your pal Turpin tipped me right generous-like. So, all things considered, I reckon I ought not be bellyachin' so much on the transaction after all."

  "But as far as where they were headed or any hint as to what this urgent business might be," Kendrick prompted, "they didn't say anything, eh?"

  "Nary a peep."

  Kendrick regarded the old man closely. "If I was to, say, sweeten my friend's already-generous tip, would that by any chance improve your memory?"

  "No, but it would damn sure insult me," bristled O'Toole. "I told you all I know to tell, son … 'Ceptin' for I heard your friend Turpin call the girl Estraleta, if that means anything. Had I anything more that could be of help, I'd say so and you wouldn't have to pay for it, neither."

  "My apologies, old timer," Kendrick said sincerely. "It's just that I can't shake the feelin' my partner may somehow be headed into trouble."

  "Ain't trouble what fellas like you and him are all about?"

  "Reckon so. In a manner of speakin'," Kendrick allowed. "But we like for it to be the kind of trouble we go lookin' for … not the kind that comes huntin' us."

  Chapter Four

  The thick adobe walls of the Tequila Rose Cantina offered welcome relief from the afternoon heat. The air inside was heavy with the odors of sweat, smoke, and spiced meats, but it was cool.

  Kendrick sauntered in, walked over to the plank bar, hitched up a wooden stool.

  The bartender was a short, stout man in a red silk shirt. His complexion was the color and texture of old leather. His slicked back hair, pencil mustache, and long sideburns were coal black and when he smiled a bright gold tooth shone in front.

  "What can I pour for you, amigo?"

  "I'll have a glass of beer," Kendrick said, spreading some coins. "American brand, if you have it. And cold."

  "Si. We not only have American beer, but ours is the coldest in town," the barkeep assured him.

  When it came, the beer was passably cool but hardly what anyone would properly call cold. Still, it went down easy and had a nice crisp bite to it.

  As he drank, Kendrick let his gaze slide around the room. He'd already done a quick initial scan from the doorway—a practice he followed whenever he entered a public place. But now his appraisal was more leisurely, more thorough.

  A tall, painfully thin Anglo was occupying a spot at the other end of the bar. He wore a derby hat, thick glasses, and a turd brown suit that looked almighty hot and uncomfortable. The way he was fidgeting with a ledger book and a leather sample case marked him as a whiskey drummer. This was confirmed a moment later when he and the bartender began haggling over prices and quantities.

  Over against the far wall, two old men sat at a rickety table playing Dominos and sipping wine.

  In the corner a ways down from the old men, a set of musical instruments—a violin, two guitars, a tambourine—rested on benches or leaned against the wall. The tools of a mariachi band, one Kendrick guessed must regularly perform here … The dreaded "cucaracha music" he found so disagreeable.

  More toward the center of the room, at a large, round-topped table, three vaquero types were playing cards with no apparent enthusiasm. All three wore silver-studded chaps and high crowned sombreros. Each man also wore an ornate gunbelt slung low around his waist, prominently displaying pearl-handled hoglegs in equally ornate holsters. Three vaqueros, yeah—pushing hard for the chance to gain prominence as pistoleros.

  Between two of the men sat a middle-aged woman in an off-the-shoulder blouse that dipped low in front to show off several inches of deep cleavage created by a pair of large, pendulous breasts. One of the men had an arm casually draped over her bare shoulders. The hombre on the other side of her had his hand on her thigh, pushing up her thin, flowing skirt so that he was palming bare flesh. The woman's bored, heavy-lidded expression conveyed neither notice nor interest in the pawing of either man.

  Kendrick finished his survey of the room and also finished his beer. When he sat the empty glass back down, the bartender was quick to notice.

  "Another, amigo?"

  Kendrick nodded. "Why not."

  When the re-filled schooner was placed before him, Kendrick said, "You tend bar here most of the time?"

  "Si. It is my place. I am here always."

  "So you were here last night?"

  "Si."

  "Wonder if you remember my partner. Wiry fella, dresses all in black, longish hair with some gray shot through it? Calls himself Doc Turpin."

  "Si. Of course I remember Senor Turpin. Indeed we were honored to have him as a guest in here for many hours last night." The barkeep beamed. "And now I recognize you also—Senor Kendrick, is it not? The other muy hombre who assisted Senor Turpin in tracking down those cowardly sons of dogs who robbed our bank and slaughtered innocents without mercy."

  "You're right. I'm Kendrick," Bodie allowed.

  Now the barkeep's expression grew concerned. "Is there some trouble with Senor Turpin?"

  "Well, that's sorta what I'm tryin' to find out. Seems he went and lit out of town in the middle of the night. Took me by surprise when I woke to find out about it today. I'm thinkin' the whole business seems mighty odd."

  "A man like Senor Turpin … he comes, he goes. Never does he stay in one place for very long. Is it not so?"

  "I reckon that's true enough. But, look, how about somebody called Estraleta? Way I heard, a gal by that name rode out with Turpin."

  The bartender's expression changed, shifting from pleasant and concerned to shrewd and guarded. "Estraleta? We have many beautiful women who pass in and out of the Tequila Rose" —he gestured toward the woman sitting with the vaqueros, as if by way of an example— "I fear I cannot remember all of their names."

  Kendrick knew instantly the man was lying. "Way I heard further," he said, putting an edge to his voice, "was that, before she took off with Turpin, she was seen around here regular-like."

  "Maybe I might know her face … but the name I do not recall," insisted the barkeep.

  Kendrick abruptly turned and raised his voice to address the others in the room, knowing that at least part of them had probably been listening in anyway. "How about it, ya'll? Any of you know a pretty gal by the name of Estraleta who'd been hangin' around here the past few days?"

  The old men playin
g Dominos seemed not to hear the question.

  The whiskey drummer surely had heard but, not wanting to get involved, kept his nose buried in his ledger book.

  The card-playing vaqueros, however, were quick to respond. For starters, they all turned their heads and nailed Kendrick with narrow-eyed glares. The heavy-breasted woman in their midst continued to stare off at nothingness, paying no more attention to the question than to the hands pawing her.

  The vaquero who sat apart from the others hitched back his chair and said, "My amigos and me know several Estraletas, Senor. But before we speak too freely of any of them, we must first know your intentions."

  "Si," said the man who had his hand on the woman's thigh. He bared his teeth in a mocking smile. "My mother here is named Estraleta. I need to be certain your intentions are honorable and that you do not intend to take improper liberties should she be the one you are seeking."

  All three men bared their teeth and snickered nastily at the comment.

  "Real heart-warmin' to see a son lookin' out for his dear old mama that way," drawled Kendrick.

  The vaquero who had spoken first rose to his feet. "If your friend Turpin is the one who vamoosed on you, what difference does it make about Estraleta?"

  "Like I already explained," Kendrick replied with a faint tip of his head toward the barkeep, "I heard this Estraleta rode out with Turpin. I figured if I could learn a little something about her it might give me an idea where they headed."

  "If your friend rode away without informing you, maybe he had good reason. Maybe he doesn't want you sticking your nose in his business—or in Estraleta's."

  "Reckon that's possible. If it is, I'm thinkin' I'd rather hear it straight from Doc himself."

  The vaquero who was doing all the talking stepped away from the table and stood directly in front of Kendrick. "I cannot speak for your friend. But I will speak for Estraleta. And I will tell you that she does not want you sticking your nose in her business. So it would be best for you to forget this matter and to go on about some other pursuit."

  The words hung in the air and took on the weight of a sudden tension they brought with them. For the first time, the heavy-breasted woman seated at the table showed some reaction. Her eyes lifted and with a hint of concern, perhaps even alarm, her gaze swept back and forth between Kendrick and the man now planted before him.

  From behind the plank, the bartender said, "Please … Let us have no trouble."

  "There will be no trouble," the pushy vaquero said, "as long as Mr. Nosy who does not favor good Mexican beer goes on his way and quits bothering people with his questions."

  One corner of Kendrick's mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile. There was no humor at all, however, in his flat gaze. "I didn't come here lookin' for trouble. I reckon I can hold my questions for another time or place. But you wouldn't deny a fella finishin' his fresh-poured American beer, would you?"

  The vaquero reached over, slowly, and plucked a coin off the card table. This he flipped in the direction of Kendrick. It clunked onto the dusty floor with a faint ping, rolled forward to bump against the toe of Bodie's boot and then fell over flat.

  "Pick it up. Go buy yourself another stinking American beer somewhere else."

  Kendrick's face turned to stone. "No, I don't believe I will. Believe I'll drink my beer right here—the one I paid for."

  The heavy-breasted woman pushed away from the table, stood up, and backed clumsily away.

  A wide, cocky grin split the lower half of the vaquero's face as his right hand moved to hover above the gun riding low on his hip. "Senor, there is a fine line between pride and foolishness … a dead man cannot drink any beer anywhere. If you insist on being foolish when I have offered you a very reasonable option, I am afraid you leave me little choice but to—"

  Kendrick didn't wait for any more. It was obvious this hombre was on the prod and it probably wouldn't have satisfied him even if Bodie had agreed to walk out at that point. No telling how fast the vaquero really was—likely not as fast as he thought; few men actually were when it came right down to it. As he'd told Turpin some days earlier, Kendrick didn't consider his own speed with a six-shooter to rank particularly high. Still, when left no choice, he'd always managed to slap leather fast enough in the past to get the job done.

  In a single smooth motion, one that seemed deceptively unhurried, Kendrick drew his Colt Peacemaker from the plain, well-worn holster riding on his own hip. Leveling his arm at waist height, simultaneously thumbing back the hammer, he triggered a single shot that sent a slug smashing into the vaquero's right shoulder. The roar of the gun was pierced by the shriek of the vaquero as he spun away and staggered, falling to his knees. The pearl-handled hog leg he'd scarcely managed to snag from its fancy holster dropped heavily from his quivering fingers.

  Kendrick spun a quarter turn and re-aimed his Colt at the card table occupied by the other two would-be pistoleros. Both of them had shoved back their chairs and were starting to rise, clawing for their guns as they did so. Kendrick fired a round into the tabletop directly between them. The bullet bit a long, deep furrow, kicking up splinters and sending a handful of playing cards fluttering in the air.

  "Freeze where you are or one of you takes the next one!" Kendrick barked. "Get your hands away from your guns and hold 'em up where I can see 'em!"

  Both men turned instantly into statues. They spread their arms away from their sides.

  Kendrick cut a quick glance over at the barkeep to make sure he wasn't up to any funny business. He wasn't. He stood bug-eyed and very still, his hands on top of the plank bar.

  Kendrick edged over toward the man he'd shot, eyes steadily sweeping the room.

  The wounded man was still on his knees, holding his shoulder and whimpering. "My shoulder—it is ruined!"

  "Lucky I didn't ruin you still bein' alive," Kendrick muttered as he kicked away the gun that had fallen from the man's grip. Then, wagging his Colt at the other two, Kendrick said, "Unbuckle your gun belts, easy-like. Leave 'em where they drop and then move slowly over here to stand with your amigo."

  With shame and hate burning in their eyes, the two men did as they'd been told.

  Kendrick backed up a few steps to stand where he could keep his gun trained on the three and also keep the entire room in view. "You—whiskey drummer," he said to the man in the turd brown suit. "Go fetch the sheriff, in case he didn't hear those shots. You might want to tell him to bring along a doctor, too."

  "W-why me? Why choose me?" the drummer stammered.

  "Because you look suitable for the job. Get a move on."

  "What about my wares? Will they be safe while I'm gone?"

  "I'll keep an eye on 'em," Kendrick told him. "Just don't take too long," he added, "else I might get nervous and start samplin' some of whatever you got in the case."

  Chapter Five

  "So did you find out anything about that Estraleta gal, or not?" Sheriff Brimson wanted to know.

  "While we were waitin' for you and the doctor to show up," Kendrick answered, "the woman who'd been sitting with the vaqueros found her tongue and filled me in on as much as she knew."

  "Anything worthwhile?"

  The two men were sitting in the sheriff's office, sipping potent coffee from dented tin cups the sheriff had provided and poured full from an equally dented old pot on a stove in the middle of the room. Two of the vaqueros from the cantina were occupying a cell in the back, neighbors now to Chulla and Bedney, the only two members of the Klegg-Harrup gang Kendrick and Turpin had left alive. The third vaquero, the one Bodie shot, had been taken—accompanied by an armed deputy—to get patched up by the doctor and would be joining his pals behind bars soon enough.

  "According to the woman," Kendrick said, "Estraleta showed up about three days ago. She started askin' right away about Doc. Seems she'd heard somewhere about him passin' through town and goin' out after the bank robbers. So she waited at the Tequila Rose, countin' on him to come back."

  "For what p
urpose?"

  Kendrick shook his head. "She didn't say exactly. But word spread around the Rose that she's involved in some kind of uprisin' down in Mexico."

  "Uprising?" The sheriff frowned. "Revolution, you mean? Christ, they have a revolution down there about every other day, don't they?"

  "This ain't nothin' on a very big scale, from what I gathered. Some mountain villagers tryin' to stand up to some corrupt local Rurales."

  Brimson grunted. "Nothin' new about that either—corrupt Rurales, I mean. Too many of 'em are nothin' but government-sanctioned wolf packs ridin' roughshod over the citizens they're supposed to be lookin' out for."

  "I got no argument, not based on what I've heard and seen in my own travels down that way."

  "So this Estraleta wanted Turpin for—what? To side with the villagers? Hire out his gun to 'em, or something like that?"

  Kendrick rubbed a knuckle along his jaw line. "That part ain't exactly clear. Yeah, hirin' his gun for their cause, that might be it … Although I never heard of Doc bein' what anybody'd call a gun for hire before. Far as I know, his line has always been bounty work."

  "And it ain't like he needed the money," the sheriff mused, coffee cup raised part way to his mouth. "Not with those reward payments still rollin' in over at the bank."

  "Yeah, there's that, too. Comes right back to no matter why he lit out with the girl, them takin' off in the middle of the night still seems damned odd to me. Plus, if the girl was lookin' for hired guns, why not go to more bother to hunt me down and include me in on the invite—or, hell, why not those three wannabe pistoleros from the Tequila Rose, for that matter? They appeared to have known her, or at least about her cause."

  "As far as those three," Brimson said, "Turpin would've taken one look at 'em and seen 'em same as you—nothing but wannabes. They ride for the J-Double brand off to the south and west a ways, mostly do their carousin' over in Sells. Ain't sure why, but they show up here every once in a while. I think they must have relatives in the area or something. They've never caused trouble before, but along about the middle of last year they started comin' around with those low-tied fancy holsters. Knew then it'd be just a matter of time before they'd get tangleways of somebody they couldn't hoorah—either here, or in Sells. Turned out to be here, turned out to be you they had the bad luck to run up against."

 

‹ Prev