Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747)

by Cotton, Ralph W.

  After a tense silence, Teto turned his glare from Brolin and said to Erin, “You are a bad girl.” He grinned, reached out and pulled the big Starr from her belt. He checked the gun, saw that it was unloaded but didn’t question it.

  “Smart too?” Erin asked, seeing that he understood why she’d done such a thing.

  “Yes, smart too,” Teto added, giving her a knowing look. He handed her the Starr.

  She shoved it back down in her waist and gazed at Luis as he stepped forward. “Hello, Luis,” she said. “Were you not going to welcome me back?”

  “Of course, welcome back,” Luis said in a restrained tone. He said to Teto, “So, what about the lawman now? Do we call him finished business, or do we send somebody else out to kill him?”

  Teto seemed to consider it for a moment as he stared into Erin’s eyes.

  “Forget the lawman,” Erin whispered up close. “We’re back together now. That’s all that matters.”

  “Yes, to hell with him,” Teto said with a shrug. “If he is traveling afoot in wolf country, he is either dead or getting prepared to be.”

  “That’s how I figured,” said Carrico. “That’s why we came on in with Erin. We figured you’d want her escorted, that time of night.”

  “You did well, Wade,” Teto said to Carrico. He put his arm around Erin’s waist and turned her toward the cantina. “Come, have breakfast. Tell me all about this lawman from Nogales.”

  As they walked toward the open cantina doors, Truman Filo and Ludlow Blake stepped out, holding Hector in the wooden chair between them.

  “Merciful Father!” said Erin. “Who is this? What happened to him?” She stepped aside as the two gunmen walked past her.

  “That’s Pancho Pasada,” Teto said. “He used to be Hector Pasada, the one all of Henri’s whores called Squirrel, remember?”

  As he spoke, the two men carrying the beaten Mexican stopped to give her a look. Hector’s head lolled, his eyes swollen almost shut, his lips hanging open, smashed and swollen twice their size. He tried to look up at her. A terrible sound gurgled in his throat.

  “Hector, the squirrel?” said Erin. “Yes, I remember him. What has he done?”

  “He killed Sonora Charlie, Clyde Jilson and Three-Hand Defoe,” said Teto.

  “All by himself?” Erin asked.

  “Yes, with the help of his shotgun,” said Teto.

  Erin noted Teto’s red, swollen knuckles.

  “But why are you beating him, Teto?” she said. “I didn’t know you were so close with Defoe or Sonora Charlie.”

  “I don’t care that he killed them,” said Teto. “But he stole all the money we left with Defoe for safekeeping.”

  “All of the money?” Erin said. “My brother Bram’s share too?”

  “Yes, everybody’s share,” said Teto. “So far, he is a tough monkey. He tells us nothing. But don’t worry. When Filo is through cutting his fingers off, he’ll give up the money.”

  Erin looked down at Hector’s swollen face as he struggled to say something.

  “Take him away,” Teto told the two men.

  Erin stood staring until they had rounded the corner of the adobe cantina and headed back toward the living quarters.

  “It’s crazy beating him this way. What if he dies first?” she said. “Then we lose everything.”

  “Oh? What do you say we do,” said Teto, “cook him a nice dinner? Serve him café, puros?”

  “No, not dinner, or coffee and cigars,” Erin said in an even tone. “But give me a pan of water and a washcloth and let me spend some time with him. I’ll get him to give up the money.”

  “Oh . . . ?” Teto looked her up and down. He leaned in close and whispered, “Will you do all this with or without your clothes on?”

  Erin returned his whisper. “What difference does it make,” she said, “so long as we get our money?”

  Teto laughed and shook his head.

  “No, I want to let them cut on him some,” he said.

  “But we could lose all that money, Teto,” Erin insisted. “At least let me try first. If I fail, you can always sic Filo on him.”

  “I am a jealous man,” said Teto. “I want you all to myself.” He guided her through the cantina door.

  “Let her try, Teto,” Luis said, walking in step behind them. “You know she’s right.”

  Teto stopped and let out a long breath.

  “All right, if it means that much to both of you,” he said.

  “I’ll go make sure Filo and Blake behave themselves until you get there,” Luis said to Erin.

  But it was Teto who answered, saying, “Yes, you do that, my brother. She will be right along.”

  Luis turned and walked out.

  “I warn you now, Erin, if you don’t make him come around pretty quick, I will send in Filo and Blake to take up where we left off.”

  “Yes,” said Erin, “but that won’t be necessary.” She walked across the floor and said to Hopper, who stood behind the bar, “I need a pan of clean water and a soft washcloth.”

  “No pan,” said Hopper. “How about a bucket of water and a clean bar towel?”

  “That will do nicely,” said Erin.

  A moment later, as she turned back toward the door, the bucket and towel in hand, Teto drew her to the side so he could speak low, just between the two of them.

  “Make sure you understand,” he said, “there’s close to a hundred thousand dollars at stake here. If you get him to tell you where it’s hidden, you bring the information straight to me, nobody else.” He thumbed himself on the chest. “I’m the only one who handles the money. I’m the one who splits it up, comprende?”

  Erin gave him a dismissing smile.

  “It’s not if I get him to tell me, Teto,” she said close to his ear, “it’s when.”

  Teto smiled. “I like your confidence. If you get him to talk, you will get a bigger cut, say . . . one thousand dollars?”

  “Sí, gracias,” Erin said with the same smile, turning and walking out the door.

  Hector sat slumped, tied to the wooden chair in the middle of the floor of Three-Hand Defoe’s living quarters. His head lolled to one side. Fresh blood seeped from the corner of his swollen lips and trickled down his throat. Yet, in spite of his condition, he had regained his senses enough to vaguely understand what was happening around him.

  Having enough faculty to realize that being awake right then was not in his best interest, he feigned unconsciousness and observed his surroundings through the purple swollen slits of eyelids. When he saw Luis Torres step into the room through the side door, he listened closely.

  “The two of you can go,” Hector heard Luis say to the two gunmen who lounged against the wall. Truman Filo was tapping his knife blade against his trouser leg.

  “Go?” said Filo, straightening upright, appearing disappointed at Luis’ words. “What about carving the squirrel?”

  “Will you understand me better if my boot is in your teeth?” Luis growled.

  Filo shrank away. “We’re gone, Luis,” he said quickly, the knife going out of sight. “Let’s go, Lud,” he said to Blake.

  The two gunmen turned without another word and left the room. Seeing them leave helped Hector feel a little better—not much, but a little. Behind his back, his fingertips felt all around on the ropes tying his wrists to the chair.

  As his fingers searched for a way to free himself, Hector watched the woman walk into the room and stop and look at Luis, bucket of water and bar towel in her hands.

  “Finally, we can talk,” Luis said to Erin, stepping over close to her. He tried to embrace her, but she artfully maneuvered away from him and walked over toward Hector.

  “Yes, we can talk,” she said in a cautious, lowered voice, “but don’t do something foolish. All it will take is someone walking in and seeing us in each other’s arms.”

  “I—I almost wouldn’t care if they did,” Luis said, following behind her but stopping short of putting his hands on her shou
lders.

  “I care,” Erin said over her shoulder, “and so should you, for all of our sakes.”

  “I have been going crazy out of my mind over you,” Luis said. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you certain about the baby?”

  “Oh yes,” said Erin, setting the bucket down beside Hector’s chair. She dipped the towel in the clean water and wrung it loosely. “I’m more certain every day.”

  “Then we must tell him,” Luis said.

  “Why, Luis?” Erin asked. “So the child will grow up with neither a mother nor a father? You know he will kill us both if he finds out. Isn’t that what you were telling me all the while when we made love? That we must keep this a secret, that Teto will kill us both if he ever finds out?” She gave a faint smile, not facing him.

  “It was different then,” Luis said behind her, noting the vindictiveness in her voice. “I admit that I was only quenching my passion for you.”

  “Oh, your lust?” Erin said coolly over her shoulder. She laid the wet towel on Hector’s battered forehead, gently letting it cover his purple eyes.

  “All right, yes, my lust, if that is what you insist on calling it,” Luis said. “But now I am feeling much more than lust. You carry my child inside you.”

  He ventured his hands up onto her shoulders, but Erin shrugged them away and continued attending to Hector’s battered face.

  “It may interest you to know that your child was nearly torn from my belly and feasted upon by wolf cubs,” she said with a sharpness in her voice, reminding him that whatever befell her befell the baby—his baby.

  “Didn’t you notice I’m limping a little?” she continued. “I have wolf bites on my ankle and my forearms. Shall I roll up my shirtsleeves, show them to you—?”

  “Stop it, por favor!” said Luis. “You say these things only to make me crazy! All right, you have succeeded! I have lost my mind over you. What must I do? What must we do?”

  “We . . . ?” Erin said quietly. “I’m glad to hear you’re including me in our plans, whatever they may be.”

  “Of course I include you,” Luis said, as if in submission.

  She fell silent for a moment, attending to Hector, removing the towel, soaking and wringing it. She laid it across the bridge of Hector’s nose and his cut and swollen cheeks.

  Finally she said, “All right, we’ll tell Teto everything.” She paused, then said, “But I decide when and where we tell him . . . not a word from you before.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” Luis said, eagerly agreeing with her. “Only when you are ready, not before.” He again ventured his hands up onto her shoulders. This time she allowed it.

  “I want this child of ours to have everything I have not had in my life,” she said, her voice softer now as she dabbed a corner of the towel at dried blood on Hector’s face. “Do you agree?”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Luis. “If it is a boy, I will see to it he grows up atop the finest horses and sits on the finest of saddles—”

  “And if it is a girl child?” Erin asked him pointedly. “Will she still be welcome?”

  “Oh . . . a girl child?” Luis said, seemingly taken aback by the possibility. “Well, even if it is a girl child,” he said, “so what? She will still be welcome.”

  Erin smiled again to herself.

  “Let me ask you one more thing, Luis,” she said. “Does a thousand dollars really sound like a fair amount for my poor brother Bram’s cut of the money?”

  Hector relaxed a little in the chair, listening, hearing every word, feeling the coolness of the water on his throbbing, aching face.

  PART 4

  Chapter 24

  At daylight, the Ranger had followed the hoofprints left by Erin’s horse closely until they led into the narrow, walled canyon. There, he lifted the Winchester from across his lap and waited, listening warily, scanning rock and cliff for any glint of gunmetal, any sign of riflemen.

  Nothing. . . .

  He stepped the dun forward cautiously into the walled canyon until he realized that had anyone been lying in wait above him, they should have made their play by now.

  So far so good. . . .

  He stopped the dun again when he saw the tracks end around a turn in the trail in a cluster of boot prints. There, he noted that three other sets of horses’ hooves joined with Erin’s. He looked up along the ridge sixty feet above him for a moment, then back down and out past where the canyon walls stopped, as if sliced from the hillside by the sword of God.

  Last chance for an ambush. . . .

  His eyes followed the prints out of the canyon along the winding trail toward Rosas Salvajes.

  Had some of the Gun Killers waited here to spring a trap on him? Yes, he was certain they had. They would have been fools not to, he told himself. Had Erin turned them away, led them away?

  Charmed them away . . . He smiled to himself.

  But if so, why? he wondered, nudging the dun forward. Was it because of the wolves? Did she figure she owed him something for saving her life—hers and her baby’s? He liked to think that might be her reason. But he’d been around her enough to know that something as simple as genuine gratitude could have been the furthest thing from her mind. What he was certain he did not want to do was start thinking that he understood her.

  Huh-uh, not this woman, he decided. Still, he felt like whispering a thanks to her for not setting him up here on this narrow canyon trail. He tapped his heels to the dun’s sides and put the horse up into a quicker pace now that morning shone clearly on the rolling terrain.

  He rode on.

  At midmorning, he stepped down from his saddle beneath the edge of a low, rocky rise and let the dun’s reins fall to the ground. The dun stayed in place, just as it had been trained to do. Sam walked up the rocky slope, going into a crouch the last few feet, until he gazed over the crest and looked down and out at the streets of Rosas Salvajes lying in the distance.

  After a moment of studying the layout, the sun, the distance, he stepped back below the rise, picked up a handful of loose sand and stepped forward again until he could hold his closed hand above the edge of the rise. He watched the sand spill from his hand and bend sidelong on a hot passing breeze.

  This would have to do.

  He walked back to the dun, took down the big Swiss rifle case and opened it on the ground. Sunlight glinted on the smooth precision steel, the deep polished gun stock. He picked up the long scope from its seat, closed the box and carried it to the rise. With the rifle in the box beside him, ready to assemble, he lay down, stretched out in the dirt and raised the scope to his eye.

  In the living quarters of the dead Henri Defoe, Erin Donovan dropped the bloody bar towel into the bucket of water, stepped over and peeped out the door, making certain Luis had really left. When she stepped back over to Hector, she shook him by his shoulder.

  “Wake up! Wake up. I know you’re not asleep. Open your eyes,” she insisted.

  Hector raised his slumped head and turned his purple swollen slits of eyes up to her.

  “They are open,” he whispered in a strained, slurred voice. “I have been . . . badly beaten,” he rasped.

  “I’m not here to listen to your sad story,” Erin said. She stepped around behind him and looked down, seeing where he had nearly managed to get the rope loosened from his wrists. “My, but haven’t you been a busy little squirrel?” she said.

  “Do not . . . call me . . . squirrel,” Hector managed to say.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” Erin said, stooping and untying his hands from the chair. “Anybody who took this kind of beating and has not given the money up is no squirrel. That’s for certain.”

  “Why . . . are you here?” Hector asked, his voice recovering some. He brought his hands around and rubbed his raw wrists. He studied his fingers, as if to make sure none had been lopped off while he’d been unconscious.

  “I told Teto I can get you to tell me where you hid the money,” Erin said. “I told them beating you wouldn’t d
o it, and killing you was even worse.” She paused, looking down at him and added, “I took a chance on kindness working where all else has failed. Was I wrong?”

  “You were . . . not only wrong, you were dead wrong,” Hector said, struggling to rise from the chair. His words ended in a gasping, wheezing sound. Pain shot through his battered chest. Instead of making it to his feet, he crumpled toward the floor. Erin managed to catch him and steer him back onto the chair.

  “Sit still for a minute,” she said, fearing he might pass out on her. “You’re going to have to keep your wits about you, if we’re to get you out of here alive.”

  Hector coughed and wheezed and collected himself. “I told you . . . I will not reveal where I have hidden the money—”

  “Yes, I know. I heard you,” Erin said, cutting him short. “Now keep quiet until you regain some strength. I suspect you have broken ribs.”

  “I—I recognize you,” Hector said. “You and your brother—”

  Erin cut him off again, saying, “We’ll make small talk later, Hector. Right now you have to tell me where the money is hidden.” She paused before asking, “Don’t you have a house out of town along the land-wagon route? The doves all say you do.”

  “I used to,” he said. “I used to have a wife there too. But not anymore. Go see if you don’t believe me.”

  “Hector, I hope you wouldn’t make me ride out there for nothing,” said Erin.

  “Call me Pancho,” Hector said with a swollen, crooked trace of a smile. Fresh blood oozed from the cuts on his lips.

  “Yes, Pancho,” Erin said. “Now tell me where to find the money—”

  He cut her off, saying, “Would I not . . . be a fool to tell you? You are one of them.”

  “No, I’m not,” Erin said, speaking quickly, knowing Luis could return at any moment. “I’ll get you out of here alive, but I want part of the money for doing it.”

  “No.” Hector shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t believe you . . . are not one of them.”

  “Geeze begorra!” Erin cursed in Celtic under her breath. “I come to save you! Don’t be a fool! You can give me part of the hundred thousand, or you can die and never see a dollar of it!”