The marshal pulled out his tobacco bag. It was about empty. Turning to his deputy, he said, “You got any cigarette makin’s out there, Warren?” He waved toward the office. “I need a smoke.”
The deputy cocked his head. “You know I don’t smoke.”
“Yeah, well, you ought to.” The marshal waved and began to shuffle out, patting his pockets. “Just come with me, would you?” He glanced at Emmett, then said to his deputy, “And how ’bout pullin’ that door behind you?”
Once the heavy door to the front office was closed and the footfalls of Perry and his deputy faded, Emmett was left in silence. He paced for a few minutes, considering what the marshal had and hadn’t said—in facial expressions as well as in words. He was pretty sure Alonzo Perry wanted to let him go, but something was holding him back.
Emmett dropped onto the bunk and leaned back against the wall, one boot resting on the edge of the flimsy mattress, the other on the floor. He hadn’t been lounging that way more than a minute when an unexpected shadow drew his attention to the small, high window in the opposite cell.
His stomach fluttered.
There was Li—both hands gripping the bars, her smiling face between them.
He scrambled to his feet and rushed to the door of his own cell. “What in blazes are you doing here?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’re gonna get yourself caught.”
“I—” she started to answer.
“And what’re you standing on?” He knew the marshal wouldn’t leave anything along the outside of the hoosegow that could be used for just such a purpose.
Li grinned again. “Juanito is on all fours. I’m standing on his back.”
Emmett had to laugh.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m fine. But I’m working hard to keep you and Juanito out of here.”
“We saw the marshal and his deputy leave, so we thought we’d hurry over to let you know that we’re OK.”
It was a relief to him, but that relief could easily turn to alarm, should the wrong folks show up in the next minute or so.
“Ask him what we can do for him.” It was Juanito murmuring.
“I heard him,” Emmett said. He had to think fast. Li and Juanito needed to either do something immediately or get the Sam Hill out of there.
Emmett had an idea. It was a desperate idea. Maybe not the best one. But they needed to act now or go back into the brush.
“Li,” he said, “have Juanito check the street both ways for you.”
“Yes?” she said.
“If all’s clear—and only if all’s clear—you tiptoe over real quick and check the outside door to the marshal’s office.”
“What if it’s locked?”
“Then you and Juanito cut dirt. Get yourselves away from here. Maybe go on back to San Elizario for a day or so.”
She hesitated, frowning.
“I’m not kidding,” Emmett said. “Don’t waste any time. I’ll manage OK.”
“And if the marshal’s door is unlocked?” she said.
Emmett shook his head. He had to be absolutely bughouse. “Then both you and Juanito hurry on inside, shut the door, and find the keys to get me outta here.”
Li’s grin disappeared. “Are you sure?”
He had a moment of misgiving, but for some reason couldn’t help saying, “I’m sure enough. Just work fast, all right?”
She nodded, all business now.
In no time at all, Emmett heard the hurried but cautious footsteps of Li and Juanito out in the marshal’s office. He heard the scraping of wood on wood, then the discreet clink of metal on metal. The next thing he knew, a key was in the lock of the heavy door to the cell area, and the door swung open.
Only Li entered.
“Where’s Juanito?” Emmett asked as Li rushed to get the cell door open.
“I’m out here keeping watch,” his brother-in-law answered.
The response gave Emmett only a momentary sense of safety.
As soon as Li had the iron-barred door open, she threw her arms around Emmett. He lifted her chin and planted a fervent kiss on her waiting lips.
“Now let’s get outta here quick,” he said.
The two hurried into the marshal’s office, where Li made a beeline for the bigger of the two desks and restored the keys to the drawer where she’d found them.
Juanito was at the front door, which he had cracked just enough to keep an eye on the street. “Where to now, hermano?”
Emmett had been thinking about getting the horses and heading back to San Elizario, but he suddenly had a premonition that they ought to remain in El Paso and meet up with Jack VanDorn at the cantina as previously planned—regardless of what that might mean once the marshal and his deputy showed up. “We’re gonna have to lay low someplace until sundown,” he said. “Let’s just get away from this calaboose for now.”
Just as Emmett turned for the door, his hand on Li’s elbow, Juanito took a step back, his shoulders slumped.
“Santa María!” he said. “We’ve got company.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Once Franklin Taft had gotten Ned Cage, the other two gunslicks, and Geneve squared away in the finest of the Wild Hog’s upstairs rooms, he returned to the two Mexicans who had been waiting for him in the saloon below. He gestured for his new lookout man, Billy Thornhill, to come along as he led the Mexicans to his office.
Eager to find out what these guests had to say about Emmett Strong—especially in light of what this Ned Cage fellow had just ordered him to do—he treated the Mexicans with greater deference than he ordinarily would have. “This way, please, Señores.” He motioned to the two chairs facing his desk. “Another drink for you?”
The larger one answered as he sat. “Cómo no?”
A stern glare from the thinner, better dressed one, and the bigger one said, “Well, come to think of it, I believe I’ve had enough.”
Taft wondered which of the two was the real power holder. “Close the door, Billy,” he said.
Billy began to exit and pull the door behind him.
“No, you stay, too. Just close the door.”
Billy did as Taft instructed then leaned against the wall next to the door, thumbs hooked in his vest pockets.
Taft scrutinized his guests, still trying to figure out who the boss was. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
The heavy one glanced at the thinner one and then said, “My name is Sanchez.” He paused as though waiting for Taft to react.
“Good to meet you, Señor Sanchez.”
Sanchez gestured. “And this is my close friend, Lope Mendez.”
Taft nodded. “Mr. Mendez.”
“We have come here from San Antonio to tell you something we overheard there,” Sanchez said, leaning forward.
Taft spread his hands. “What you overheard must be tremendously important. It’s a long way for you to have come just to tell me something.” His gaze darted to Mendez. Sanchez’s amigo was holding his peace patiently. Maybe the tidbit Sanchez had traveled all this way to share was not so urgent in his friend’s judgment.
Leaning forward even more and placing his thick hand on the edge of Taft’s desk, Sanchez said, “Very important. It’s about the robbery.”
“The robbery?”
“Sí, my friend Lope here overheard Emmett Strong talking to his friends about when they robbed you here in El Paso.”
Again, Taft’s gaze darted to Mendez. His thoughts whirled. Today alone, Strong had ambled glibly into the Wild Hog and denied outright any connection to the robbery. Said he had proof he wasn’t even in El Paso that day. Not an hour later, Clive Mackey wound up stretched out in the undertaker’s parlor, a bullet in his noggin. Then this gun sharp, Ned Cage, arrived—Geneve in tow—demanding that he drop the charges and invite Strong ov
er for a drink—obviously looking for the chance to meet Strong on his own terms. Now, here were these Mexicans, claiming Emmett Strong admitted to the holdup.
Taft was beginning to feel as if he was in the middle of something a lot bigger than having possibly been robbed by a maverick Texas Ranger. He was no longer so sure what to believe.
“You heard Strong admit that he robbed me, Señor Mendez?”
Mendez stroked his chin, glanced at Sanchez, then said, “Sí, Strong and his friend Juan Carlos and the Englishman were talking about the saloon they are about to open in San Antonio. They were laughing and mocking you, saying things like, ‘Thank you, Mr. Taft, for all the dinero to pay for our new saloon.’”
Only now, when this Mendez voiced it, did the scenario begin to sound implausible to Taft. Strong didn’t strike him as the type to gloat and laugh at another man’s loss—not even an enemy’s loss. Even the way he came in here and took Geneve away, he seemed like a serious sort, the kind of man who set things right when he believed they were wrong. But who could tell? Maybe Strong thought he was righting another wrong when he bushwhacked and robbed him. And maybe after getting himself good and soaked, even a man like Strong might laugh it up.
“They’re opening a saloon of their own in San Antonio?” Taft asked.
Sanchez cut in. “Sí, we have seen it with our own eyes. It used to be a drugstore. Over on Fourth Street. They are working hard on it.”
Taft looked back at Mendez. “And you say they were laughing about using my money to pay for the place?”
“That’s right,” Mendez said.
“What else did they say?”
Mendez and Sanchez eyed one another once again.
Sanchez scratched his head. “They said they had to come back here with another Texas Ranger and that this other Texas Ranger would make sure that they never went to prison for their crime.”
“They called it a ‘crime’?” Taft raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, no, Señor,” Sanchez said. “That was my careless word.” He turned to his amigo. “Right, Lope? How did they say it?”
“They said their Texas Ranger friend would make sure they didn’t hang or go to the juzgado for what they did here. They did not say ‘crime.’”
When Taft looked up at Billy over by the door, he found the lookout man frowning. He would make a point of asking Billy what he thought about all this once the Mexicans were gone.
Resting his elbows on his desk now, Taft said to Sanchez and Mendez, “So you overheard all this, and you decided to travel all the away over here to El Paso to let me—a complete stranger—know about it. Why that’s mighty…neighborly.” He let his words hang for a moment, hoping the Mexicans would tip their hands.
Now draped over the front of Taft’s desk, Sanchez said, “Neighborly? Perhaps. But I must admit it’s something more than that.”
Taft nodded. “I somehow thought it might be.”
“You see, Señor, many years ago Emmett Strong wronged me—severely wronged me. And it is hard for a poor Mexican man like me to get justice. So when I heard this news from my friend Lope here, I said to myself, ‘Maybe you cannot get justice for how he wronged you, but if only you can help someone else get justice, it may give your heart some peace. And at the same time get a bad lawman off the street.’”
“May I ask what kind of wrong Emmett Strong did to you?” Taft observed Mendez giving Sanchez the slightest nudge.
Sanchez cleared his throat. “He violated the woman I loved.”
Taft hadn’t become a card sharp simply by knowing cards. He’d prided himself on becoming adept at reading people—drunk or sober. If this had been a round of poker, he’d have called Sanchez’s hand. Or played him for higher stakes. Why these two were really here and what they truly had against Strong, he didn’t yet know. But one thing was clear enough—they weren’t dealing from the top of the deck.
Meanwhile, every instinct he possessed told him Ned Cage—upstairs with a very frightened Geneve—was an extraordinarily dangerous man. And Cage, who had given him a mere hour to take care of business, most definitely wasn’t bluffing.
“Gentlemen, thank you very much for thinking so highly of my concerns,” Taft said. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a very busy afternoon.” That was certainly no lie. “Where will I be able to find you to follow up on our conversation?”
“You are going to tell the town marshal what we told you, yes?” Sanchez asked.
Meeting Sanchez’s gaze, Taft said, “I expect so. And since you’ve traveled this far, may I assume you’ll be willing to take the witness stand on my behalf?”
A little too hurriedly, Mendez answered, “I will take the witness stand. You understand my friend here did not actually hear Strong’s confession. I heard it. In the Javelina Saloon. In San Antonio.”
Sanchez was fixed on Lope Mendez.
“I knew of my friend’s troubles with Emmett Strong before,” Mendez continued. “So when I heard Strong say all this, I thought I could help my friend…and you, Mr. Taft.”
“I’m much obliged, Mr. Mendez,” Taft said, rising. “Perhaps you’ll return to the Wild Hog here after supper? There may be more to discuss then.”
“Sí, yes,” Mendez said.
Sanchez stood. “Of course we will.”
Taft motioned to his lookout man. “If you’ll see these gentlemen out, then, Billy?”
Once Billy had seen Sanchez and Mendez out, Taft hurried upstairs. Here these Mexicans had just said they’d witnessed Strong and his friends boasting about using his money to open their own saloon. Meanwhile this Ned Cage fellow was expecting him to run down to the marshal’s office, drop charges, and bring Strong back down to the Wild Hog. Strong sure was a man with a lot of enemies. Last thing Taft needed was to be caught in the crossfire between all the people looking to collect their piece of Emmett Strong.
Sure, two thousand dollars was a lot of cash to lose, but giving it up and living another day to make it all back—that might be wiser than crossing this gunslick, Ned Cage, and maybe losing his life.
He rapped on the door to the room he’d given to Cage and let himself in. “Beaners took more time than I’d thought they would.”
Geneve was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, arms folded around her knees. The fellow with the long mustache and goatee was lounging next to her—much to her chagrin, it appeared.
The short hombre turned from looking out the window.
Cage, seated in a cushioned armchair, feet stretched out in front of him, said, “What’d the Mexicans want?”
Raking his fingers through his hair, Taft said, “They’ve got an interest in Emmett Strong themselves.”
“What sort of interest?”
“An old grudge.”
“Hmm.” Cage pulled a watch from his vest pocket and glanced at it. “Forget the Mexicans. You just do like I told you and go fetch Emmett Strong for me.”
Taft hesitated. “But those Mexicans want to testify that it’s Strong and his pardners that robbed me…and not just of Geneve here.”
Cage’s fingers followed his watch chain into his vest pocket. “I’ll make sure Strong and his pardners pay for any wrong they’ve done you. You just bring ’em on back here. I’ll start the clock over for you. You’ve got an hour.”
Taft eyed the revolver in Cage’s cavalry-draw holster. No question—this hombre was a hired gun. And he wanted Emmett Strong dead. Today.
“I’m on my way,” Taft mumbled.
He turned for the door.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Juanito stepped back from the front door of the marshal’s office, and in walked Jack VanDorn.
Jack stopped, put his hands on his hips, and shook his head. “What in tarnation are you three up to? A few hours ago, for fear of gettin’ locked up, all three of you were dead set against comin’ over her
e. Now—”
“We changed our minds, Jack,” Emmett said.
VanDorn’s eyes narrowed.
“There were things to find out.” Emmett glanced at Li, then at Juanito. He saw nothing on their faces to indicate that either of them had seen VanDorn since leaving the cantina early that afternoon.
VanDorn headed for the coffee pot on the stove in the corner. “Next time you go changin’ your minds, I’d appreciate it if you’d bring me in on it.” He poured himself an enameled mug of Arbuckle’s. “So what did you find out?”
“Nothing much. As you can see, the marshal and his deputy aren’t here. Have you seen ’em?”
“Not since this mornin’.” After blowing across his mug, he said, “I suppose you’ve already heard that somebody killed Clive Mackey.”
Again, Emmett waited for clues from Li and Juanito.
“Sí, I saw them carrying the body away,” Juanito said.
Once VanDorn took a seat in the chair by the door and began to sip his coffee, Emmett asked him, “Where’ve you been?”
“Thought as long as I was in town I’d follow up on a bad hombre I chased down into Mexico a few weeks back, see if he’d drifted back to this side of the border.”
“Anything?”
VanDorn shook his head.
Emmett didn’t want to spend much time dallying around the marshal’s office—not when the lawman had practically left the keys in the jail cell door for him.
Eyeing Juanito, VanDorn said, “You do realize Taft is already convinced it was you that kicked Mackey into a funeral procession?”
Juanito sat on the corner of the deputy’s desk. “Taft is full of prairie pie. There was no reason for me to shoot Mackey. He didn’t draw on any of us”—he motioned from himself to Emmett and Li—“or on anybody else common decency would require me to defend.”
That little morsel set Emmett’s mind somewhat at ease, learning that Li hadn’t been in any danger.
VanDorn disrupted Emmett’s thought. “Sounds as if comin’ down to the marshal’s office ain’t the only thing you’ve have changed your minds about. Are y’all just movin’ about El Paso freely now? Carryin’ out your unofficial investigation in the open for the whole town to see?”
Strong Suspicions (Emmett Strong Westerns Book 2) Page 17