He took Pepe to one side several paces away, out of earshot of Remy and Sam, for an exchange of hurried, whispered conversation. Sebastiano did most of the talking, Herrera nodding in agreement.
“Good luck in tomorrow night’s bidding, monsieur. May you find whatever it is that you seek,” Sebastiano said.
“That is my fondest wish,” Remy said, beaming with good fellowship.
Sebastiano went away, off on some private errand.
“What did he want?” Remy asked, low voiced.
“He demanded a cut of whatever you might pay me as a bonus,” Herrera said. “Naturally, I agreed, though he did not offer to share any of what you gave him, nor did I ask him to. You see we understand each other very well, Sebastiano and I.”
Herrera started off once again, Sam and Remy following. They crossed to a door on the far left. It opened onto the landing of a stairwell. A flight of stairs went up to a balcony, and another flight descended to an underground level.
They went downstairs, through a doorway at the bottom of the well into a long corridor that ran the length of the building. They traveled its length, emerging in the under-stage area, a maze of storerooms and side rooms at the rear of the theater.
The side rooms were the so-called green rooms, originally intended for the use of the members of opera troupes before, during, and after performances. No opera singer had ever graced the premises.
Here was where the captive females were now kept, held separated by groups in different rooms. Apparently, the slavers found it easier that way to maintain control of both their human chattels and the prospective buyers examining them.
There was a gamy odor of flesh and soap, the smell of the sweat of fear gone cold on taut young bodies, stiff and angular with terror, mixed with a sharp chemical reek of ammonia and disinfectant.
The rooms were guarded on the outside by armed gunmen and on the inside by female enforcers, adult women in the trade, prison matron types mostly, strong, stolid, and unforgiving.
Remy and Sam made a point of visiting all the rooms in which girls were kept. They wanted to avoid betraying undue interest in the abducted American girls for fear of exciting suspicion in their keepers.
The mazy warren of rooms penned dozens, scores of girls, numbering in all somewhere between fifty and sixty.
Most were Mexican, their ages ranging from full-grown young adult women, through the middle teens and down to the barely pubescent. Many were very young. Their clothes had been taken from them and they’d all been uniformly outfitted in simple white shifts—sleeveless cotton nightdresses that hugged their ripening curves.
An atmosphere of misery, shock, and stunned resignation predominated among the captives, who wished for nothing more than to be anywhere else. They could look forward only to being sold on the block and condemned to a life of whoredom, an existence nasty, brutish, and short.
Many had seen family members brutally slain during their abductions; some had been brutalized themselves. Few slave hunters were as greedy for gold as Black Angus was and exercised the restraint he did over his gang in keeping the girls inviolate to fetch the highest market price.
Pepe Herrera kept up a line of patter, flip, brittle, and intended to be amusing, or at least sound that way to anyone eavesdropping on him and his two companions. He was used to playing a part, putting on the mask every day to go among those he hated and wanted dead, pretending they were a fine bunch of coworkers and associates.
Remy and Sam went from room to room eyeing the “merchandise.” Other buyers and groups of buyers were doing the same, weighing and judging which specimens they wanted the most and for whom they would pay the highest price.
It reminded Sam of nothing so much as a horse auction—he actually saw a number of canny buyers holding the jaws open of young girls to appraise the condition of their teeth. It was a mighty grim business made endurable only by the knowledge that he was working an agenda of his own, a hidden agenda that with luck would give slavers and buyers alike a big surprise.
The course of their inspection tour brought Sam and Remy to where the American girls were penned, seven from the wagon train and five others who’d been picked up along the way—twelve in all.
Sam knew the Bear Paw girls by Linda Gordon’s description of their names, ages, and personal characteristics, a list he’d committed to memory:
Devon Collins, fourteen, her sister, April Collins, ten (Ten !, thought Sam, his blood coming to a boil); the Haber sisters, Eva, sixteen, and Gretchen, twelve; Jenna Rowley, seventeen; Mandy Sutton, thirteen; and Priscilla Ard.
He didn’t know the names of the other five, and it would have broken character in his role of bodyguard to a New Orleans whoremonger to inquire, but memory of the girls’ lost, haunted faces was branded into his brain.
They seemed to be in decent enough health, intact and relatively unharmed, at least physically—so far, that is.
They were policed by Duenna Dulce, a fearsome female bulldog quick to lash out with a leather strap at her charges for various real or imagined minor transgressions of attitude and deportment.
The captives huddled together in shared misery, some seeming to try to shrink in on themselves to avoid drawing the attention of oily buyers with icy eyes, lewd comments, and probing fingers.
Eyes were red from crying; faces looked prematurely aged, haggard with strain.
Sobs and whimpers drew menacing glares from Duenna Dulce and the imminent threat of harsh correction. The girls were terrified of her.
Due to the rarity in these parts of the trophy animals, the American girls drew much interest, even by those disinclined to buy because of high prices. Many wanted to have a look to satisfy their curiosity, their numbers requiring a traffic manager and waiting line.
Inspection done, Remy and Sam moved on to the next room to continue counterfeiting interest in the goods.
Remy had the harder part as the buyer. He had to take more of an active interest, playing out his role with vigor so no false note would be detected by Don Carlos’s and Sebastiano’s spies and eyes. Sam as bodyguard had an easier role to play, seeming to show his primary interest as that of protecting his principal.
Sam spent much time in a level-eyed survey of room guards and the buyers’ personal gunmen, happy to see no one there that he knew, or that knew him. Gunmen are used to giving each other bad eyes, that I’m-your-pallbearer stare. It comes with the territory.
The pistoleros coldly and unsympathetically sized up each other for future reference.
Sam and Remy took note of the floor layout, the twistings and turnings of halls and corridors, the location of the rooms where girls were held—all the girls—the number and placement of the guards, how well armed they were, where positioned at which critical junctions, the location of entrances, exits, and stairwells.
Herrera led them through a doorway into a big room filled with machinery and rigged with rope lines like a sailing ship. “The under-stage area,” he said.
The space was unguarded, empty of buyers. The vice merchants wanted flesh, not man-powered machines. Sam looked around with interest. The gear included block-and-tackle hoists, lifts, winches, capstans, and similar devices for getting performers, props, and sets onstage and offstage fast.
They did this by moving the stuff straight up and down. The high ceiling was actually the underside of the stage floor. It was divided into a gridded framework, with each individual square numbered and connected to an intricate framework of metal rods and gears.
Sam eyed the hardware. The devices showed every evidence of being properly maintained. They were clean, oiled, free of rust and dust. “The gear looks well-tended,” Sam said.
“Oh, it’s kept in fine working order,” Herrera said. “The opera house was equipped with everything needed to stage a full-fledged performance. The lifting machinery was shipped to the port of Vera Cruz, transported to Mexico City, and then hauled overland by freight wagon to Pago.
“The pity of it is that
it’s never been used for what it’s intended. No opera has ever gone up on this stage. But it still serves a purpose, in a way.
“At auction time, the separate lots of girls—‘lot’ being a term of art in the auction game to describe the property going up on the block for bids,” Herrera commented dryly, “the different lots of girls are loaded on that stage elevator and lifted up onto the stage through those overhead trapdoors.
“It’s designed to move big stage props and backdrops onstage fast. It makes for a spectacular effect: One moment the stage is bare of all save the auctioneer, the next a group of young lovelies comes up through the bottom of the floor, as if by magic. It always gets a great reaction from the crowd. The buyers love it.”
“That lifting platform really works, then,” Sam said.
“Yes. The rope hawsers on the lift run through a series of block-and-tackle winches rigged to a capstan. It’s modeled on the same principle that lets a handful of sailors raise and lower a heavy anchor-and-chain. A few stagehands turning the capstan wheel can effortlessly raise and lower the platform,” said Herrera.
“Those doors at the back, do they open?” Sam asked, indicating a pair of solid metal double doors set in the rear wall.
“Yes. They’re locked now, locked from the inside. One of Sebastiano’s creatures has the keys. The doors open on ground level. They’re used to move the girls in and out of the building quickly, and to bring in food and supplies,” Herrera said.
“I detect the beginning of a plan germinating in your head,” Remy said, eyeing Sam.
“I’ve got a few ideas. They’re still in the budding stage,” said Sam.
Twin sets of spiral staircases stood at the left and right of the under-stage area.
Sam went to one, looking up to where the staircase went through a hole in the ceiling to the stage above.
“Those give the crew quick access to the stage and under-stage areas,” Herrera said.
“Can we go onstage?” Sam asked.
“Now? Yes, it is permitted. Outsiders are banned from the stage and under-stage during the auction, however.”
“Let’s go up.”
They climbed the spiral staircase, Herrera first, then Remy and Sam. The staircase topped off onstage, in a wing of the backstage area. Some crew members were setting up a speaker’s stand, nailing boards in place, sawing wood. They glanced incuriously at the newcomers before resuming their task.
The layout was a proscenium arch stage with a semicircular wooden apron extending beyond the frame of the arch, towards where the audience would be seated. The rows of seats were now currently unoccupied, of course.
The Pago opera house was minor and inconsequential compared to the grand concert halls of Europe and New York. It was a vest-pocket edition, a modest jewelbox of a theater. What was amazing about it was the fact that it had been built at all, here in Pago amidst the ragged mountains and high desert plains of the Espinazo.
Exit doors were ranged along the long side walls of the theater. At the opposite end, above the orchestra seats, was a balcony.
“That completes the tour,” Herrera said.
“I think we’ve seen enough,” Sam said, looking at Remy, the latter nodding agreement.
“I hope the tour has been inspirational,” Herrera said.
“I’ve got a few ideas that might play. I’ll develop them later.”
“I will escort you to the exit.”
They went down a short wooden set of stairs, one of a pair that were in place at left and right of the proscenium leading down to the theater’s hall floor. They followed the center aisle, went under the balcony and through the doors into the lobby and out the entrance, onto the broad portico above the steps.
Sam took several deep breaths, filling his lungs with fresh air. Freedom had never tasted so sweet, after the miasmic atmosphere of the maze of captive girls and their cruel jailers.
“We should meet tonight to make our plans,” Herrera suggested.
“We’ll be staying in town overnight. Too risky to keep running back and forth to the hideout outside Pago. It might draw suspicion,” Sam said.
“Try the Lamplighter hotel. It’s cheap and clean. The owner is not one of us so it will lull Don Carlos’s spies if you are where they can keep an eye on you.”
“We’ll give it a go,” Remy said.
They made a show of parting—they might be under the watchful eyes of Sebastiano and his agents even now. Remy reached for the gold, taking some gold coins from the pouch.
“Not too much. Sebastiano will take most of it,” Herrera said. “But not too little, either. I don’t want him to think you’re cheap.”
“Thanks for looking out for our good name,” Remy said dryly, handing the other the coins.
“Gracias. Any thoughts as to how to make the fatal strike?”
“Nothing definite yet,” Remy said.
“I’ve got a few ideas I’m kicking around,” Sam said. “I see some promising angles of approach. If they work out, they just might bring down the house.”
“Good, good!” Herrera said.
“I’ll let you know more later, after I’ve studied on the subject for a while.”
“I look forward to it. To act, to strike, after all these years of being ground under the heel of Don Carlos!” Herrera said. “I must leave you now. I’m sure you can find your way back to the zócalo. I must give Sebastiano his share of the gold, lest he accuse me of hiding some for myself. This way I can turn out my pockets to prove that I hold back nothing and that I am an honest crook, at least where he is concerned.”
Herrera turned, going back inside. No sooner had he passed through the front doors then Sebastiano swooped down on him with open palm and grasping claw. Herrera gave a sickly smile as he dug into his pants pocket and hauled out the payoff for appropriation.
Sam and Remy made their way across the grounds toward the front gate. “That was hell, pretending to be a flesh peddler and not giving any of the girls an encouraging word that help is on the way,” Remy said.
“We’ve got to keep playing our parts,” Sam said, “until the final curtain.”
“Whatever else we do, those girls have got to be freed. Not just the ones from our side of the border, but all of them.”
“That’s my thinking, too.”
“The others may not get far if they’re loosed, but at least they’ll have a chance to escape.”
“If we do our job right, there won’t be many slavers left to bother them after the show,” Sam said.
NINETEEN
Tonight’s activities required that Matt Bodine trade the gun for a bow and arrows.
Matt was a fine archer. Having grown up among the Cheyenne, he and Sam had had the bow put into their hands from the earliest age. They’d learned to hit the mark, downing game by arrow, from the smallest bird right up to a hulking grizzly bear.
There’s no greater skill for an archer than to face an enraged, charging five-hundred-pound grizzly capable of shattering a man’s skull like an eggshell with one swipe of its front paw, and bring it down with a few expertly placed arrows. Those arrows had better be expertly placed in the bear’s surekill zones of the heart and through the eye to the brain, because when the grizzly charges, there’s little time to loose more than a shaft or two—those grizzlies are fast!
Matt was an ace bowman, to be sure, but of the Brothers of the Wolf it was Sam who was the supreme archer. Matt’s affinity had always been more with the gun. With the gun he was supreme.
Now, though, while Sam was all duded up playing his part as bodyguard to “New Orleans vice lord” Remy Markand in the fleshpots of Pago, Matt had Sam’s bow and quiver of arrows in hand, for use against the foe.
That’s a switch, thought Matt. Funny how things work out sometimes.
It was the night before the day of the auction, Friday night. The Tombstone raiders rode out from the hideout in the butte’s hidden box canyon.
It was good to be going into action, ha
ving spent a long day waiting for nightfall.
Earlier, shortly after dark, Gila Chacon had met up with his gang outside the hideout.
Along with Paco Maldonado and the other three Guardsmen were ten of the muchachos, the rank and file members of the outfit. They were a tough bunch, ragged, hard-eyed, the genuine article of wild and woolly bandidos.
It had been decided earlier that the Tombstone raiders and the bandits would act seperately, independent of each other. The bandits were slavishly obedient to the commands of the newly returned Chacon, but were unlikely to work well in concert with a band of gringo gunslingers, even if they had returned their maximum leader to them.
Then again, the raiders were a long way from putting their trust in the bandits. Gila had proved trustworthy enough, but his men were under no such obligation.
Surveying the bandidos, Matt was glad that Sam and Remy had taken the machine gun with them on a packhorse when they left the hideout earlier this day before dawn.
The secret of what lay within Markand’s crate was known only to Matt, Sam, Remy, Jeff Howell, and Stebbins. Gila was aware that the crate held something besides ordinary supplies. No doubt he would like to get his hands on it, if only to satisfy his curiosity.
Matt could well imagine the havoc that could be wrought should the machine gun fall into the hands of Chacon and his murderous crew.
That’s why Sam and Remy had ridden out by themselves in the darkness before dawn, making sure they hadn’t been followed. The plan was for them to hide the machine gun in a safe place outside of Pago for retrieval when the hour to strike was at hand. After completing this task, they had then met up with Nando, for the latter to identify Pepe Herrera to them and by his presence signify that Sam and Remy were to be trusted.
Matt had confidence in Sam’s abilities to get out of a tight spot, a confidence born of their long experience as adventurers riding together. Had something gone wrong with the plan or in Pago, Matt was certain that Sam would have escaped to spread the alert.
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 24