by E. R. Slade
Any lamps they may have had going were long since smashed, so it was black as the far side of hell and no safer. But Clint was in no mood to concern himself about safety or such a small thing as lack of visibility. He caught an elbow in the jaw and grabbed it with his left hand while with the gun in his right he buffaloed the owner. The man went slack and Clint immediately forgot him and waded further into the fight.
Something hard glanced off his forehead, and he reeled, but only for a moment. The next moment he had the owner of the hard-knuckled fist where he wanted him—at his feet on the floor.
This seemed to have considerably quieted the room. In fact, upon stopping to listen, he realized that the fight was over and the distant background sounds of shouting and shooting from the saloons and street was all that was left—peaceful as a church.
Still not having quite finished venting his irritation, he hefted the pistol in his hand, peering around trying to make out if he was the only one left standing, or whether the other party or parties were just holding still.
A scuffle, and then running footfalls as somebody darted out into the hall, only dimly lit by light coming in the window from the street.
Clint went after him, and against the window saw a bulky form, not very tall, in a big hurry. At the head of the rickety staircase, Clint plowed into the man, and they went pinwheeling together down the stairs.
~*~
Clint shook the cobwebs out of his head, then found they weren’t quite gone and tried again, then gave it up and very carefully stood to see if everything still worked. As far as he could tell, everything did, except his eyes, which were a bit blurry.
There was a lantern hanging by the desk, but nobody behind the desk. The ruckus obviously hadn’t greatly disconcerted anyone. Clint looked around and saw the fat man just coming to, shaking his head back and forth on his thick neck.
Clint squinted down at the man, peering hard through the blur. Didn’t he know this fellow from somewhere? As his vision cleared, he became sure that he’d never seen the face before, and yet there was something about the man…
The fat man looked up at him and then brought up his hand feebly.
“Oh, señor,” he moaned. “Please, señor. Have compassion.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Clint said. “If it isn’t the fat horse-thieving sheepherder. And talking el inglés too.”
The fat man’s eyes widened in surprise; then a look of horror came over him.
“Oh, señor,” he said. “Please, señor. Have compassion.”
Clint, who still had his clothes on, having acquired the habit long since of sleeping in them so as to be ready for just such fateful encounters as this, patted his pockets and came up with a toothpick. He stuck it in the left corner of his mouth and his lips tipped it skyward.
“Come along, Fats. We’re going to have a little talk about compassion.”
Chapter Three
Clint sat him down on the edge of the bed in the room where the fun had taken place. He hunted up a lantern from his own room, lit it, and stood it in the middle of the floor, since the rickety dresser had been tipped over and smashed flat, as had the three chairs and the card table. Cards were strewn everywhere, along with money—twenty dollar gold pieces, quarter eagles, gold and silver dollars, and so on. Amongst it all lay the two men Clint had buffaloed. They were still out. One looked like a professional gambler; the other might have been a drifter.
“Now then,” Clint said, propping himself against a wall, looking steadily at the fat Mexican. “First of all, what was this all about?”
“The fight, señor?” The Mexican’s eyes were round and gravely innocent.
“Somebody pulling cards out of his sleeve? Like you, for instance?”
“No, no, señor,” the Mexican protested, waving his arms and rotating his head on his thick neck emphatically. “It is estos norteamericanos. They are bad, señor, very bad. They wished to cheat me of my money.”
“Well, it doesn’t make a difference to me. You got a pocketful of double eagles. I want them.”
The Mexican feigned exaggerated surprise. “I have only a small amount of money, señor. And these men wished to take it from me by cheating. I am forever in your debt, señor. You have saved a poor man from becoming even poorer.”
“The way the keep from getting poorer is to stay away from the cards. Let’s see the money.”
“It is but a small amount, señor ...”
“Let’s see it.”
The Mexican stuffed his chubby hand into a pocket and began groping. He groped for a long while.
With two long strides, Clint was at the Mexican’s side, and pulling his hand out. Twenty dollar gold pieces cascaded over the bed and the floor.
The toothpick in Clint’s mouth tipped up as his jaw took a set. He gathered the double eagles and jingled a few of them in his big hand. He was about to begin counting the money when the drifter type began to stir.
Soon after, the gambler began to stir as well, and Clint eyed them balefully. He had them sit against the wall a few feet from each other.
“I want some names,” Clint said. “Starting with you,” he added, leveling a forefinger at the drifter type.
“Wilson. Nick Wilson,” the man said groggily. “You the one buffaloed me?”
“I’m the fellow. How about you, tinhorn? You got a handle?”
The seedy one was looking glumly at his seedy suit, which was torn. “Red River Thompson.”
“Long way from your territory, aren’t you?”
“I drift around a lot. Never cared for stayin’ in one place. What’s your angle, mister?”
“I don’t like noise when I’m trying to sleep. You, Mex, what’s your name?”
“I am called Felipe López Francisco González, señor.”
“Okay, Thompson. You know this Felipe Fats?”
“I never seen him before tonight.”
“I can guess right easy how it is you happened to be playing poker with him.” Clint thoughtfully jingled the handful of coins. “How about you, Wilson?”
“I just dropped in for a game with these fellows. I never seen none of them before.”
“I’ll wager you always just happen to drop in on Thompson’s poker games. Well, clear out, the both of you.”
“This is my room,” Thompson objected, rubbing the lump on his head gingerly.
“Go sleep in the livery or someplace. I don’t figure to spend all night listening to the way you play poker.”
The two men got up with extreme care and gathered the cards and the money scattered on the floor.
“But that is my money,” Felipe said.
“The hell it is,” said Thompson.
“I reckon you’ve got plenty without it,” Clint told Felipe. “Let them have it.”
In a few moments the two men left, and Clint eyed Felipe icily.
“Okay, Mr. Felipe Fats, I know where you got the money, but I don’t know what you were doing in Dead Flats in the first place.”
“Señor, I am a poor sheepherder. Pedro—he is my cousin—he say a man has a strong desire for us to go to the Dead Flats and watch for you to arrive. Pedro he does not tell me anymore. We go to the Dead Flats and Pedro says watch the horses. Then I hear guns, and then a little later, more guns, and then I see you. That is all I know, señor. I swear on my mother’s holy grave. I know nothing more at all, señor. Nothing.”
Clint shook the fistful of double eagles under Felipe’s nose. “Just like you know nothing about this money?”
“Señor,” Felipe protested. “Have compassion. I am a poor man. The money was there. Would you not have taken it yourself?”
“Never mind that. Felipe Fats, I want to know just one thing from you. Where can I find Blake Dixon?”
Felipe’s thin dark eyebrows went up expressively. “I do not know this man, señor.”
“No? You do not know Garcia Valenzuela?”
Felipe became animated, waving his arms. “I have never heard
of him, señor. I know nothing at all. Nothing. I am only a poor sheepherder.”
“Worth about six, seven hundred dollars. Do you know that the man your friend Pedro ...”
“He is my cousin ...”
“Whichever. The man he shot was about to give me that money to do something for him. You know what he wanted me to do?”
“I tell you over and over again, señor, until I am very weary of it, that I know nothing. I am completely in the obscure about it.”
“He wanted me to kill two men, by the names of Pedro and Felipe,” Clint said, squinting down hard at the Mexican. “I have here in my hand the payment for the job. I am known for doing what I’m paid for. I need the money, too. Can you think of a good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now and be done with it?”
Felipe’s eyes widened, revealing a lot of the whites.
“But señor,” he said. “It cannot possibly be. Antonio ...”
“Ah!” Clint pounced. “Antonio! Now, who is Antonio?”
Felipe looked cornered.
“Señor, you have tricked me,” he said aggrievedly. “I am only a poor sheepherder.”
“Shut up about that sheepherder business. I hear it one more time, I’ll plop a few blue whistlers into your mouth—medicinal for what ails you. Now, who is Antonio?”
“He is the man Pedro killed. He is not a good man. He is no loss. Do not cry over him, señor.”
“I won’t. What I want to know is where I can find Blake Dixon.”
“But I have told you. I do not know this man.”
Clint drew out the letter, waved it under Felipe’s nose.
“From Blake Dixon to Garcia Valenzuela. You and Pedro were working for Valenzuela, that’s plain enough. You didn’t want Antonio talking to me, hiring me on to find Griego’s daughter—don’t tell me you know nothing about all this. I don’t care about any of it. I don’t want to get mixed up in it. If you Mexicans want to kidnap each other’s daughters and then have a feud about it, it’s nothing to me. I’ve got my own problems. What I want is Blake Dixon. Now where is he?”
Felipe took the letter and looked at it blankly. “I have not reading, señor. What does it say?”
Clint told him.
“I know nothing about this,” Felipe said. “Perhaps Pedro knew where to find Dixon, but I have never even heard of him before.”
“You are no good to me unless you can take me to Dixon,” Clint said. “You want to die?”
“Oh, señor, have compassion. I cannot help you. It will do no good to kill me. Is not lead expensive? You do not have any good reason to waste lead on me.”
“Sure I do. Think of the satisfaction I will get after the trouble you’ve caused me.”
“I wish to help, señor. It is only that I cannot. Perhaps if you ask me in the morning I will think of some way to help you.”
Clint was tired. He scratched his chin.
“Let’s have the letter,” he said.
Felipe handed it over, and Clint put it back in his pocket.
“Lie down,” Clint instructed.
He tied Felipe to the bed against the Mexican’s protests that it was unnecessary, and then put out the lantern.
“See you at sunup, Felipe Fats,” Clint said, and went out.
Clint lay down on the bed in his own room and closed his eyes. From beyond the wall he could hear Felipe muttering to himself in Spanish. Clint kept thinking about Felipe, but he couldn’t make up his mind if Felipe knew anything about Dixon or not.
Chapter Four
At first light, Clint was up. He went out and bought breakfast in an open air feed bin known as Dora’s. The food was not bad, a bit undercooked. Afterwards he returned to the hotel and entered Felipe’s room. The fat Mexican looked up at him with the expression of a patient much-maligned dog.
“Señor,” he said. “It is very uncomfortable.”
Clint untied Felipe and then watched as Felipe sat up and rubbed his limbs, groaning and moaning.
“Perhaps you have decided you would like to help,” Clint suggested.
“Señor,” Felipe said, “I have been thinking. This Señor Dixon. He is a friend of yours?” When Clint didn’t do more than shrug, Felipe went on. “I seem to record something Pedro said about this man the señor Dixon. It is possible I could lead you to him. But I am not sure.”
“Ah,” Clint said, and waited.
“I have a very beeg family,” Felipe said. “I am very poor. My wife, she is very seek, you know? And there are so many little ones. It is almost impossible to feed them all, you know?”
“If you want to be around to take care of them, take me to Dixon.”
“Señor, I may be wrong. I am not sure. It is a long way. Think what may happen to my family while I am gone! When I return, they will be even poorer than before.”
“You take me to Dixon, and then maybe I’ll feel like passing out money. We’ll see.”
“We will need burros. It is a long trip. We will need supplies.”
“Then I’ll buy them. How long a trip?”
“A week, two weeks. It is a long way, señor.”
“Then let’s get at it.”
~*~
It took most of the day to round up the necessary supplies and the burros. Clint hated the notion of using burros, but good pack horses were impossible to find. They got into a heated discussion more than once about food. Clint had in mind dried beans, fresh apples, coffee, sugar, malt, yeast and flour, the last four for making sourdough biscuits. But Felipe insisted on sacks of corn for making tortillas and especially a whole range of herbs and spices, though mostly chili peppers. And he wanted to bring a staggering supply of tequila. Clint didn’t mind some whiskey, so long as it was something more than creosote and alcohol, but he didn’t want Felipe drunk all the time. Clint didn’t even mind a few tortillas once in a while, or some chili, so they were not too hot, but he was not about to spend the next month or so living on nothing but those things. He’d heard eating too much Mexican food will make your tongue so leathery you’ll never taste any other food again.
It was nearly sundown when they were finally ready to load the burros, having about twice the amount of food they really needed, and a great irritation with each other. They spent one more night in the hotel, Clint tying the Mexican to his bed again, so he could get a good night’s sleep without worrying about what Felipe was up to.
~*~
As the sun began to beat down on the constant bedlam of Crooked Creek, Clint Evans, toothpick jutting from the corner of his mouth, and Felipe López Francisco González, known to Clint as Felipe Fats, rode out of town, going west. Clint was aboard White Socks, Felipe aboard his own scrawny horse. Before they started, Felipe drank some tequila for breakfast. Clint eyed the jugs of it on the pack of one of the burros and wondered if he had allowed Felipe too large a ration.
At noon, sweating in the sun, they stopped in a small canyon, and tried to crowd into the shade of an overhang. They drank water, then tequila, and while Clint ate an apple and made cryptic remarks, Felipe started a fire, kneaded maize and cooked himself a tortilla, liberally spiced, on a flat rock in the fire. Felipe sweated a lot over it, the drippings spitting in the flames.
“You’re going to use up our water twice as fast that way, Fats,” Clint said. “What’s the matter with an apple?”
“I always eat a good meal in the middle of the day, you know? It is good for the soul and good for the body.”
“You’re liable to burn them both out before you ever get to hell, setting by a fire in the sun in the middle of the day.”
An hour after they started moving again, they came on a brush hut, about ten by fifteen, roof of thatched leaves, with three small boys asleep beside the door, sombreros tipped down over their eyes.
“Thees is my home,” Felipe said. “I must say goodbye to Adelita and los hijos.”
Clint went into the hovel with Felipe mostly just to get out of the sun. A goat came over and began chewing at his pant leg
. There were also a turkey, a dog, and a couple of pigs. No furniture. A worn-out looking woman with many teeth missing sat in the middle of the floor grinding maize into powder in a stone bowl. Straw sleeping mats were rolled up at one side. A couple more children, both girls, were weaving a new mat.
In rapid Spanish, Felipe told his wife about Pedro’s death, and that he was in the hire of the norteamericano to help him find a man called Blake Dixon, and that he would be back in a short while, that it would be a jornado only, meaning a small chore, a day’s journey. It was only a figure of speech. He told her he didn’t know exactly how long he would be gone, but that he hoped it would not be too long. He asked her how she was, was she feeling better? She told him she hoped the norteamericano was going to pay well, and he said she was not to worry. She looked hard at Clint as though she wanted to give him a piece of her mind.
Shortly afterward they left, now going almost due north.
“You work for Valenzuela, and he doesn’t even pay you enough that you can afford to move out of that hovel?” Clint asked as they rode along.
“I do not work for Valenzuela for money. He is a cousin. One does favors for cousins.”
“I see. Pedro was his cousin too, then?”
“Sí. We are all cousins.”
“But he doesn’t pay you anything. He expects you to go around killing people just because you’re family?”
“I did not say he does not pay. Of course he pays. This is how I afford a horse and tequila. But it is not the reason why I do it.”
They rode on a while in silence. Clint adjusted his bandana to cover the back of his neck more thoroughly.
“I will give you back what is left of the money Antonio was supposed to hire me with if you will do everything you can to help me find Dixon and cause me no trouble.”
Felipe’s eyes shone, since even after buying the burros and the supplies there was a substantial amount of money left.
“That means you don’t lead me on a wild goose chase or run off in the night. Agreed?”
“Sí, señor. Sí.”