by Jack Sheriff
‘Nevertheless a man in jail is under restraint. He cannot move freely. If Allman is a prisoner, he is of no use to us – and it is far too late to find a replacement.’
Gomez shrugged. He wore a faded red sombrero with a dirty fringe, a loose white shirt with baggy sleeves. The man in the saloon had been sent there by Gomez to keep his eyes and ears open. He had learned that the lawmen would be sleeping over the livery barn, and had reported back to Gomez. That the ambush Allman had arranged had come to naught was of no concern to Gomez. Two gringos were dead, but the man they were paying, the man who had been chosen above all because he favoured the Hawken mountain rifle, was still alive. And, despite appearances to the contrary, despite what Ibañez thought, Gomez was convinced Allman was a free man.
‘I believe that he has been taken back to the jail, but not as a prisoner. I can only surmise,’ he said softly, ‘that they came to some arrangement—’
‘That also might be a danger to us. Should we be concerned?’
Gomez shook his head. ‘If I am right, it will be an arrangement that is no threat to our plans. Remember that Allman has always led a lawless life. I am of the opinion that his talk with the lawmen was about the bank robberies he was carrying out when I first spoke to him. The money from those robberies has not been recovered. Its whereabouts are unknown. It is possible that the discussion was about that money. Perhaps Allman was offered his freedom in exchange for its return, and is even now making final those negotiations.’
‘You believe that?’
‘It does not concern me. However, I am certain Allman is a free man. And I know he is mercenary. He has the money from his bank robberies and, despite his talks with the lawmen, he will certainly hang on to as much of that as he can, and I believe the money we have offered him will tie him to our cause.’
Ibañez nodded slowly, thoughtfully. He was a lean, balding man with a fine, flowing moustache. His shirt was a crisp white, his suit black, his leather boots highly polished. He drew on his cigarette, let smoke dribble from between his thin lips.
‘You are probably right. Nevertheless, I am concerned. There is, perhaps, too much activity of the wrong kind. Unusual activity attracts attention. Up to now the skirmishes have been distant. But it is important that nothing happens here to disturb, or unsettle—’
Gomez grimaced. ‘If the rangers get too close, our men will be in an impossible situation. If silence is imperative, then gunfire is out of the question. I suggest—’
‘I know what you are about to suggest, and I am ahead of you. Place the most hardened fighters in staggered positions along the route the rangers must take if they are to reach us. Order them to work with their knives.’ He smiled grimly. ‘They have Indian blood in them, those men, so they will like that very much. Sadly, the lawmen will not live to appreciate their enthusiasm.’
Gomez touched his glass, lifted it, then changed his mind. He was watching Ibanez closely.
‘You think he …’ He let the words trail away, made a broad, sweeping gesture to indicate everywhere, yet nowhere in particular.
Ibañez smiled, again knowing exactly to whom and to what Gomez was referring.
‘If he had found out that we are here, if he knew what was planned, he would have ensured …’ He shook his head. ‘Let me amend that. If they had found out, those men he has employed to watch his back, they would have ensured that word never reached him, that Allman was … eliminated. Then we would have been removed. Silently. For what they believe would be the good of Mexico.’ His dark eyes were amused. ‘Silently, yes, of course: dead men do not make very much noise. But, fortunately for us, those men who watch over him are blind and deaf. They see nothing, hear nothing. They are fools.’
For a few moments the room was silent. A draught cause the candle flame to flicker. Gomez sipped his drink. Ibañez continued to smoke his cigar. At last, he sat back and sighed. It was a sigh of satisfaction.
‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘it will be finished. Six months, from the inspiration to the culmination, the fruition of our plans. Yes, we have had some luck: for example, tonight there is a full moon. Allman is coming here—’
‘Yes, he is, but there is one necessity that has perhaps been overlooked in the concern over his imprisonment. If he is to carry out the task for which he will be paid handsomely, he must know exactly where to go. As far as I know, he is unaware of the location.’
Ibañez waved a hand. ‘Of course he is unaware; the location has always been kept a secret. But now the time has come, one of our best men must be there, outside the jail, waiting. But he must tread carefully. He must watch as Allman emerges, remain in the shadows if Allman has company; choose the right moment.’ He smiled. ‘That is the way it was planned, that is the way it will work, for the benefit of our country.’
Gomez nodded, basking in the glow the other man’s words had generated.
‘So, a good man will lead him and Allman will be here, close to midnight—’
‘—and we know that conditions are in our favour. Allman will have a clear shot because the moon will illuminate the open areas between the houses, and because at that same time every night there is the solitary, leisurely walk from the cantina to the hotel—’
‘Every night, yes,’ Gomez said. ‘A leisurely walk during which I am sure there will be a fast beating heart as the return to Mexico draws ever closer. But after tonight – no more. As his walk draws to a close, he crosses the small square on the edge of which his hotel is situated. His men, the men he knows are watching from the shadows, will not be able to save him. Thanks to Allman, his dream will be over, ours fulfilled.’ He grinned, his teeth flashing white. ‘And then, when the job is done?’
‘When the job is done,’ Ibañez said, ‘then it is down to you, and when you have finished, Allman will be finished. There will be two bodies lying out there in the dust, and close to the bloody body of the Texan there will be the Hawken mountain rifle that fired the shot that will reverberate across our country, and across Texas.’
‘Indeed,’ Gomez said. ‘Because of the plan we devised and executed with perfection, relations between the governments of Mexico and the State of Texas will be strained to breaking point.’ He smiled. ‘And, of considerable importance, we will have our money back.’
‘If the Texan, Allman, has his saddle-bags with him in preparation for flight,’ Ibañez said, ‘we will have more than our money back. In just a couple of hours we will have caused political turmoil, and come out of it with a handsome profit.’
He reached across the table. In the guttering candlelight the two men were smugly triumphant as they clinked glasses.
SEVENTEEN
Tom Crane had hurried home to his wife, with a promise to return before midnight. The prisoner in the jail was being looked after by one of Crane’s deputies. With several hours to kill before they unlocked the cell door and got Gus Allman to lead them to Paco Ibañez, Thornton Wilde chose the saloon as the ideal place to pass the time. And he intended to spend that time in serious discussion with his colleagues.
‘The problem is,’ he said, as the three lawmen carried their drinks over to a table well away from the late-evening drinkers bellied-up to the bar, ‘this whole business has got too damned tangled up for my liking.’
He sat down, took a long drink of cool beer with considerable relish, then set down his glass.
‘We never did put much store in that story about Ibañez taking over Texas. The trouble is, we haven’t come up with an alternative.’
Lucas looked puzzled. ‘Do we need one?’
‘Looked at from one angle, no, we don’t,’ Wilde said. ‘We’re going after Ibañez, and that way we’ll eventually get to the truth. What I don’t like is going fishing in the dark. If we’re chasing the wrong man for the wrong reasons, we’re certain to walk into the unexpected. Up to now the unexpected has been gritty Mexican peasants in big hats coming at us out of the sun with rifles blazing. Sooner or later our spell of good luck’s going to r
un out.’
He looked enquiringly at Bogan. ‘You sure your superiors didn’t tell you more, give you at least a hint of what’s going on when they sent you boys after Allman and his pals?’
Bogan shook his head. Lucas did the same and punctuated it with a shrug when his father cocked an eyebrow at him, and for the next few minutes the three men sat in silent thought.
It was Bogan he was looking to for a sudden spark of inspiration, Wilde reflected. The man had spent a year at Yale. That would have taught him how to organize his thinking. He’d have read books. Studied the history of the USA and—
‘If it’s not about Texas,’ Gord Bogan said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘then it’s got to be about Mexico.’
Wilde grinned. ‘You broke into my thoughts when I was just about to get there. Go on. Enlighten us. What about Mexico?’
‘Remember what happened there, earlier this year?’
Bogan looked around the table, saw blank looks of incomprehension.
‘OK, what happened was an unsuccessful revolt against Sebastían Lerdo de Tejada. He’s President of Mexico. Took over when Benito Juárez died in 1871.’
‘Yeah, I heard about him taking power,’ Lucas said. ‘I was down in Laredo five years ago. Just a kid, but that’s another border town and I couldn’t miss all the gossip. I remember there was another Mexican whose name was getting mentioned a lot around that time. Man called Díaz.’
‘Porfirio Díaz,’ Bogan said, nodding. ‘He was the man behind that revolt earlier this year. But he was active back in ’71 when you were down in Laredo. At that time he was leading what turned out to be a futile protest against the re-election of Juarez.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Wilde said. ‘That this cash Allman’s been toting around is to finance a Mexican revolution? Paco Ibañez is going to try his luck where Díaz failed?’
‘I was coming at it from another angle,’ Bogan said. ‘Like, maybe Ibañez is backing Díaz for a third try, and he’s over here in Texas raising cash. But I know I’m wrong: the sums involved are too small.’
‘Nevertheless, we’ve got two things right, if we can believe Allman,’ Lucas said. ‘Ibañez is here in Texas, and Allman’s given him saddle-bags stuffed with United States currency—’
He broke off. The saloonist they recognized from their earlier visit had been working his way towards them, flicking a dirty cloth across empty tables. Now he caught Wilde’s eye and came over to stand close with the cloth draped over one shoulder.
‘You position yourselves well for a secretive conversation, then spoil it by talking too loud,’ he said in a matter of fact way. ‘I couldn’t help over-hearing.’
‘Where I come from it’s called eavesdropping on a private conversation,’ Wilde said. ‘Usually warrants a boot up the backside.’
‘A border town listens to both sides of the divide,’ the saloonist said, unfazed. ‘I can tell you now, if Ibañez is helping finance a revolution, Porfirio Díaz won’t be the man leading it.’
‘Really,’ Wilde said, unimpressed. ‘You got something to back that claim?’
‘Sure. When that revolt failed earlier this year, Díaz got out fast.’ He grinned. ‘For the past six months he’s been over here on US soil. I can’t see any reason why he’d want to return to Mexico to face a firing squad.’
They were back in Tom Crane’s office. Lucas had poked his head through the inner door and reported that Gus Allman was asleep. Crane hadn’t yet returned. His deputy, Ed, a stocky man with red hair, was sitting smothering a series of yawns in the marshal’s swivel chair.
Wilde was pacing the office, more than a little elated.
‘Remember what I said when we were talking to Allman by the river. I told him we saw Paco Ibañez as a name hiding a much bigger name. Hell, that saloonist has just about confirmed it. If Porfirio Díaz escaped to the US, then who’d bet against him being right here in El Paso?’
‘Yeah, but we’re still no closer to working things out,’ Lucas objected. ‘We now believe Ibañez is here as front man for Porfirio Díaz – but so what? Where does that take us? It doesn’t tell us what they’re up to, what their game is. You heard that saloonist. Díaz got out of Mexico, probably one step ahead of the rurales – and he’s not likely to be going back.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Wilde said. ‘Violent uprisings are all in the day’s work for political activists, Mexican fanatics. My guess is he’s spending time here figuring out how to overthrow de Tejada’s government. And I’m delighted, because we’ve finally got our teeth into a story that’s fact, not a load of trumped up nonsense,. We now know there’s a man not a million miles from here who really did try to take over a country. We know he’s linked to Ibañez—’
‘No,’ Bogan cut in, ‘we don’t know that.’
Wilde brushed the objection away with a sweep of the hand.
‘It was your idea in the first place—’
‘Yes, and I said I know I’m wrong because of the paltry sums of money involved. You don’t overthrow a government with the proceeds from half-a-dozen bank robberies. Those small town establishments handle the cash from local businessmen and ranchers. We know how little that is: Allman’s carrying most of what he stole in two saddle-bags.’
‘Was. He’s handed it over to Ibañez.’
‘Yeah, and you can take that with a pinch of salt, Thorn.’
Wilde frowned. ‘You don’t believe him?’
‘A Texas Ranger doesn’t take anything at face value,’ Bogan said, winking at a grinning Lucas Wilde. ‘That’s the way it should be and, as far as I can see, nothing here has changed. Allman’s going to lead us to Paco Ibañez. He’ll probably turn out to be some grubby Mexican chancer out to feather his own nest. We’ll have wasted a lot of time doing work that could and should have been handled by the local law.’
Wilde rolled his eyes. Over at the desk, the deputy had begun snoring.
‘If you’re right, Gord, that would be a big let down,’ Lucas said, suddenly sobering, ‘but it’s not what’s bothering me. I was with Allman the last time he was in El Paso. We got nowhere, because Reb Tindale caught us cold and took us all the way back to Cedar Creek.’
‘Meaning?’ Thornton Wilde said.
‘Meaning we got caught because Ryan, Jago and Gomez slipped away to talk to Ibañez. Allman and me, we knew who they were seeing but had no idea where they were heading: as far as I know, Allman has no idea where Ibañez is holed up.’
EIGHTEEN
Although the moon was high, the narrow streets of El Paso in the areas through which Allman was leading them had pockets of shadow that disturbed Thornton Wilde. The four men were forced to ride in single file, Allman leading, followed by Wilde and Bogan with Lucas taking up the rear.
Too easy for Allman to slip away, should he choose to do so, Wilde thought. And too damned easy for him to lead them into a trap.
That possibility was rammed home when Bogan pushed his horse alongside Wilde’s and told the Cedar Creek marshal in hushed tones that Allman was not leading, but being led.
‘What the hell does that mean?’ Wilde said.
‘There was a Mex lurking in one of the doorways across the street when we left the jail. Allman was uneasy – remember I suggested he had no idea where Ibañez is located? I think he knew the general direction he was supposed to take, but no more than that. But he spotted that Mex almost straight off, and visibly relaxed. Probably been told there’d be a man out there—’
‘How?’
‘Note passed through the window of his cell, or a whispered message by the same route – but how it was done doesn’t matter. The point is I reckon he’d been highly sceptical, maybe expecting a double-cross, or just to be abandoned and left to his fate. Anyway, he’s been growing in confidence ever since he spotted that man in the shadows. I think the Mex is still out there, showing himself from time to time, popping up at intersections or bends so Allman knows which way to go.’
‘If you’re right,’ Wilde
said, ‘then that scares the hell out of me.’
‘Yeah,’ Bogan said. ‘D’you ever get that horrible feeling you’re a lamb being led to the slaughter?’
He chuckled at his own grisly humour, and began to drop back. As he did so, Wilde softly repeated the order he had given when they left the jail.
‘Remember, no gunplay. About all we’ve got is the element of surprise. Let’s hold on to that. And pass the word back to Lucas.’
They rode on for a quarter-mile. The sound of their horses’ hoofs echoed from buildings that were mostly single-storey adobe dwellings, some unlit, others with oil lamps visible through uncurtained windows. The streets were packed earth, filthy and uneven. They could smell dust, and the dankness of the river, the spicy aroma of Mexican cooking.
In the confines of the narrow streets, the ride seemed interminable. Just when Wilde realized impatience was making him fractious, there was a sudden commotion. It came from behind. He tightened the reins and leaned back in the saddle as he spun his horse. It collided with Bogan’s grey, and for a few brief seconds there was confusion as the two horses tossed their heads and tried to swing one way, then the other.
Wilde cursed. He touched spurs to his sorrel and nudged past the confused grey. Thirty yards back, the moon was slanting through a gap between the buildings. Lucas was caught in the shaft of light. It was his muted cry of anger that had alerted Wilde. His horse was whinnying, tossing its head. A dark figure slipped out from beneath it. Cold steel glittered in the man’s hand. Then, as the horse reared, Lucas slid sideways. He fell clear of the horse. The saddle was still between his legs. He hit the ground hard, legs flailing.
Out from under, straightening, the man with the knife coldly and brutally stabbed the big grey in the rump. Wild-eyed, the horse squealed and bolted.
Caught between amazement and disbelief, Wilde realized the Mexican had sneaked under the horse and slashed through the cinch. Boiling with anger, he drew his six-gun. Then, remembering that a single shot would ruin everything, he held his fire, slipped the weapon back into its holster and watched in frustration as the attacker slipped away down the street and was lost in the shadows.