by Ralph Cotton
The woman looked suddenly bewildered, having been long denied the freedom of her own decisions. Sam glanced at her, then back to the trail.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “You and your daughter will be all right. You’re nobody’s slaves anymore.”
Chapter 3
A hard wind had kicked up in the late afternoon as Turner Pridemore and his band of mercenaries swung down from their saddles inside the gates of the old Spanish fortress at Iron Point. Mexican soldiers armed with French rifles ran in from every direction through the swirling dust. They filled the street and watched the rough-looking men closely. The captain of the fort, Luis Penza, stepped out of the Dama Desnuda Bordello buttoning his tunic.
“So, you have bounty receipts for me, eh?” the captain said in good English. A hard gust stood his hair straight up; he pressed it down. Behind him two scantily clad women watched from the bordello’s open doorway.
“Bounty receipts? Scalps, I say,” Pridemore replied, “some long, some short.” As he said the word short, he cut a sharp stare at the two women’s lower bellies. The women stepped back in terror.
“Buenas noches, ladies,” he said, touching his hat brim toward them. The women stepped back farther.
Pridemore grinned and spat tobacco and wiped a hand across his dust-streaked lips. He gestured for his men to bring up the three large burlap grain sacks they had filled with their wet, bloody trophies. Flies spun and hummed and stayed close to the bags as the men emptied the grisly contents on the ground.
“I did not tell you to dump them here in the street,” the captain said.
“You didn’t tell me not to either,” Pridemore said.
The captain eyed him closely.
“I have seen you before,” he said. “You run the trading post on the edge of the sand flats. They call you Bigfoot.” He glanced down at Pridemore’s large feet.
“They still do,” said Pridemore. He pressed his hat down on his head and turned his hand toward the scalps and the swirling flies that regathered above them between blasts of wind. “I used to run the trading post. As you can see I’ve branched out some.” As he spoke above the wind, he pulled a folded contract from inside his shirt and held it out.
The captain took the folded paper and looked him up and down, having last seen him wearing a leather clerk’s apron. Now Pridemore wore buckskin and fur clothing he’d taken from a dead scalper after a recent run-in with the Apache. Breastwork on his shirt was made up of finger bones entwined in platted strands of human hair. He wore a stiff leather hat and battered Mexican boots that reached halfway up his thighs.
“This contract is not made with you,” the captain said, the paperwork fluttering hard in his hand. “It is made with Señor Erskine Cord. I know this man Cord.”
“You don’t know him anymore, Capitán. You knew him,” said Pridemore. “He got himself kilt in Mesa Grande by a Ranger name of Sam Burrack. I run this bunch now.” He gestured at the contract in the captain’s hand. “You’ll see on the back there that he signed the contract over to me, all legal-like.”
The captain turned the contract over and read the back.
“Signed by Cord, witnessed by his segundo, Sterling Childs, also recently deceased,” said Pridemore. Both Cord’s and Childs’ signatures were forged by Pridemore, but it wouldn’t matter, he’d decided.
It was true that both Cord and Childs were dead. The Mexican government wanted the Apache killed. Turner “Bigfoot” Pridemore and his newly commanded mercenaries were killing them, almost on a daily basis.
“You can see it’s all in order, Capitán,” Pridemore said.
He watched as Captain Penza raised his eyes from the paper and gave him a skeptical look. But then the captain folded the contract and handed it back to him. As the two had spoken, Pridemore’s son, Fox Pridemore, and the late Erskine Cord’s nephew, Ozzie Cord, had stepped in and begun sorting the scalps into countable rows.
Stepping forward, Captain Penza swatted a hand through the blowflies rising from the scalps.
“No extra charge for the flies, Capitán,” Turner Pridemore called out to Penza. He grinned and gave the two women a wink. “You gals sure have some lovely hair,” he said with a hungry look. “Shiny as a blacksnake.” He started to reach out toward one of the women. They both jumped back away from him, gathering their hair back out of touch and out of the licking wind. “Ah, now, I just wanted to touch it some.” He chuckled darkly. His voice dropped to a whisper when the captain turned, facing him. “Maybe another time, then, little darlings.” He winked again.
“You, come with me,” the captain said to Pridemore in a firm tone. “My men will count the scalps and I will pay you.” He gestured to a sergeant and pointed at the scalps in the street. The sergeant instructed his corporal to start counting.
“Where can my men go to drink?” Pridemore asked, looking up and down the wide, dusty street. “Killing Apache is some damn thirsty work.”
The captain pointed off toward the far end of the street where a row of plank and adobe hovels stood with ragged tents in the wavering afternoon heat.
“Send your men to that cantina,” he said. “It is called the Mockingbird.”
Pridemore eyed a large tent at the far end of town where a small crowd cheered two men who lay rolling and fighting in the dirt.
The Mockingbird. . . . Pridemore pondered it as he scrutinized the tent.
“What’s wrong with this cantina?” he asked, pointing at a large adobe cantina straight across the street from them. A bright red-and-green sign read PANCHO MERO’S CANTINA. Mariachi music streamed through the open doors. The dazzling sound of a trumpet rose above guitar, accordion and castanets.
“Nothing is wrong with that cantina,” Captain Penza said, nodding across the street. “That is why I send you and your men to the Mockingbird.” He pointed back in the direction of the large tent where one of the combatants had been handed a long rough board and stood pounding his opponent without mercy. “The owner there is americano—a Tejano named Bertha Buttons. She will welcome your men.”
“A Texan, huh?” said Pridemore. He grinned. “I like her already.” He caught himself in afterthought and said, “Say, does she keep a sporting man around named Diamond Jim Ruby?”
The Mexican captain’s expression turned sour at the sound of the name.
“Sí, she does have such a man with her,” he said. “Do you know this man, Ruby, this woman, Buttons?”
“Know Ruby some, know of him a lot more,” Pridemore said. “I’ll know Bertha when I see her—every Texan I ever knowed has pounded her a time or two.” He turned to his men and shouted, “Watch the count, men. We don’t want to lose money because one of these Mexicans is missing a finger.” He pointed off toward the ragged tent where the man wielding the board slumped and staggered backward, exhausted. “Then go join the fun. I’ll be along straightaway with our cash.”
The fun . . . ?
“I must warn you, señor,” the captain said as he and Pridemore turned to walk to his office. “Men with money on them have disappeared from Bertha Buttons’ Mockingbird while in the company of Diamond Jim.” His voice lowered. “Those unfortunate souls have never been seen again.”
“Well, no doubt Jim Ruby robbed and killed them,” Pridemore said, taking the news in stride. “He’s always been bad about that. That’s what sent him and Bertha Buttons packing out of Texas ahead of a rope.” Again the grin as the two walked on. “Obliged you told me, though,” he said. “I never enjoy consorting with a man I know is sizing me up for a gutting.” Now his tone lowered. “If he’s a thorn in your side and you’d like to see him disappear, Capitán, my men’s blood is still up from killing Injuns. We’ll quarter him out like a steer, if you want us to—Bertha Buttons too, far as that goes.”
The captain stopped abruptly and stared at Pridemore, taken aback by the man’s casualness on the m
atter of killing. “You know this man and woman, yet you will kill them so quickly, so callously?”
“At the drop of a hat,” said Pridemore. “I said I know Ruby some, Capitán. I never said we attend the same church. Not everybody we kill has to be a black-haired heathen Injun. Now that I’m back in the business, I’m what you call ‘profit driven.’ You’d be surprised. Everywhere we go somebody asks—”
“That is another thing I must warn you about,” the captain said, cutting him off. He raised a finger for emphasis. “If I find the hair of any of my people among your receipts, someone will hang for it this very day.”
“Capitán,” Pridemore said in a firm look of sincerity, “show me a scalp from anyone other than a blackhearted heathen Apache, and I will hang somebody for it myself.”
The captain stared at him intently for a moment, as if deciding whether or not he could trust the man. Finally he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Let me say this, Señor Pridemore,” he said, lowering his voice again and glancing back and forth along the street. “If this Tejano puta and her man were killed while my men and I are away on patrol and above suspicion, it would be a happy day in my life.”
Pridemore stared at him. “Happy enough to overcount our receipts by, say . . . twenty-five extra?”
“Ha!” The captain waved the idea aside. “Why would I not have my own men kill them and save that much money for myself?”
Pridemore turned shrewd. “See, I’m thinking you can’t do that, because some federale político has allowed Buttons to open her cantina here, and you know he’ll climb straight up your shirt if something happened to her operation.” He pulled his head back with a bemused look. “Oops. Did I just hit the target dead-center, Capitán, or what?”
“Kill them, then,” the captain said. “Kill them and let me wash my hands of them.”
“Now, there you are,” Pridemore said. “See how easy that was? See how much better you feel already?” The two turned and walked on to the captain’s office. “When will you be taking your men out on patrol, and how long are you gone?”
“I will be taking a large patrol out in the morning at daybreak and be gone most of the day,” said the captain.
“How many men will you be leaving here?” Pridemore asked.
“I leave only four guards,” the captain confided, lowering his voice as if to keep from being overheard. “It would be a good time to take care of the bloody business we speak of.”
“Indeed it would,” said Pridemore. “Now put Bertha and her sporting man out of your mind. They’re dead before we leave Iron Point.”
They walked on, the captain not even realizing how fast they had gone from discussing Bertha Buttons and her cantina to having her and her sporting man killed. But Pridemore, seeing the possibilities that having him and his men around brought to mind, smiled and stared straight ahead, aware of the evil aura that surrounded his profession.
“Anywhere we come into a town, it’s a good time for folks to get caught up on old grudges and whatnot,” he said. He chuckled darkly under his breath.
“So, you are pleased with your bloody craft?” the captain said sidelong.
“Beats the hell out of running a trading post . . . people all the time filling the jakes—keep having to cover them over and dig new ones,” said Pridemore, walking on. “You ever fall into one you’ll never forget it.” He shook his head.
“Sí, I believe you,” the captain said, walking beside him.
* * *
Inside the Mockingbird Tent Cantina, the regular crowds of cutthroats, drifters, rakes, gunmen and thieves had moved aside and made room along the plank bar. A Missourian scalper named Darton Alpine led the rough-looking men across the sawdust-and-mud floor and called out to the bartender as he laid his rifle up across the bar top.
“Whatever you’ve got to drink, pull it up,” he demanded, “and bring on some lively women!” He snatched the first bottle before a Mexican bartender stood it on the bar. He yanked out the cork with his teeth, spat it away and raised the bottle toward the other scalpers. “Here’s to hard drinking,” he shouted.
Against the side of the tent, a musician stood watching the rowdy men with his accordion hanging on his chest.
“Get to squeezing on that thing,” a scalper called out, raising a pistol from his belly holster. “Every time I see one standing still, I want to put a bullet through it!”
The musician struck up a song quickly, seeing the scalper cock and aim the big revolver. As loud, cheerful music began blaring from the accordion, Alpine laughed and fired a shot straight up through the billowing canvas ceiling. Then he uncocked and lowered the smoking gun. Around the tent men had ducked beneath gaming tables or whatever cover they could find.
“Get used to it, folks,” another scalper called out, raising his shot glass. “It’s going to be like this all night long!” He raised his revolver and fired a round through the canvas ceiling. “I’m talking about all night long.”
Another scalper gave out a loud yell. His pistol came up from behind his belt and was cocked on the upswing.
The two youngest of the mercenaries, Ozzie Cord and Fox Pridemore, stood watching at the end of the line of drinkers. Neither of them flinched at the sound of gunfire. As full bottles of whiskey slid down the bar, Fox caught one that managed to get past the other scalpers. He pulled it in close, jerked the cork and kept his hand wrapped around the bottle. Ozzie at the same time grabbed two clean shot glasses from the inside edge of the bar and stood them right side up. Fox filled them.
“Here’s to taking hair,” Ozzie shouted amid the roar of the drinkers and the loud music. He raised his glass and tossed back the fiery rye in a single gulp.
Without joining his toast, Fox took a shorter sip and let out a whiskey hiss.
“What’s the matter, Fox?” said Ozzie. “You’ve been wound tighter than a Gypsy fiddle all day. You need to loosen up some.”
“Maybe you need to tighten up some, Ozzie,” Fox said. “You’ve got a lawman after you for jailbreak and murder.”
Ozzie shrugged it off.
“That ain’t nothing,” he said. “I plan on having lawmen after me my whole life.” He stepped back and gestured a hand up and down at the serious young man. “But look at you! You’ve got a lot to be pleased about. Your pa, Bigfoot, is our new leader! You’ve got rid of the clown clothes you was wearing when you joined us.” He pictured the polka-dot shirt, striped trousers and black-and-white-checkered galluses Fox had been wearing the first time he saw him. “If I was you, I’d be grinning like an idiot.”
“I bet you would, Ozzie,” Fox said, staring at him. He wouldn’t mention how many of the scalpers called Ozzie an idiot behind his back. But then, for all he knew, the men might be saying the same thing about him. He shrugged a little, sipped the rest of the whiskey and set the empty glass in front of him.
Ozzie refilled his glass quickly.
“You can call me Oz,” he said, lowering his voice a little. “I only allow my best friends to call me that, to my face leastwise.” He raised his shot glass toward Fox with a firm grin.
Fox just stared at him again. Rather than offend the young man, this time he also raised his glass.
“Here’s to you, Oz,” he said.
Ozzie looked elated and threw back his rye.
“So, now we’re friends and pards, right?” he said. “I mean, you know . . . ? After us three fighting the Apache, you and me and your brother, Lucas? God rest his poor bones. I say that makes us pals, huh?”
“Yeah, it does,” Fox said, gathering what it took to sound sincere. “We’re pals sure enough.” He touched his glass to Ozzie’s and threw back his drink. All around them the scalpers drank and shouted and now and then fired a bullet up through the canvas ceiling. Scantily dressed women filtered in through the rear fly of the tent, causing the men to whoop an
d shout all the louder.
“All right, then!” said Ozzie. “Now that we’re pals, I suppose you’d like to know all about me killing that sheriff in Mesa Grande?” Fox still stared at him; he knew the young gunman was lying. Everybody knew it was Ozzie’s uncle, Erskine Cord, who’d shot the sheriff, who later died from his wound. But he wanted to hear Ozzie’s lie. Even at his young age, Fox Pridemore had already learned from his pa that you could garner a lot from hearing how well a man lies . . . and why he does it.
“Nothing would please me more than hearing about it, Oz,” Fox said evenly. He managed a tight, friendly smile. “This here’s my first time ever being able to get as drunk as I want to. Always before I had to stay sober enough to keep watch over my brother, Lucas.” He reached out for the bottle, but Ozzie grabbed it first and poured his drink for him.
“Huh-uh, let me do that, pal,” Ozzie said. He looked at Fox with admiration.
“All right, then, much obliged,” Fox said. He settled back and let Ozzie wait on him. If Ozzie needed somebody to look up to, someone he could tell his lies to and make himself like a big gunman, Fox reckoned he could go along with that . . . for a while anyway.
Chapter 4
The bartender had worked himself into a hard sweat by the time the owner, Bertha Buttons, walked into the wind-whipped tent with a pair of short double-barrel shotguns propped on her hips. A large but shapely woman with broad shoulders and flaming red hair, Bertha stood taller than most men in the ragged tent. Behind her, four young scantily dressed putas sauntered in and spread out alongside the drinkers at the bar.
As the scalpers hooted and cheered, the women eyed them like cats eyeing prey and sauntered up to them.
Seeing one of the drinkers raise a smoking gun toward the billowing canvas ceiling, Bertha Buttons cocked both shotguns at once, letting the metal-on-metal sound be heard by all.