Dillinger (1983)

by Jack Higgins

  The man removed his blanket and stood up. He was of medium height, broad shoulders bulging beneath the faded khaki shirt, and the Indian blood showed in the high cheekbones and broad nose.

  The girl went forward without a word, placed her bundle on the table and untied it. The three men immediately reached inside and took out revolvers. Dillinger nudged Fallon with his elbow.

  'Hey, this is terrific. We've got company.'

  Fallon sat up and cursed softly. 'Well, I'll be damned. Juan Villa.'

  'You know him?'

  'Used to be one of Rivera's peons. Stuck his knife into a foreman a couple of years back. A real firebrand. You ever hear of Pancho Villa?'

  'Sure.'

  'Juan claims to be his nephew. Bullshit, but it goes down big with the peasants.'

  On seeing Fallon, Villa's face was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm. He raised a hand warningly as his two companions went towards opposite ends of the coach.

  'You would be wise to place your guns on the table, old friend,' he said in halting English. 'It would desolate me to have to kill you.'

  'We aren't armed,' Fallon told him.

  'Then stay where you are and don't try to interfere.'

  He raised his revolver and fired once through the roof. The effect was astonishing, a sudden eruption of sleeping passengers, a stifled scream, then frightened silence.

  'We will now pass around the hat,' Juan Villa said. 'You would do well to contribute generously.'

  Dillinger thought banks were a helluva lot better than trains. Less risk, more loot. Maybe Mexico didn't have enough banks.

  The door beside Dillinger opened and the conductor stepped in. He hesitated for no more than a second before turning to run - too late. The bandit who had been standing at that end of the coach shot him in the back.

  Now that's not sporting, Dillinger thought.

  A child screamed and its mother placed a hand over its mouth. In the passage between the coach and the baggage car the conductor was moaning. Dillinger started to his feet.

  These guys are doing it all wrong.

  Immediately the barrel of Villa's revolver swung towards him and Fallon cried out frantically, 'No, Juan, no!'

  Villa hesitated and then shrugged. 'I owe you a favour. This cancels it.' He turned to the bandit who had shot the conductor. 'Lock them in the baggage car and come back.'

  Fallon gave Dillinger a shove. 'Get moving!'

  The conductor had stopped groaning. They stepped over his body. The bandit bent down to pick up the bunch of keys the man still clutched in his right hand, then followed them into the baggage car.

  'Stinking gringos,' the bandit said. 'A bullet in the head is better, I think.' He threw down the keys and thumbed back the hammer of his pistol.

  'Villa won't like that,' Fallon cried in a panic.

  'So I tell him you tried to jump me.'

  The bandit pushed the barrel of his revolver into Dillinger's back. Dillinger had practised the manoeuvre a hundred times. He had anticipated a policeman's gun in his back, marching him somewhere he didn't want to go. Dillinger raised his hands, pivoting on his left foot, his left arm coming down on the man's gun arm as Dillinger's right hand, now formed into a fist, continued the movement by smashing into the side of the man's face. With his left arm tight around the bandit's gun hand, Dillinger raised his left arm up sharply, hearing the crack of bone. The man dropped the revolver and collapsed with a groan.

  Instantly, Fallon grabbed the gun up from the floor.

  'You stay here,' Dillinger said. 'I'll work my way back to the Pullman car. See if we can catch them between two fires.'

  Dillinger opened the door and the cold air sucked the door outwards, sending it crashing back against the side of the coach. The train was moving at no more than twenty miles an hour and he stepped out on the footboard, reached for the edge of the roof and pulled himself up.

  There was a catwalk running along the centre and he worked his way to the end of the baggage car and sprang across to the roof of the second-class coach. The stars were pale and in the east the dark peaks were already tipped with fire as he jumped to the roof of the Pullman and lowered himself down through the open window to the door.

  When he reached Rivera's compartment he knocked softly. It opened almost immediately. Dillinger pushed Rivera back in and stepped inside.

  Rivera had obviously just awakened. 'What is it?'

  'Bandits got on at La Lina. We're having a little trouble back there. Have you got a gun?'

  Rivera looked at him suspiciously, then pulled a suitcase from under his bunk, opened it and produced a revolver. 'How many bandits?'

  'There were three, but Fallon's looking after one of them in the luggage van. The leader's a man called Villa. Fallon said he used to work for you.'

  'Juan Villa?' Rivera's face hardened. 'That man is a murderer!'

  He brushed past Dillinger and moved along the corridor quickly. The noise of the train effectively cloaked any disturbance that was taking place inside the second-class coach as they passed through the empty first-class compartments. Rivera paused at the door to listen for a moment, then opened it.

  Juan Villa was halfway along the coach, his hat held out to a group of people at a table. The third man stood with his back to them a couple of feet away. Rivera took a quick step forward and placed the barrel of the gun against his neck. The man's whole body seemed to go rigid and Rivera plucked the revolver from his hand and passed it to Dillinger.

  He moved forward and said, 'Villa!'

  Villa looked up sharply. For a moment his face was clean of all expression and then he smiled. 'Eh, patron. We meet again.'

  'Put down the gun,' Rivera said.

  As the bandit hesitated, Dillinger shouted to Fallon. A moment later, the first bandit lurched in from the luggage van holding his head, Fallon behind him.

  Villa shrugged and dropped his gun on the table.

  'Take them to my compartment,' Rivera said.

  Fallon pulled the young Indian girl up from the end table and pushed her after the others. 'She was in it, too.'

  'What about the conductor?' Dillinger said.

  'Dead.'

  As they reached Rivera's compartment, the engineer sounded the steam whistle three times, the emergency signal, and braked sharply.

  The train slowed to a halt and Dillinger looked out of the window. A bunch of steers were milling across the track, a dozen or fifteen peons on horseback vainly trying to urge them on. Suddenly they turned and galloped forward with shrill cries, drawing revolvers and firing as they came. When they reached the train they dismounted.

  Dillinger ducked back inside and turned to Villa. 'Friends of yours?'

  The bandit grinned. 'I don't think they're going to like the way you've been treating me, amigo.'

  There was an outburst of firing from the rear of the train. A mounted trooper galloped past the window and then another. Rivera pushed Villa forward. 'Three times they've made this trip to Juarez, my friend. They were beginning to lose faith in you.'

  Dillinger looked out and saw mounted troopers of the Federal cavalry emerging one by one from the box cars at the end of the train. Most of the bandits were still trying to remount when they were surrounded. They tried firing back, but it was no use. They were outmanoeuvred and outnumbered. It was all over.

  Rivera pulled on his jacket and turned to Fallon. 'You stay here with Villa. If he makes the slightest move to escape, shoot him.' He nodded to Dillinger. 'Bring the others outside.'

  As he jumped to the ground, the young officer in command of the troop walked forward and saluted. 'Lieutenant Cordonna. They informed me in Chihuahua that you were travelling on the train, Don Jose. It would seem we have been completely successful.'

  'Not quite,' Rivera said. 'They murdered the conductor.'

  'Which one is Villa?'

  'He is at present under guard in my compartment. He, of course, must be held for public trial in Chihuahua, but the others ...'


  Cordonna shouted to his sergeant. 'Bonilla, how many have you?'

  'Fifteen, Lieutenant.'

  Cordonna looked at the two bandits from the train. 'These also?' Rivera nodded and pushed them forward. 'What about the girl?'

  Dillinger swung round quickly. 'She's only a kid.'

  'Like all Americans you are a sentimentalist,' Rivera said. 'I would remind you that it was the girl who carried the arms on board, relying on the fact that she wouldn't be searched. She is directly responsible for the conductor's death.'

  Cordonna grinned. 'What a pity. I could find a better use for her.' He sent her staggering towards Bonilla. 'Six at a time. Detail ten men.'

  The windows of the second-class coach were crowded with faces, but there was no sound as the troopers pulled carbines from their scabbards and dismounted. They marched the bandits a little way from the train and lined up the first six on the edge of a small hollow.

  Cordonna strolled toward them, paused and barked an order. The sound of the volley echoed back from the mountains.

  Cordonna and Sergeant Bonilla drew their revolvers and moved forward as two of the fallen started to scream. Dillinger glanced at Rivera's impassive face, then looked across at the Indian girl.

  Dillinger turned, climbed up into the train and went along to Rivera's compartment. Villa was sitting on the bunk and Fallon lounged in the doorway, the barrel of his revolver propped across his left forearm.

  'I'll take over here,' Dillinger said.

  'If you think I'm going to get any pleasure from watching that bunch outside you're mistaken.'

  'Then go and have a smoke or something. I'd like a word with our friend here.'

  'Suit yourself,' Fallon said, and went away along the corridor.

  Out of the silence, as Villa and Dillinger looked at each other, Cordonna's voice drifted, sharp and clear on the morning air. There was no fear on Villa's face, only strength and a blazing intelligence.

  'In case you have failed to discover the fact for yourself, I should inform you that the patron enjoys this sort of thing.'

  'He called you a murderer.'

  'Quite true, senor. He had a foreman at his hacienda and I had a young wife who killed herself. It did not take me long to discover the reason. It seemed to me that I was justified in putting my knife between his ribs. The patron thought otherwise.'

  'I thought it would be something like that.' The silence was broken by another volley and Dillinger moved out into the corridor and opened the door on the other side. He turned to Villa. 'You'd better get going. You haven't much time.'

  'For what, a bullet in the head, senor?'

  Dillinger took the remains of his packet of Artistas from his pocket and tossed it across. 'You can keep them.'

  Villa's face split in a wide grin. 'Sometimes God looks down through the clouds, senor. It is almost enough to give a man faith again.'

  He jumped down to the ground and ran for a narrow gully that curved up into the scrub that covered the lower slopes. Dillinger watched him disappear, then broke the revolver and emptied the rounds into his hand. He threw them away and turned as the third volley crashed out.

  A moment later Rivera climbed up and immediately frowned at the sight of the open door. 'What has happened?'

  'I'm afraid Villa got away,' Dillinger said.

  Cordonna appeared in the doorway at ground level and stood there listening. Rivera said, 'Why didn't you shoot him?'

  'I tried to.' Dillinger took the revolver from his pocket and handed it across. 'Unfortunately, the damned thing wasn't loaded.'

  As he turned from the rage in Rivera's eyes, Cordonna ran for his horse, calling to his men. Dillinger moved along the coach between the staring people and sat down beside Fallon.

  'What's all the excitement?' Fallon asked.

  'Villa got away.'

  As the train moved forward with a sudden jerk, Fallon said, 'Johnny, I kind of think you and that fellow you just let get away have a few things in common.'

  6

  Dillinger had had enough of the train to last him. 'I can't wait till they get my Chevvy on the ground again,' he told Fallon. 'I want to pay my first call on what's her name - Rose - the lady at the hotel.'

  'First may be last if Rivera catches you. He doesn't like his people consorting with his enemies.'

  Dillinger grabbed Fallon by the front of his shirt. 'Don't ever refer to me as one of his people. I don't belong to anybody.'

  'I'm sorry,' Fallon said. 'Meant no harm.'

  Dillinger released him. 'Let's get one thing straight, Fallon. You're an American and I'm an American and nobody else around here is an American, which gives the two of us some common ground that's one helluva lot more important than the fact that we are temporarily working for Rivera.'

  'What do you mean temporarily, Johnny?'

  'Do you intend to stay? I don't intend to stay. Your problem is you can't go home and you need some dough to live on this side of the border, right?'

  Fallon nodded.

  'I intend to solve your problem just as soon as I solve my problem. My problem,' Dillinger continued, 'is that you blew my cover.'

  'You know I didn't want to.'

  'Some people who talk lose the use of their tongues.'

  'But Rivera knows.'

  'Well,' Dillinger said, 'he might just lose something else.'

  'What might that be?'

  'The thing he values most.'

  'His life?' Fallon asked.

  'His gold.'

  'We're almost there,' Fallon said to Dillinger, who was getting more and more restless by the minute.

  In the far distance a feather of smoke marked the train's progress and a faint whistle echoed back eerily. The only signs of man's presence were the telegraph poles that branched from the railway line, marking the rough track which led over the lower slopes of the mountains to Hermosa.

  The canyon floor was a waste of gravel and rock, bright in the morning sun, dotted with clumps of mesquite and sage. Already the fierce heat of this dead land was beginning to rise from the ground.

  At the station, Rivera took charge of the flurry of activity, getting the luggage off, then supervising the unloading of the convertible.

  'Tell them anybody scratches the paint on that car is going to get personal retribution from me,' Dillinger told Rivera.

  'You better learn some Spanish,' Rivera said, 'because as soon as we get to the mine, you're going to have to give your own orders.'

  'Avanca, hurry your ass, vamos, let's go, vete, get out of here. See,' Dillinger said, 'Fallon's been teaching me real good.'

  As the Chevvy was driven down the ramp and came to rest on the solid but dusty ground, Dillinger patted the hood as if it was the nose of a horse. He unscrewed the hood ornament and topped up the water in the radiator, then seated himself behind the wheel as if it was a throne.

  'He is a child,' Rivera said to Fallon.

  'I wouldn't let him hear you say anything like that, Senor Rivera,' Fallon whispered.

  Just then a large buckboard came over the hill, pulled by two horses. Its iron-bound wheels rattled over the stones in the dirt road.

  The driver was an ox of a man. Under his wide-brimmed straw hat was a coarse and brutal face. A revolver and cartridge belt were strapped to his waist. He jumped to the ground and hurried forward, hat in hands.

  'You're late, Rojas,' Rivera said. 'I've been waiting for at least half an hour.'

  'There was trouble at the mine, patron,' Rojas said in his harsh voice.

  'Anything serious?'

  'I took care of it.' Rojas held up a fist like a rock.

  'Good,' Rivera said. 'You got my wire?'

  Rojas nodded and glanced at Dillinger. 'Is this the one?'

  Rivera said, 'Senor Jordan will operate under my direct orders when circumstances require it. You, Rojas, will still control the men.'

  It was part of Rivera's plan never to let just one man be in charge of disciplining the work in the mine. R
ojas would seek his favours as he did in the past. And the gringo would keep Rojas on his toes - as did the gringo before him. Rivera ruled by the oldest precept of all: divide and conquer.

  'Hey,' Rojas shouted, spotting Fallon, 'the old fool has come back.' He strutted over to Fallon, only to find Dillinger barring his way.

  'The old fool's name is Mr Fallon. My name is Mr Jordan. Your name is?'

  'Rojas!' Rojas shouted.

  'Pleased to meet you, Senor Rojas,' Dillinger smiled, extending his hand.

  'Enough of this nonsense,' Rivera said. 'Get the buckboard loaded. We've wasted enough time.'

  Dillinger and Fallon stooped to raise one of the packing cases between them. Rojas, to show off, lifted the other easily in his great arms.

  'We haven't got all day to waste while you two fool about like a couple of old washerwomen.'

  He pushed Fallon out of the way, grabbed at the packing case and tried to pull it from Dillinger's grasp. Dillinger held on tight, and with the point of his right boot caught the Mexican on the shin where a small blow will go a long way. Rojas staggered back with a curse. Dillinger lifted the packing case into the buckboard and turned to face him.

  'Sorry, I didn't see you there,' he said calmly.

  The Mexican took a single step forward, his great hands coming up, and Rivera cried, 'Rojas - leave it!'

  Rojas reluctantly stepped back, eyes smouldering. 'As you say, patron.'

  'Follow us with the buckboard, Rojas,' Rivera said. He got into the rear seat of the convertible as Fallon slipped in beside Dillinger at the wheel. As they went over the brow of the hill above the railway line, Dillinger offered Fallon a cigarette.

  The old man said in a low voice, 'What are you trying to do - commit suicide?'

  'Rojas?' Dillinger shrugged. 'He's like a slab of granite. Hit it in the right spot and it splits clean down the middle.'

  'I hear everything you say,' Rivera said from the back seat.

  'I intended you to hear it,' Dillinger replied, winking at Fallon.

  Dillinger knew that few men would survive a real brawl to the finish with Rojas. But that in itself was a challenge, something a man like Fallon would never be able to understand. You don't protect yourself from a bully by kissing his ass.