“At the end of the summer raiding season, buyers come to Pago from all over Mexico—from Mexico City, Guanajuato, Tlaxcala, Vera Cruz, Durango, many more. Some come from as far as Guatemala and Salvador. Pimps, procurers, whoremongers, madams of high-priced bordellos, padrónes from lonely ranchos in the hills, and others worse—far worse. All come to the slave auction, and they pay in gold. For them it is like going to market to buy cattle. Young virgins bring the best prices and and gringa virgins bring the highest prices of all.
“The House of Crying Women in Pago. That is where you will find Jones, and Dorado, and the captive girls of whom the Señorita Linda spoke,” Gila finished.
“A fine tale,” Sam said, “but how can you prove what you say?”
“At my trial, such as it was, I told of Don Carlos sending men from Pago to kill me. Ask him, he was there,” Gila said, indicating Osgood.
“Sure, he told some cock-and-bull story about the men he killed. I didn’t pay it no never mind and neither did the jury,” Osgood said.
“Did he testify about any Don Carlos?” Sam asked.
“He might have. I don’t recollect.”
“Look at the trial records and you will see that what I say is true,” Gila pressed.
“Maybe he did name a certain Don Carlos, but so what?” Osgood fired back testily. “He was found guilty of stealing Judge Randall’s horse and duly sentenced to hang. He sure didn’t say nothing about no captive gals or slave auction, believe you me.”
“It did not affect my defense, so I did not bring it up.”
“That’s mighty slim,” Matt said. “Got anything else to back it up?”
“There is the matter of knowing Carmen’s hair color without the Señorita Linda having spoken of it,” Gila said.
“If Linda Gordon says this Carmen or Carol has red hair, that would be something in your favor. A small something,” Sam said. “You might have met Carmen before or picked up some gossip in the cantinas. It proves nothing about Black Angus taking the girls to Pago.”
“You are a hard man to convince, señor,” Gila said, sighing.
“You’re trying to save your neck, so you’d say anything.”
“There are other Mexicans in town, and many of them, I know. I was among them before I was caught and put in jail. Ask them about Don Carlos and the slave market of Pago; some of them are sure to know the truth.”
“We will. Anything else?”
Gila shugged. “I could tell you much more about Carmen and Dorado, but it would prove nothing about them taking the girls to Pago. I can think of two ways to prove the truth of my words. Catch one of Jones’s men and make him talk.”
“Easier said than done. We don’t have any Black Angus men.”
“You might, if they come to kill the girl.”
“That’s one way, maybe. An awful iffy one. What’s the other?” Sam challenged.
“Why, it is simplicity itself. Take me with you to Pago. If the girls are there, set me free and I will help you. If I lie, kill me and be done with it,” Gila said, smiling.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Osgood said, laughing derisively. He turned to the others. “Hell, you don’t believe this jumped-up chicken thief, do you? He’d say anything to keep from hanging.”
“Parts of his story make sense. It explains why Dorado’s teamed up with Black Angus and Quirt Fane,” Matt said.
“Aw, bosh!” Osgood spat.
“It might be true and it might not be. It’s worth checking on, the parts that can be checked,” Sam said. “Ringo, you and Bill have spent some time in Mexico. This ring any bells with you?”
“I’ve never been to Pago. You, Bill?” Ringo asked.
“Not me, John. I’ve heard of it, though. A big market for white slaves, they say.”
“I’ve heard that, too, but that’s all I know.”
“Women stealing is out of our line. It’s a filthy game and we wouldn’t have nothing to do with it,” Curly Bill said to the others.
“Which leaves us pretty much where we started,” Sam said. “Still, it’s a lead, no matter how slim. What say we head over to the hotel to have a word with Linda Gordon, Matt?”
“I’m game.”
“I’ve got some amigos over to the Mex side of town. Ringo and I’ll prowl the cantinas, see what we can pick up on the grapevine. Okay with you, John?”
“Sounds good, Bill.”
“Lee and I’ll tag along if you boys don’t mind,” Don Brown offered.
“Glad to have you,” Curly Bill said.
They stirred, readying to go out, all but Osgood. “You can go off on a wild goose chase if you want. I’m gonna stay right here. And right here’s where Chacon’s gonna stay, till the hangman calls for him.”
“Let’s go, time’s a-wasting,” Matt urged.
“Do not delay, señores,” Gila cautioned. “The auction in Pago comes soon.”
“When?”
“This coming Saturday, I believe.”
“Haw! If that don’t tear it—!” Osgood exploded. “The slave auction is Saturday, same day he’s slated for a hanging! If that don’t prove to you fellows he’s talking out of his hat to save his miserable hide, nothing will!”
“You will see that I speak the truth, and then you must come to Gila. I know Pago and its wicked ways. I have many friends there. You need me as guide. Without my help, you will never get within a mile of the auction at La Casa. You will succeed only in going before a firing squad. You need me, hombres.”
Curly Bill grunted. “And all we got to do is set you free?”
“Sí, a fair trade. Better—my life for seven young lives. A poor sinner for seven pobrecitas, seven poor, innocent, young girls. And the lives of the men you seek, Dorado and the man Quirt Fane, the ones who killed your friend.”
“If you speak truly, Gila, we’ll be back,” Matt said.
“And if you’re lying, I’ll be back, too, to peel the hide off a’ you,” Curly Bill said.
The six exited. “The Mex kind of sounds like he knows what he’s talking about,” Don Brown ventured.
“My amigos over to the cantinas’ll tell if he speaks the straight of it,” Curly Bill said.
“I hope so,” said Sam. “We better find out one way or the other—and quick.”
ELEVEN
Matt and Sam headed for Allen Street, while the others went off to Tombstone’s Mexican district. Low clouds bottomed the sky, hiding moon and stars. The air was heavy. It felt like it was going to rain.
The crowd had cleared out of Allen Street, but the Hotel Erle was still crowded. Sam and Matt entered. The lobby and bar were packed with people talking over the night’s events:
“Ain’t it a shame about them pore gals?”
“It’s a damned outrage!”
“I’m scared! What if the slave hunters come to Tombstone?”
“If they do, they’ll have a hell of a time finding a virgin—oww! What’d you go and slap my face for, Myrtle?”
“There’s nothing funny about woman stealing!”
“I’ll make it up to you—let me buy you a drink.”
“Well—just one . . .”
The duo went to the front desk. Manager Mark Fredericks was on duty behind the counter. “Howdy, Mark,” Sam said.
The manager nodded.
“What room’s the Gordon girl in?”
“I’m not supposed to give that information out—”
“It’s all right, we’re with Colonel Davenport,” Matt said, lying quickly.
“Oh. Well, if that’s the case, I’m sure it’s all right. Room two-oh-seven, across the hall from the colonel’s suite.”
“Thanks.”
“But you can’t go in. The church ladies have the girl in tow. Mrs. Sanderson and Mrs. Whiteside. Couple of battle-axes, if you ask me,” Mark Fredericks confided.
“Matt’ll get along fine with them—he’s righteous, too,” Sam said.
“A fine man, that Colonel Davenport,” the
manager said, “a great man!”
“A rich man,” Sam said. He and Matt turned, went to the lobby, pausing at the foot of the grand staircase. “You go and talk to the girl, Matt. I want to look around, see what I can see.”
“Okay, Sam.”
Matt climbed the stairs to the second floor, crossing the landing and going down the hall. Wall-mounted globed gas lamps were cones of amber light alternating with bands of muddy-brown shadows. The lamps’ glow fluttered and vibrated, a faint whooshing noise of gas pouring through wallpipes into the fixtures.
The long carpeted corridor was lined with room doors on either side. Room 207 was near the landing, on the right-hand side of the corridor.
A gunman sat in a chair outside the door, one of Davenport’s men. Matt recalled seeing him earlier, hovering around the fringes of the scene in Davenport’s suite. Stebbins must have taken Sam’s warning to heart about setting guards on Linda, Matt was pleased to see.
The guard had short-cropped hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a wide, flat, level-eyed face. He wore a black broadcloth suit, knotted black ribbon tie, white shirt, boots. A six-gun was holstered at his side.
“Bodine, with the marshal’s office,” Matt said, taking the initiative. “Deputy Osgood sent me to ask the Gordon girl a couple of questions. You saw me before when my partner and I met with the colonel in his suite.”
“I remember you. I’m Riker, one of Davenport’s men.”
“Glad to know you.”
“Go on in, if you can get by those two old biddies in there. The doc’s in there, too.”
Matt reached for the door handle. Somebody turned it on the other side, opening the door outward.
Dr. Willis came out. A well-respected Tombstone medical man, he had gray hair, gray tufted eyebrows, a gray mustache, and a long, seamed, suntanned face. He carried a black doctor’s bag in his hand.
He knew Matt. Matt hoped Willis wouldn’t inadvertently tip Riker that he, Matt, had a thin connection at best with the marshal’s office.
“Hello, Matt.”
“Howdy, Doc. How’s Linda Gordon doing?”
“She’ll be all right. She’s suffering from the effects of shock and exposure, but she’s otherwise unharmed. She’s young and strong; the young have great recuperative powers. What she needs now is sleep, lots of it.”
“I need to talk to her. It’ll only take a minute.”
Willis opened his mouth to make what Matt was sure would be an objection, so Matt said swiftly, “A single question, Doc, just one, but it’s important. I came over from the marshal’s office to find out something. It could be important to helping out those other girls, the ones who got took.”
“Under the circumstances, I suppose I’ll have to say yes,” the medic grumped.
“Thanks, Doc.”
Willis stepped back inside, Matt following. The hall door opened on to a tiny anteroom with wood-paneled, shoulder-height wainscoting, and above that, burgundy patterned wallpaper to the ceiling.
At the far end of the anteroom stood a second door, closed. Female voices could be heard behind it.
“Better let me go first,” Dr. Willis said, easing past Matt. He knocked sharply once on the door panel, opened the door, and let himself in without waiting for a by-your-leave. He eased the door partly closed behind him.
He talked to those inside. A woman answered him back, and he said something else and then opened the door. “Come on in, Matt.”
Matt entered a bedroom. Within were Linda Gordon, a pair of Tombstone matrons, and the doctor.
The room was large. A bed stood against a wall to the left, a writing desk stood at the opposite end on the right. There was a chest of drawers with an oval mirror mounted on a stand atop it, and a couple of comfortable armchairs. Light was provided by a wall gas lamp and a portable lamp set on the nightstand on the left side of the bed in which Linda lay.
Mrs. Sanderson and Mrs. Whiteside stood hovering over Linda. They were fiftyish, the wives of well-to-do businessmen. They were leaders of the church ladies’ auxiliary do-gooding society and a pair of eminently respectable dowagers.
Mrs. Sanderson was short, pigeon breasted, with a massive swelling bosom; Mrs. Whiteside was built like a fence post. They looked at Matt like he was something the cat dragged in.
Matt touched the tip of his hat, self-conscious. “Howdy, ladies.”
Mrs. Sanderson sniffed. Mrs. Whiteside said, “You don’t belong here.”
Dr. Willis stepped in. “I explained that you’ll only be a minute and that you have my permission.
“Be quick about it, Matt,” he added.
Matt went to Linda Gordon’s bedside, standing on her right. Linda lay sitting up in bed, her back propped up by pillows. Somewhere they’d found a long-sleeved, white cotton nightdress for her. Blankets and sheets were drawn up to her waist.
Matt took off his hat, holding it in front of him. “Hello, Linda. You remember me from the marshal’s office?”
She nodded, wide-eyed, solemn.
“I need to ask you a couple of questions to clear up one or two points. I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t important. It could be a big help.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“It may sound silly, but it’s not. It could help us get a lead on the outlaws and the girls they took. Here goes: The woman, Carol—what color hair did she have? Was she a brunette, or blonde . . . ?”
“Red hair. She had red hair. She kept it covered mostly with a hat or scarf, but I saw once when she was washing it in a basin. Red hair, not bright red or orange, but muddy. That’s it, muddy. It was the color of the banks of the Red River, a kind of reddish-brown.”
“That’s fine. Now, did Jensen or Sonny Boy ever call her anything but Carol? Ever address her by any other name?”
Linda thought it over long and hard. “Not that I can remember.”
“One more. What was she like? Apart from the scar, we know about that. But was she tall or short, thin or fat, fair or dark?”
“She came from Mexico, I think,” Linda said. “That’s what all the women from Bear Paw said, though some thought she was a ’breed. She looked Mexican, dark, kind of fierce looking in a way, apart from the scar. She had a good figure—the men couldn’t stop talking about it.
“The damned fools,” she added bitterly.
Mrs. Whiteside gasped. “Such language!”
“Now, now, Linda, I know you’ve been through a lot, but you mustn’t say such words. It’s not ladylike,” Mrs. Sanderson chided.
Linda sat up straight, proud chin defiantly outthrust, arms folded across her chest.
“That’s good, Linda, a big help. Anything else you recall about Carol?”
“She killed my father.”
“And the other two, Jensen and Sonny Boy. They ever say anything about where they came from, places they’d been, where they were bound? Things like that?”
“Al Jensen talked a lot. He was a great one for talking. But when you listened to it, he never said anything about himself, never gave away anything. As for Sonny Boy, he took his cue fom his uncle, if Jensen was his uncle. He never talked much except when he was drunk and then he talked a lot of silly nonsense, like a damned fool.”
Mrs. Sanderson tsk-tsked and Mrs. Whiteside said, “Well!”
“That’s all I can think of. Sorry I can’t remember anything else,” Linda said.
“You’ve been a big help, Linda. If anything else comes to mind, tell Colonel Davenport or Mr. Stebbins and have them leave word at the front desk for Matt Bodine—that’s me. The manager’ll see I get word,” Matt said. “I’ll be moseying along. I hope you get well soon. Again, thanks.”
“I hope you find the outlaws.”
“I hope so, too, Linda.”
“I hope you kill them.”
The church ladies gasped.
“Kill them all, Jensen and Sonny Boy and Carol and the whole filthy bunch of them,” Linda said.
“If I find them, I will
. And I’ll sure try to find them—that’s a promise,” Matt said.
“I believe you.”
“Good night, Linda. Try and get some rest.” Matt stepped away from the bedside. “Good night, ladies.”
“Good night,” Mrs. Sanderson said frostily, while Mrs. Whiteside vented a heartfelt “Hmmph!”
“’Night, Doc.”
“Wait up, Matt, I’ll go out with you.”
Matt and Dr. Willis went through the anteroom out into the hall, Willis closing the door behind him.
“Whew! I don’t think those ladies liked me too well,” Matt said, fitting his hat on his head.
“Hell, they haven’t liked anything too well since Buck Buchanan was president back in fifty-six,” Willis said. “That help any, what you got from the girl?”
“I think so. It confirms a key point of a story I’m checking. I’ll know better later. That Al Jensen Linda spoke of, that’s Angus Jones—Black Angus.”
“I know,” Willis said grimly. “Word like that spreads like wildfire. Going after that bunch, Matt?”
“I’m seriously studying on the subject, Doc.”
“You’ll go. You and Sam both. You’re like fire horses—as soon as you hear the alarm bells you’re up and running.”
“I’ve killed better men for less,” Matt admitted.
“This scum needs killing,” Willis growled, angry, red faced under his deep bronze tan.
“I’ll tell you who is on their trail: Ringo and Brocius. Jones’s men killed a friend of theirs, shot him in the back.”
“That’ll give Black Angus some sleepless nights,” Willis said. Then he added, more seriously, “Watch yourself, Matt. Be careful out on the trail.”
“I can take care of myself, Doc.”
“It’s not only Jones you have to look out for—it’s Ringo, too. He’s a strange one, surprisingly decent one day and a half-crazed killer the next, with no rhyme or reason for his moods except that he’s a bad drunk, and he’s drunk most of the time.
“I once had occasion to be in a saloon with him where he bought me a drink. Needless to say I accepted gratefully and returned the favor by buying him one, too. Believe it or not, he’s an educated man, a reader, knows Shakespeare and the classics.”
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 13