Dillinger (1983)

by Jack Higgins

  Dillinger leaned back in the seat, the heat of the day enfolding him, narrowing his eyes. Already the mountains were beginning to shimmer in the haze and lose definition. As they progressed higher into the sierras, they passed through the tortured land of mesas and buttes, lava beds and twisted forests of stone, a savage, sterile land that, without its gold, was no place, Dillinger thought, for a good, clean-living bank robber.

  'I've got six cans of gas in the trunk,' Dillinger shouted to Rojas over the roar of the engine, 'but it won't last for ever. Where do you get gas out here?'

  'You get it from me,' Rivera said. 'There is a tank at the hacienda.'

  Dillinger made a mental note to get some of that spare gas secreted somewhere. He didn't want the oats for his horse in Rivera's exclusive control.

  'We haven't passed another car,' Dillinger said.

  'You miss the traffic back home?' Fallon said.

  'The paved roads is what I miss,' Dillinger said, laughing. To Rivera he shouted, 'When's this road going to get paved?'

  'When hell freezes over,' Fallon said low enough so that Rivera couldn't hear, and they both laughed.

  'What are you two laughing at?' Rivera asked.

  They both shrugged their shoulders at the same time. That made them laugh again, and only aggravated Rivera more. As far as he was concerned, all Americans were just grown-up children.

  An hour later they came round the shoulder of a mountain and saw an immense valley, a vast golden plain, so bright with heat it hurt the eyes to look at it. At the side was a great hog's back of jagged peaks lifting into the clear air, incredibly beautiful in their savagery.

  'The Devil's Spine,' Fallon said, 'is what they call it.'

  'Looks more like an impregnable fortress,' Dillinger said.

  'That's what it was in the old days. They say there's a ruined Aztec or Pueblo city somewhere on top.'

  Then the shot rang out, its sound dying away quickly. Dillinger instinctively jammed on the brakes. Shading his eyes with both hands, he examined the landscape.

  Rivera said, 'Probably a hunter.'

  'Hunter my ass,' Fallon whispered.

  Two Indians came over the hill riding small wiry ponies. They wore red flannel shirts and breech-clouts, almost like a uniform, their long hair held back with bands of red flannel. Both of them carried rifles in the crooks of their arms. One of them held the carcass of a small deer across his blanket saddle.

  'I told you it was a hunter,' Rivera said.

  'Hunting for him,' Fallon whispered.

  The Indians came down the slope. Instead of reining in their ponies, they let the animals crowd the stopped car, as if getting a message across.

  Dillinger started to inch the convertible forward. One of the Indians raised the barrel of his rifle slightly.

  'We don't want any trouble with these now,' Rivera said, but Dillinger noticed in the rear-view mirror that Rivera had slid his revolver out of his waistband onto the car seat beside him. Dillinger felt naked without his Colt.

  Suddenly a voice called out, high and clear in a language Dillinger was not familiar with, and a third rider came over the rim of the hill and moved down towards them fast and the two Indians backed off slightly.

  The new arrival reined in beside the Chevrolet and sat looking at Rivera, a fierce Indian with a wedge-shaped face that might have been carved from brown stone. He wore his black hair shoulder length under a shovel hat of the kind affected by some priests, and a faded black cassock, pulled up to his knees, revealed untanned hide boots.

  There was a silence, dust rising in small whirls as the ponies danced. Rivera had turned quite pale. He sat there staring back at the man, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The Indian returned the gaze calmly, the sunlight slanting across his slate-coloured eyes and then he abruptly turned his pony and went galloping away, followed by his companions, leaving the Chevvy in a thin cloud of dust.

  'One day I shall kill that animal,' Rivera said, as Dillinger shifted gears and resumed speed.

  'He didn't look like a man it would be too easy to kill,' Dillinger commented.

  'Filthy Apache,' Rivera said.

  'Name's Ortiz - Juan Ortiz,' Fallon said. 'His people call him Diablo. Ever come across Apaches before?'

  Dillinger shook his head. 'Only in the movies.'

  As Dillinger drove, Fallon filled him in.

  'I guess you don't know too much about Apaches. Even their name means enemy. In the old days what they really lived for was war, against other tribes, against the settlers, against anybody. The ones in the States have been pretty much tamed. Lot of them shipped off to Florida somewhere. But the ones who came back down here ... you don't want to tangle with them. Ortiz was what they call a Broncho Apache, the kind that stick to the old ways. When he broke his back in a riding accident, he ended up in the mission hospital at Nacozari. The Jesuits started educating him.'

  'Madness,' Rivera interjected.

  'Now he's a kind of lay brother or something,' Fallon went on. 'Works with the priest in Hermosa, Father Tomas. I think the old man would like the Indian to take his place when he's gone.'

  'Over my dead body,' Rivera shouted. 'Ortiz is a Chiricahua Apache, cruellest savages that ever set foot on God's earth.'

  'Geronimo was a Chiricahua,' Fallon said. 'It's only forty-five years since the American cavalry chased him right into these mountains and forced him to surrender.'

  'They should have been exterminated,' Rivera said. 'Every last one of them.'

  'He's doing a pretty good job of that right now up at the mine,' Fallon whispered.

  Rivera glared at them. 'What are you whispering?'

  'Don't get paranoid,' Dillinger said. 'Just two Yankees shooting the breeze.' To Fallon he said, 'The Indians at the mine are Apaches?'

  Fallon nodded. 'Mainly Chiricahua with a sprinkling of Mimbrenos.'

  'Where'd you learn all this?'

  'From Chavasse. He's only a kid, mid-twenties, I'd guess, but he knows more about Apaches than any man I know. Came here from Paris to write a book about them and ended up being manager of Rose's place.'

  'Ah, Rose's place,' Dillinger said.

  A moment later they topped a rise and saw Hermosa in the valley below. There was a single street of twenty or thirty flat-roofed adobe houses, with a small whitewashed church with a bell tower at one end. The hotel, clearly visible, was the only two-storeyed building in the place.

  Ragged, barefooted children ran after the Chevrolet, hands outstretched for coins. Rivera tossed some loose change to scatter them as the Chevvy pulled up outside the hotel. On the crumbling facade, eroded by the heat of the desert, was a weathered board sign: SHANGHAI ROSE.

  They climbed down and Rivera said, 'I've had enough of this damned heat. I'll go out to the hacienda in the cool of the evening.' He preceded them inside.

  Fallon said to Dillinger, 'I hope he doesn't run into Rose first thing. They hate each other's guts.'

  'Come on,' Dillinger said, 'I need to wet my whistle.'

  Inside there was no sign of Rivera. Fallon led the way into a large stone-flagged room. There were tables and chairs and a zinc-topped bar in one corner, bottles ranged behind it on wooden shelves. A young man poured beer into two glasses.

  'Lord God Almighty's just been in to tell me you were here. He's gone up to his room,' he said in English with a pronounced French accent.

  Fallon picked up one of the glasses and emptied it in one long swallow. He sighed with pleasure and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. 'Another like that and I'll begin to feel human again. Andre Chavasse, meet Harry Jordan.'

  They shook hands and the young Frenchman put two more bottles on the counter and grinned. 'We heard you were coming, courtesy of Rivera's telegraph. All the comforts of civilization, you see.'

  He was perhaps twenty-five, tall and straight with good shoulders, long black hair growing into foxtails at his neck. He had a handsome, even aristocratic face. The face of a scholar that was somehow relieved by
the mobile mouth and humorous eyes. A man it would be hard to dislike.

  Dillinger turned to Fallon. 'What happens now?'

  Fallon shrugged. 'I suppose he'll want us at the mine tomorrow.'

  'Where do we stay?'

  'Not at the hacienda, if that's what you're thinking. Rivera likes to keep the hired help in their place. There's a shack at the mine.'

  'You're staying here tonight,' Chavasse put in. 'Rivera booked the room. It's the brown door at the top of the stairs.'

  Dillinger swallowed his beer and put down the glass.

  'If it's all right with you, I'll go up now. I feel as if I haven't slept in two days.'

  Fallon grinned at the Frenchman. 'We had ourselves a rough ride in. Villa and his boys tried to take over the train, then we ran into Ortiz on the way in. That didn't improve Rivera's temper, I can tell you.'

  'You saw Ortiz?' Chavasse asked eagerly. 'How did he seem?'

  'Had blood in his eyes, if you ask me. One of these days Rivera's going to do something about him.'

  'I would not like to be Rivera when that day comes,' the Frenchman said gravely.

  'You think he's dangerous?' Dillinger asked.

  Chavasse took a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match on the counter 'Let me tell you something, my friend. When you speak of the Apache you speak of the most dangerous fighting men who ever walked the face of the earth. Rivera will find one day that he has pushed Ortiz once too often.'

  'And Andre should know,' Fallon said. 'He's forgotten more about Apaches than I'll ever know.'

  'Right now,' Dillinger said, 'the only thing I'm interested in is about eight hours' sleep and whatever passes for a bath around here.'

  He walked out into the dark hall and paused to remove his jacket, blinking as the sweat ran into his eyes. A step sounded on the porch and a spur jingled as someone entered.

  He turned slowly. A young woman stood in the doorway looking at him, the harsh white light of the street outlining her slim figure. Booted and spurred, she wore Spanish riding breeches in black leather, a white shirt open at the neck and a Cordoban hat.

  But it was her face that blinded him: slightly oriental eyes that were unusually large, the nose tilted, a sensuous mouth. There was about her a tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, that filled him with a vague irrational excitement.

  'You are Senor Jordan?' she said. 'Harry Jordan, who is to run the mine for my uncle? I am Rose Teresa Consuela de Rivera.'

  She removed her hat revealing blue-black hair, plaits coiled high on the back of her head. She put out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture and he held it for a moment, marvelling at its coolness.

  'You know, for the first time I actually feel glad I came to Mexico,' he said.

  The look that appeared on her face lasted for only a second and then she smiled. Laughter erupted from her throat and the sound of it was like a ship's bell across water.

  7

  It was evening when Dillinger awakened. The coverlet had slipped from him in his sleep and he lay there naked for a moment watching the shadows lengthen across the ceiling before swinging his legs to the floor. The window to the balcony stood open and the curtains lifted in the slight breeze.

  The courtyard at the rear of the hotel seemed deserted when he peered out, and he quickly filled the enamel basin on the washstand with lukewarm water from a stone pitcher, went out onto the balcony and emptied the basin over his head.

  He towelled himself briskly, pulled on his pants and shirt, then examined his face in the cracked mirror, running a hand gingerly over the stubble of beard. He opened one of his suitcases, took out razor and soap and got to work.

  There was a knock at the door and as Dillinger turned, wiping soap from his face, Rivera entered. He carried Dillinger's shoulder holster and the Colt .32. He dropped them on the bed.

  'Well, the world is full of surprises,' Dillinger said.

  'There are eight rounds in there, my friend, as you know. If we have trouble with Ortiz, do you think eight rounds are enough?'

  Dillinger twirled the Colt around once by the finger guard. 'One round is enough. Eight can be too few. Depends on the circumstances.'

  'Am I wrong to trust you?'

  'You are wrong to trust anybody.'

  Rivera laughed. 'Here are some pesos in case you want to indulge yourself in the saloon downstairs. It is not a gift, but an advance against your pay. Don't lose it at poker.'

  'I don't lose at poker,' Dillinger said, 'or anything else. What about gas for my car?'

  'I trust you with a gun because I have two and I have Rojas. But I do not trust you yet with gas that would give you ideas of leaving Hermosa. Perhaps you will learn to ride a horse, Americano,' Rivera said, laughing again as he closed the door behind him.

  Somewhere, someone was playing a guitar and a woman started to sing softly. Dillinger put on the shoulder holster, finished dressing, brushed back his hair and went outside.

  Rose de Rivera leaned against the balcony rail at the far end of the building, her face towards the sunset as she played. In Chicago, he had once heard a woman singing in Spanish in a night spot, but nothing like this. Rose's voice was as pure as crystal.

  His footfall caused her to turn quickly, the sound of the last plucked string echoing on the evening air in a dying fall. She wore a black mantilla and a scarlet shawl draped across her shoulders. Her dress of black silk cut square across the neck. A band of Indian embroidery in blue and white edged the bodice.

  She smiled. 'You feel better for your bath?'

  'You saw me?'

  'Naturally, I turned my back.'

  'My compliments on the dress. Not what I'd looked for.'

  'What did you expect, a cheong sam? Something exotically Chinese? I wear those, too, if I'm in the mood, but tonight the Spanish half of me is what I feel.'

  'Are you more proud of your Chinese half or your Spanish half?'

  'When I am feeling Chinese, I am proud to belong to an ancient and wise civilization except for one thing.'

  'What's that?'

  'They invented gunpowder,' she said, and she came close. He didn't know what to expect, but all she did was touch his side where the shoulder holster showed. 'Who are you?' she said.

  'What about your Spanish half?' he said, avoiding the question.

  'My father used to tell me a Rivera sailed with the Spanish Armada.'

  'Didn't they lose against the English?'

  'Is winning always everything?'

  'The Americans beat the English.'

  'You are all terrible, vain, proud, impossible. What do you do for a living when you are not being strongman for my uncle? You know he is only playing you off against Rojas?'

  'Yes.'

  'You know what happened to the last American who worked for him?'

  'Yes.'

  'You think God gives you special protection that others do not have?'

  'Yes,' he said, laughing.

  'You haven't answered anything I've asked you. Why are you being so mysterious?'

  Dillinger thought how different she was from the pushovers back home. If he'd seen her in Indiana he'd have thought of her as a stranger. His girlfriend, Billie Frechette, was part Indian, really a dish, but nothing like Rose.

  He kissed her lightly, the way he'd seen in the movies, keeping his chest away from her so she wouldn't feel the holster pressing against her. When he kissed Billie, she always put her hand down there right away, but Rose just smiled and turned away just enough so he wouldn't try again.

  For a second he thought it was his heart beating loudly, but it was a drum pulsating through the dusk, and voices started an irregular chant, the sound of it carried towards them on the evening breeze. There was a flicker of flame from a hollow about a hundred yards away and he noticed an encampment.

  'Indians?'

  'Chiricahua Apaches. They sing their evening prayer to the Sky God asking him to return the sun in the morning. Would you like to visit them? We
have time before supper.'

  A flight of wooden stairs gave access to the courtyard and they moved out through the great gateway and went towards the camp. Rose took his arm and they walked in companionable silence.

  After a while she said, 'Fallon told me about how my uncle tricked you. He is a hard man.'

  'That's putting it mildly. How do you and he get on? Your uncle would like to see you go?'

  'My presence is a continual irritation. He's offered to buy the hotel many times.'

  'But you don't want to leave?'

  She shook her head. 'When I was twelve my father sent me to convent school in Mexico City. I was there for five years. The day I returned, it was as if I had never been away.'

  'Why should that be?'

  'This countryside,' she said, 'it's special. I don't like cities. Do you?'

  'Not too much,' he said.

  'You are lying to please me.'

  He wanted to tell her that out in the countryside the banks were far apart and didn't have all that much money lying around. You had to go to the towns and cities for the big loot.

  'In Mexico the people make heroes of their bandits. In the States, they make heroes of gangsters.'

  Was she guessing? Did she know something?

  'Your uncle,' Dillinger said, 'is a bigger bandit than Villa.'

  'Yes,' she said, laughing, and took his hand, but just for a moment. He felt desire again, and hoped it didn't make him crazy in the head the way it used to, the longing he couldn't stand.

  'In the countryside here,' she said, 'have you noticed that the rocks shimmer, the mountains dance, and everything is touched with a blue haze? I think the countryside is like the face of God. Sometime we are not meant to see too clearly.'

  Her hand was on his arm, an unmistakable tenderness in her voice. He looked down at her and she flushed and for a moment her self-assurance seemed to desert her. She smiled shyly, the evening light slanting across her face, and he knew that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  There was something close to virginal fear in her eyes and this time he squeezed her hand. Her smile deepened and she no longer looked afraid, but completely sure of herself.