Missing Patriarch (9781101613399)

by Roberts, J. R.

“And you gotta trust somebody,” Donovan said, “and that’s me, right?”

  Rodrigo studied Donovan for a long moment, then said, “As you say, señor.”

  Donovan slapped Rodrigo on the back, then turned and looked over at the camp, where the men were sitting at the fire.

  “I’ll get somebody to relieve you in a few minutes,” Donovan said. “I’ll feel a lot safer if you’re in camp with me.”

  “As you wish, señor,” Rodrigo said. “You are el jefe.”

  “Yes, I am, Rodrigo,” Donovan said. “I’m the jefe.”

  * * *

  They were camped a few miles outside Casa Madera, where Jimmy McCall was still doing his reconnoitering.

  Just outside of town was a mission, and McCall went there last. He walked into the church and sat in one of the pews, staring up at the crucifix above the altar.

  He heard somebody behind him, turned, and saw a priest coming down the aisle toward him.

  “Is there something I can do for you, my son?” the Mexican priest asked.

  “I don’t think so, Padre,” McCall said. “I think I’m beyond your help.”

  “And God’s help?”

  “I’m beyond that, too.”

  “That cannot be, my son,” the priest said. He had gray hair, but wasn’t that old, maybe forty. He had his hands inside the sleeves of his robe. “None of us is beyond the help of God.”

  “I hope you’re right, Padre,” McCall said. “I got four kids countin’ on me.”

  “Perhaps you should go to them.”

  “I wish I could, Padre,” Jimmy said. “I just can’t right now.”

  “Well, my son, I do not know everything that is weighing heavily upon you,” the priest said, “but I am here if you need to talk further.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Jimmy said. “I appreciate it.”

  “I am Father Francisco,” the priest said. “I am always here.”

  McCall nodded, and Father Francisco withdrew.

  * * *

  Jimmy McCall was not a religious person. He had gone into the church simply to find a quiet place to sit, and think. He didn’t think anyone—priest or no priest—could help him with this problem. He needed to get away from this gang, away from Andy Donovan, alive, with money, to go back to his kids. It seemed like a heavy task at the moment.

  He left the church and headed back to town. He had spent the day scouting it thoroughly, and now it was time to take a look at what kind of law Casa Madera had to offer.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Clint and Willis sat on the trail and ate their enchiladas and frijoles refritos.

  “Are we camping here for the night?” Willis asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said. “We still have a few hours of daylight ahead. We might as well put them to good use.”

  Willis put the last of his enchilada into his mouth, then scooped up the rest of his beans.

  “Well,” he said, licking his fingers, “after that meal I’m ready to ride.”

  Clint finished his own food and stood up, brushing his hands together.

  “Let’s take the horses over there to that watering hole and let them drink,” he said.

  They grabbed the reins of their horses and walked them to the water. While the animals drank, they filled their canteens. As Clint was putting his back on his saddle, he saw the dust in the distance.

  “We got company,” Clint said.

  “Who?” Willis looked around.

  “I don’t know, but there are a few of them,” Clint said.

  “The gang?”

  “Only if they’re coming back,” Clint said. “Might just be some riders coming for water. Let’s wait and see.”

  “Shouldn’t we get out of here?” Willis said.

  “Just stand fast, Lou,” Clint said. “Don’t panic. Let’s see who it is.”

  As the riders came close, they were able to see the uniforms.

  “Soldiers?” Willis asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “Rurales.”

  “Which are?”

  “Local police,” Clint said.

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Depends on if they look at us,” Clint said. Abruptly, he took the badge from his pocket and pinned it to his shirt. “Let’s see if this helps.”

  “I hope it does,” Willis said. “How many are there?”

  “Looks like half a dozen.”

  “They’ll respect the badge, right?”

  “I don’t know, Lou,” Clint said. “I don’t know.”

  As the riders came closer, they could hear the sounds of their swords clanking. They were armed with blades, pistols, and rifles, and several of the men wore bandoliers across their chest. Clint didn’t want to tell Willis the truth, but many times the local rurales were made up of men who were at one time bandits. And some of them used their authority as a license to steal.

  They let their horses drink as the rurales approached them.

  “Señores,” the leader said. He had two stripes, while all the rest had one. He was not an officer, or a sergeant, but he was in command there.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “If you do not mind,” he said, “we will water our horses with you.”

  “Not at all,” Clint said. “It’s more your water hole than it is ours. It’s your country.”

  “Sí, señor,” the man said, “it is.” The man smiled, showing a mouthful of golden teeth. He said something in Spanish to his men, and they moved their horses to the water while they remained mounted. Clint didn’t like that. It gave them an advantage, which they seemed anxious to keep.

  He was ready.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The leader kept his eyes on Clint. It was either because of the badge, or because he instinctively knew that Clint was more of a danger than Willis.

  Willis stood beside Clint, who could feel the man’s nervousness. He just hoped the lawyer wouldn’t do anything foolish. That ranged from going for his gun, to possibly running. Anything could have set off an already volatile situation.

  “I see you are wearin’ a badge, señor,” the leader said.

  “That’s right, Corporal.”

  “Are you in my country in pursuit of someone?”

  “We are.”

  “You understand that your badge gives you no authority here.”

  “I do understand that,” Clint said. “Unfortunately, we had no choice but to follow the trail where it lead us.”

  “I understand.”

  Clint was looking at the boots the men were wearing. While they were in uniform, their boots were worn and did not seem to match.

  While their horses drank, the mounted men watched Clint and Willis closely. The corporal was the only one who dismounted. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt.

  “How far are you going, señor?” the corporal asked.

  “We don’t know,” Clint said. “As far as the tracks go, I guess.”

  “What direction are these tracks leading?”

  “South, so far.”

  “Perhaps the men you seek are going to Mexico City?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Mexico City is a very expensive place,” the man said. “Perhaps the men you are chasing are bank robbers?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Clint replied.

  “Perhaps you and your compadre have some money on you?” the corporal said. “There are, you know, travel taxes that must be paid.”

  “Taxes?” Willis asked.

  “Sí,” the corporal said, “and we are authorized to collect them.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not authorized to pay them,” Clint said.

  “In that case,” the man said, “I am afraid you cann
ot go any further.”

  “Is that right?”

  “In fact,” the corporal said, “you should not even be watering your horses.”

  “Too late,” Clint said.

  “Ah, well, if your horses have already drunk, and you have already filled your canteens, I am afraid we must insist on the taxes.”

  As if to back his words, several of his men put their hands on their guns.

  “Corporal, I understand you have faith in numbers,” Clint said, “but if any of your men go for their guns, you’ll be the first one killed.”

  “Señor, as a lawman yourself, you would kill a member of the rurales?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t believe you and your men are rurales,” Clint said. “I think you’re bandits who happened to come across a group of rurales, killed them, and took their uniforms.”

  “You have proof of this, señor?”

  “I’ll bet if your men turned around, we’d see some bullet holes in the backs of those uniforms.”

  “Señor . . .” the corporal said warningly.

  One of the mounted men made the mistake. He went for his gun, drawing a pistol from his bandolier. Clint drew quickly, shot the man from his saddle. A second man grabbed for his rifle, but Clint shot him as well.

  Willis drew his gun from his holster, but wasn’t sure what to do next. He looked to Clint, who was pointing his gun at the corporal.

  The corporal, in turn, was holding his hands out to Clint, palms out.

  “No, no, señor,” he said, “there is no need for that.” He waved an arm at his remaining men and said, “Basta!”

  The remaining men took their hands from their guns. Clint looked down at the two fallen men. They had landed facedown, and he could see the bullet holes in the backs of their uniform shirts.

  “Señor, you are very good with your gun,” the corporal said. Not that he really was a corporal.

  “He should be,” Willis said. “His name is Clint Adams.”

  Clint could see by the look on the man’s face that he recognized the name, but Willis didn’t know that.

  “He’s the Gunsmith,” Willis said.

  “I recognized the name, señor,” the man told Willis.

  “You and your boys better be on your way,” Clint said. “And pick up your dead.”

  “We want no trouble with you, señor,” the man said. He spoke to his men in Spanish, and they dismounted, picked up the dead men, and draped them over their horses.

  The man in the corporal’s uniform mounted up and waited. When all the men were once again mounted, he looked at Clint.

  “I suspect, señor, that you are looking for the seven or eight men we passed yesterday.”

  “That could be.”

  “Just to show you there are no hard feelings for you killing Julio and Cesare, I will tell you that they are camped outside a town called Casa Madera.”

  “How far is that?” Clint asked.

  “One day’s ride,” the man said. “I suspect they have sent another man into town to scout ahead. That is what I would have done.”

  “What kind of town is Casa Madera?” Clint asked.

  “A growing town, señor,” the man said.

  “And the bank?”

  “Full.”

  Clint had the feeling these bandidos had probably considered robbing that bank themselves, but they were outnumbered by the Donovan gang. Maybe this gang wanted Clint and Willis to remove the Donovan gang from their path.

  “Much obliged for the information,” Clint said.

  “De nada, señor. Buenas suerte.”

  Clint and Willis kept their guns in their hands until the gang of bandidos was out of sight.

  “Jesus Christ,” Willis said.

  “Holster your gun, Willis.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t back you—”

  “But you did,” Clint said. “You drew your gun, you were ready. If there had been more shooting, you would have been there.”

  “I can’t believe how quickly you shot those men out of their saddles.”

  “I had to make an impression so that there wouldn’t be more shooting.”

  “Well, you did. How did you know they weren’t real lawmen?”

  “Their boots,” Clint said. “They didn’t go with the uniforms.”

  Clint and Willis backed their horses away from the water hole and mounted.

  “You think they’ll be waiting for us up ahead?”

  “Maybe,” Clint said, “but I have the feeling he told us about Donovan and his gang for his own reasons. They probably want Donovan and his men out of the way so they can rob the Casa Madera bank.”

  “So they’ll be around waiting.”

  “I’m sure,” Clint said. “But right now, we’re going to ride for Casa Madera and see if they were telling the truth.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jimmy McCall was sitting in the cantina, working on a bottle of tequila. It was time for somebody from the gang to come into town and get the information he’d collected. He doubted Donovan would come himself, and the segundo was no longer a trusted ally. For this reason McCall expected the Mexican, Rodrigo, to come in. So he wasn’t surprised when the Mexican walked in.

  “Hello, amigo,” he said, sitting with McCall.

  McCall had two glasses on the table. He pushed one at Rodrigo, who filled it himself from the bottle.

  “Gracias,” he said, and downed it. “You were expecting me, eh?”

  “I was.”

  “Bueno,” Rodrigo said. “Señor Donovan told me you were good. He told me you would not be surprised when I walked in.”

  “He knows me pretty well.”

  “That is also what he said,” Rodrigo said, pouring himself another drink.

  “Okay,” McCall said, “let me give you the rundown here.”

  “Bueno,” Rodrigo said, “that is what I am here for. The—how do you say?—rundown.”

  McCall told Rodrigo about the town first, then about the bank.

  “They have two guards on the inside,” he finished. “Both armed.”

  “No guards outside?”

  “No,” McCall said, “but they have a sheriff and two deputies.”

  “What are they like?”

  “The sheriff is experienced,” McCall said, “but the deputies are young. I don’t think they’ll be that much trouble.”

  “Very good.”

  “In fact,” McCall said, “I think we can take care of them even before we go into the bank.”

  “How?”

  McCall told him his plan.

  “I will tell Donovan what you have said,” Rodrigo said. “He will be pleased.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “How much attention have you attracted?”

  “Not much,” McCall said. “There are a lot of other gringos in town. I’ve played poker with some of them, so I’ve kind of started to blend in.”

  “That is good.”

  Rodrigo stood up. Nobody in the cantina was paying them any special attention.

  “You better walk out alone,” McCall said. “I’ll just stay here awhile longer.”

  “I will see you soon,” the Mexican said, and left.

  McCall heard his horse as the man rode out of town. Then he stood up, went to the bar, got a beer, and carried it back to the table. He finished it with the rest of the tequila.

  * * *

  When Rodrigo reached the camp, he waved at Long, who was on watch, and rode in. Donovan waited for him to dismount.

  “Did you see McCall?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “And?”

  “You were right,” Rodrigo said. “He is very good at his job.”

 
; “Good,” Donovan said. “Come over to the fire and tell me what he said. Every detail.”

  “Sí, patron.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Clint and Willis looked down at the outlaw camp. There was a man on watch, but they had come from behind without being seen.

  “Not much of a watchman if we were able to sneak up on them,” Willis said.

  “It’s just a habit,” Clint said. “I’m sure they’re not expecting a posse at this point.”

  “Do you see your man?”

  “Well, I’ve never seen McCall before, but I do have a description,” Clint said. “I think I’d be able to spot him.”

  “From here?”

  “He’s got red hair.”

  “Ah,” Willis said. “That would help.”

  As they watched, they counted. Both of them came to a total of seven men, but not one with red hair.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “this is gold.”

  “What is?”

  “He’s not there,” Clint said. “That means he’s in town, scouting.”

  “So we go to town?”

  “And find him, and take him back home.”

  “What about Donovan and his gang?”

  “Maybe McCall will help us catch them,” Clint said. “But first we have to find him and talk to him.”

  “We have to get into that town without the gang seeing us.”

  “Right,” Clint said. “We’ll have to circle around and come into town from another direction.”

  “And hope the gang doesn’t hit the bank while we’re doing that.”

  “Right,” Clint said, “so we better get moving.”

  * * *

  Rodrigo finished telling Donovan about McCall’s plan to get the lawmen out of the way before they hit the bank.

  “I like it,” Donovan said.

  “I thought you would, señor,” Rodrigo said. “It is a good plan, no?”

  “It’s a very good plan,” Donovan said. “It’s the reason I recruited Jimmy in the first place.”

  “But . . . you still intend to kill him?”

  “At some point,” Donovan said, “yeah, but that don’t mean I’ll be happy about it.”

  * * *

  Clint and Willis rode to the east before turning and heading for the town of Casa Madera. They were relieved when they rode in and did not find a gun battle going on in front of the bank.