Gunpoint

by Giles Tippette

  This new development had me more in the dark than ever about what Flood’s intentions were. I couldn’t think of him as a killer. Money was more his interest. Hell, maybe I was being kidnapped and was going to be held for ransom, and my watchdogs were just getting me to a place that my brothers would have a difficult time getting me out of. But speculating on it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good. All I could do was go along, for the time being, and watch for an opportunity.

  The high plain stayed flat and relatively easy on the horses. The grass began to thin as we dropped Rocksprings behind, but a little before noon, I struck the banks of Indian Creek, a pretty respectable little stream about twenty to twenty-five feet across and lined with willows and mesquite on both sides. I ducked down inside the tree line and let the horses water. While they had their muzzles sunk in over their noses, I turned around and got the sack of biscuits out of my saddlebags and one of the canteens of water off the X frame of the packsaddle.

  I wasn’t going to make a nooning, planning to just ride on and see what quality of horses my companions were riding.

  After the horses had watered I set off down the creek bank, hidden, I knew, by the trees from the eyes on both sides. But I could only go some half a mile like that before the trees got too close and there was no room to ride. I cut up to my left. The first thing I saw was the three watchdogs still staying about a half a mile off to my left. I kept riding, giving them just the barest of glances.

  The creek fell away to the southwest, which seemed to suit them just fine. To test the idea I was being herded I started boring more and more towards the south, riding away from the creek. We were still on flat prairie so they were in constant view. They let me get about a quarter of a mile off line, maybe a little better, before they reined in their horses. They watched me quartering to the south for a second, and then all three drew their rifles and sent shots in the air. They were firing carbines and the distance was too great, but their intent was obvious. If I kept on south I would soon come into range because they weren’t going to retreat. I swung my horse back toward the creek, jerking the black on along with me.

  Along towards the middle of the afternoon I cut inside the shade of the tree line and got down out of the saddle and let the horses drink out of the creek. I wasn’t hungry, having been eating biscuits along the way, but I gave the horses some feed and loosened the roan’s girth. The horses weren’t particularly tired and neither was I, but I knew my companions weren’t going to find any shade out there on the prairie where they were because there wasn’t a tree in sight. Meanwhile, I was down in the coolness by the creek. I planned to let them enjoy about an hour of sitting around in that sun.

  But I hadn’t counted on their lack of patience. After about half an hour a couple of big slugs came whistling through the branches of the trees just over my head, followed by the boom-boom of the two big rifles. They were plainly telling me to move on.

  I still took my time, tightening the roan’s girth, checking the black’s load, having a drink of whiskey, and lighting a cigarillo. When I rode out of the trees I did it on the side I’d been on. I preferred the three with the Winchesters to the two with those big rifles. On reflection, it would have probably cost me a horse, I decided, if I’d tried to make a run for it. I hadn’t known about the long-distance rifles then, and they’d have probably shot the roan right out from under me.

  No, there was no mistake. Those rifles made a difference. I was in a tight place and it was getting tighter. All I could do was play the hand out as long as I had cards.

  I rode until late that night and then camped on a wide place down by the creek. There was grass in among the trees, but I kept the horses on short tether because I wanted them close and because I feared they’d wander in and around the trees and get their picket ropes all tangled up. But I grained them heavily with the last of the mixture of corn and oats and judged they were doing fine. The colt was filling out and getting iron hard. He was also a good deal calmer. The black was also starting to come into his own. Anybody with half an eye for horseflesh could see he was something special. They might not know he was a Thoroughbred racehorse, but they’d know he was different in some way. Of course he hadn’t calmed down any. And wouldn’t. By his very breeding he was always going to be nervous and jumpy. That was probably why some fool had gelded him, in hopes that that would settle him down.

  Of course there was no use in my not advertising my whereabouts. My watchdogs knew to the pace where I was. So I built myself a fire and made coffee and fried up the last of my ham, letting some of the biscuits warm in the skillet and soak up the ham juice.

  I figured to make Del Rio the next day, though it would be a steady ride to arrive before dark. As far as I was concerned Del Rio was the end of the line. If my guides had any plans on taking me further, say, across the border, they might as well begin getting ready for a gunfight because I wasn’t going. I hadn’t minded swapping Del Rio for Uvalde because I could catch the train there just as easily. But the game had grown wearisome and if Flood wasn’t ready to present himself in Del Rio, then he was going to miss the opportunity to have a visit with me. Right then the odds were five to one, but they didn’t have to remain so. I was willing to bet every cent in my pockets that his five men were border gunmen. Well, he wasn’t the only one that could hire such, and I might just change the odds considerably by doing a little hiring of my own.

  I turned in right after supper and slept like a log. The roan woke me right at dawn by smelling my face. I sat up and said, “Get away, you damn fool.”

  Then I yawned and lit a cigarillo and looked around. The creek was empty except for me and my horses. I couldn’t see the sun because of the trees, but the light was flooding in and gradually dissolving a little mist that was hanging over the water. I watered the horses and then moved them to some fresh grass while I made a quick breakfast and then washed my hands and face and upper body off in the creek. Ten minutes after I had doused the fire with the last of the coffee I was astride the roan and riding out of the tree line and on to the prairie. We were starting down now and I was about to run out of creek. There was some rough country ahead before I’d hit the Rio Grande plain, but it wouldn’t be bad. I calculated it was, at most, twenty miles to Del Rio. I put the roan in a fast walk and set out. I didn’t see my escort at first, but they caught up with me about a mile down the trail. I waved, but they didn’t wave back. By then I was beginning to feel like I knew them, though I really wanted to know them a whole lot better.

  CHAPTER 8

  Del Rio was a thriving border town of about four thousand transients and maybe a thousand homebodies set right on the Rio Grande across from the Mexican town of Villa Acuna. Truth be told you could ride across the bridge between the two towns and not really be able to tell which country you were in. Villa Acuna had as many Texans and other Anglos as Del Rio, and Del Rio had as many Mexicans as Villa Acuna.

  But even though most of the money that passed through both towns was dirty, there seemed to be a powerful amount of it. Del Rio had three good hotels and a bunch of boardinghouses and enough cafes to feed a Mexican army. Of course there were enough saloons to satisfy everybody except a Baptist preacher.

  The sheriff would be quick to tell you that Del Rio’s prosperity came from the legitimate business of moving cattle back and forth across the river, but anybody that hadn’t just fallen off a hay wagon knew Del Rio’s main business was smuggling cattle, gold, servants, whores, or whatever was needed at the time. You could get anything you wanted through the town and get an official stamp of approval on it. The town was also the hangout for damn near every cutthroat, gun hand, and outlaw in south Texas. If you wanted to hire somebody to point a revolver and pull the trigger, this was the place to hire him.

  Of course, the area was big grassland and there were some large ranches. But it was more profitable for these ranchers to use their grass to hold Mexican cattle than to raise their own herds. Besides, there was also a brisk trade in
stolen American cattle and horses being driven into Mexico, where they disappeared as if by magic.

  But it was a big-money town. You could sit in the lobby of any of the three best hotels and see ten- and twenty- and thirty-thousand-dollar deals being made and the cash counted out right there. You’d also see about six pistoleros standing around to make sure the transaction wasn’t interrupted by some would-be robber.

  Coming in, I had been surprised to see what appeared to be a racetrack just on the outskirts of town. It was an oval track, like you might see back in the East, and was all decorated with banners and flags and whatnot. I figured July Fourth was either coming or had just been. The racetrack even had some small stands for the crowds.

  My companions had left me. At what point I never knew for, about a mile out of town, they began widening the distance between me on each side until they either hid behind the abundant mesquite and cedar copses, or just kept going until they fell out of sight in the high grass. By then I had struck the road that ran a little way out of town and then dissolved into prairie. I stopped short of the town itself and had one last look around, but they were nowhere in sight. Not, however, that I had seen the last of them. I felt pretty sure they’d be sticking close. I figured that one of the reasons they’d kept their distance on the prairie had been so that I couldn’t get a good look at their faces. All I really knew was their mounts and, a little, their clothes. But clothes could be changed, as could horses. As a consequence, any of them could be standing right beside me in a saloon and I’d never know. It was, I thought, a clever way to track me both in and out of town. I figured it was some of Mister Flood’s work.

  I checked into the Hidalgo Hotel, which was the best in town. They had a boy there to take your horse around to the stables, and I give him a dollar and told him I wanted mine rubbed down and stalled separate from any other animals as I didn’t wish either to get a kick in the ribs. You had to be careful of that because some big stables would just jam horses in together. I also told him I wanted the animals grained and watered and that he could just leave my pack in the stable. After that I untied my saddlebags from the back of the roan, slung them over my shoulder, and walked into the big, cool lobby. It was still as hot as ever outside, but I’d been in it so much that I’d come not to notice it.

  At the desk I asked for a room with a sitting room attached. In big cities they called such an arrangement a “suite,” but down-country you just asked for rooms.

  I hadn’t had a real bath in two weeks, mostly making do with creek and river water, so that was pretty close to the first thing on my mind. Generally you had to book a bath, it usually being at the end of the hall for use by everybody on that floor. But the clerk told me kind of smart-alecky that the “rooms” came with a bath and that they had cold water piped in from a reservoir on the roof. He said he’d have some boys come up with some buckets of hot water.

  That suited me fine. I got my key, went on up to the second floor, and found my room. I always liked a room on the second floor, mainly because it was harder to break in through the window. And I always liked it fronting on the main street for the same reason. I unlocked the door of my rooms, being pleasantly surprised that the lock actually worked and that the door was tight in its frame. I went into the small sitting room and then through a connecting door into the bedroom. The connecting door also locked, which was the main reason I’d asked for two rooms instead of just one. If somebody was to try and get at me in the night, I wanted to put him or them to the trouble of having to go through two doors. It might not make much difference, only a second, but that second could sometimes get to be a mighty big one.

  The bathroom was right off the bedroom. It wasn’t big, but it did have a good-sized zinc tub in it with a tap for the cold water. There was also a washbasin with a tap on it and a slop jar. Pretty fancy, I thought, for the border.

  I ran the tub about half full of water, and then took off my dirty clothes and stuffed them in my saddlebags. I’d brought the balance of my clean clothes out of the pack. I had two clean shirts and one pair of jeans left, not to mention two clean pairs of socks. I never wore underwear, and considered it a waste of time and fabric.

  In a few minutes two boys came knocking, each of them carrying a big, steaming bucket of hot water. I directed them to just pour both buckets straight on into the tub. Then I gave each of them a quarter, accompanied them to the hall door, and locked it after they’d gone through. I did the same with the bedroom door. A bathtub’s a hell of a place for a man to get surprised. I took a moment to gather up a bottle of whiskey, cigarillos and matches, and my revolver, and then I climbed into that tub and commenced to soak out a little of the soreness that I’d picked up in two weeks on the trail. After a time I soaped up and then just lay there, smoking and taking a nip of whiskey and wondering when I was going to see J.C. Flood. Hell, I’d gotten a parlor to receive him in. Least he could do, after all my trouble and expense, was to show up.

  I finally, reluctantly, got out of the bath, only because I was getting so hungry I could have eaten some of that moldy cheese out of my pack. I dried off, put on my clean clothes, and pulled on my boots. They were considerably scuffed, as by rights they should have been. Next day I’d find a boot shop and get them tallowed down and buffed. I went out, locking the parlor door carefully behind me. I was still wearing my four-and-a-half-inch revolver with the cutaway holster.

  It was going on for nine o’clock when I got to the dining room and they were setting up to close shop. But the man that ran the place said he figured they could cook me a steak and round up whatever else they had in the kitchen.

  I took supper with some good coffee and ended it with a slice of cold watermelon. Along the way I’d finally found out from the waiter what date it was. It was July first; the Fourth was still three days away and if I could get out of town in time, I still might make it home for the holiday. I had been gone fifteen days.

  I needed to send a telegram informing Norris of the new developments, so I bypassed the bar after supper and took a walk down the streets to the railroad depot, which fortunately was on my end of town. I counted six saloons going like a prairie fire and four more still smoldering. There were plenty of drunks on the boardwalk, but I managed to avoid all of them, got to the depot, and went in and sent my telegram. I told Norris that I had had to come on to Del Rio to settle my business, but that I still expected to be home soon. I told him to tell Nora that my business trip had been slightly extended and that I wanted her to stay in town with her parents until I got back. I told him I could be reached at the Hidalgo Hotel by wire if something came up that I needed to know about. I did not mark the telegram urgent.

  When I got back to the hotel there were four or five men sitting around and either visiting or reading the paper. I gave each a good looking-over, but none of them appeared to be a member of my escort. I went upstairs and let myself into my room. I had not left a telltale in the door, but I intended to do so in the future. If you did it cleverly enough you could know if someone had opened your door while you out.

  But all the same I swung the door wide and held back while I slowly looked around the parlor. It was empty. I was about to step on in when I noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor, right at my boot tip. Somebody had obviously shoved it under the door. I reached down, picked it up, and unfolded it. The paper was of a better quality and the writing was in script and in ink, but the message was still brief and direct. It said:

  BE AT THE RACETRACK TOMORROW AT ONE P.M.

  It wasn’t signed, but I felt the note was from the pen of Mister J.C. Flood. The racetrack. It struck me kind of funny. Here I was an owner of a racehorse and I was being directed to a track. Of course they didn’t know I had a racehorse, not unless they could see beneath that packsaddle, that long, tangled mane, and a tail so tangled and long it would have embarrassed a mustang.

  * * *

  I got to the track a little after noon. I didn’t know what to expect or what kind of sur
prises were being prepared for me, so I figured I’d get there early and sort of look the ground over.

  Even if the celebration was still three days away, there were a good many people gathered around the grounds of the track. I knew, from posters I’d seen in town, that there was a program of races slated for the Fourth, but the horsemen that had come up for the event were using the slack time to run individual match races amongst themselves. I looked the grounds over carefully, riding slowly around the perimeter and searching every face and figure. The buckskin was not among the horses and there was no way of telling if any of the five were there. Finally I rode over to the outside rail of the track, dismounted, put my back to the track, and looked the place over from afoot. If J.C. Flood was there he was inside one of the several little buildings that were scattered around. But if he was there he hadn’t come in his surrey because even though there were wagons enough and carriages, there was no little two-man black surrey in evidence.

  There were a lot of men standing around as I was, by a horse or horses, obviously looking for a race. Some of them even had crudely lettered signs specifying generally what they were looking for as to distance and wager. HALF MILE, MATCH RACE, $500 TOPS, or MATCH, 660 YARDS, or 3, 4 HORSE RACE, WINNER TAKE ALL.

  Del Rio was pretty well the horseracing capital of Texas. I never knew why that was so, unless it was because so many outlaws hung around the place that an industry had sprung up breeding them fast horses. Of course everybody knew that the English and Irish Thoroughbreds had been introduced into Mexico long before they’d ever seen the grass of Kentucky, and that the fastest horses in the world were to be found in Mexico. Odds were that most of the horses I was looking at had some roots back in their past in a chili pepper with legs. It was only natural that a place like Del Rio would attract a racing crowd. Most of the area citizens were risk-takers in one way or another so it was nothing but natural for them to take to horse racing.