The Revenger

by Peter Brandvold

  He’d eaten a large steak burrito with seasoned rice and a plate of tortillas and frijoles before leaving Sonora Gate a couple of hours earlier, after another healthy romp with Claudia, but it had been a long ride out here. He’d traveled cross-country, avoiding the main trails as well as de Castillo’s range riders, and the walk from where he’d left his horse to this ridge had been long and hard and over treacherous terrain in the fast-fading light with the bullet-burned thigh that still grieved him.

  He’d wanted to make his approach to the casa as inconspicuous as possible. Claudia had assured him that the don would have many men patrolling the range within a mile of the main house and that, in light of Sartain’s message to de Castillo, the casa would be under heavy guard.

  Of course, Sartain had known it would be. That was all right with him. He enjoyed a challenge. He also enjoyed the fact that the don was likely sweating, if only a little.

  He’d be sweating more soon.

  Sartain could see no guards from here. He picked out a route through the dark humps of the bluffs and low hills, then donned his hat and scrambled back down the ridge to the gravelly bottom of the arroyo he’d been following.

  He hefted his Henry in his hands and continued walking nearly silently in the doeskin moccasins a young Sioux woman had sewn for him a couple of winters ago on the northern plains near Bismarck. Tonight, to make himself as indistinguishable a night shadow as possible, he wore a navy-blue wool shirt and dark denims, with a black bandanna knotted around his neck.

  A rock tumbled down the side of the narrow seven-foot-deep canyon Sartain was threading. The Cajun stopped suddenly, raising the barrel of his Henry and tightening his kid-gloved index finger across the trigger.

  He stared up the right side of the canyon, heart thudding.

  A figure moved. He could make out a round head with triangle-shaped, tufted ears. A long tail flicked upward. Two eyes glowed yellow at him. They seemed to pulsate, turn red. The lower jaw dropped, and a guttural growl sounded from deep in the bobcat’s throat. A keening, angry whine.

  A few more rocks spilled down the side of the ridge, and then the cat, the size of two large house cats, pulled its head back away from the ridge, flicked its tail once more, and was gone.

  Sartain drew a calming breath. He’d thought he’d been targeted for a mountain lion’s supper. The bobcat was probably off to catch something a little more its size—a rattlesnake or kangaroo rat, say. The Cajun continued on down the wash.

  For most of his tramp through the rolling, rocky, cactus-spiked terrain, he could not see the casa. Occasionally he climbed to higher ground to get his bearings before tramping on.

  Twice he’d had to stop and hunker down behind a boulder or a shrub since de Castillo had indeed sent out pickets. Fortunately, the Cajun had heard them or spotted their shadows before they’d seen him, and when they’d passed, he’d continued forward until taking a knee in a stand of pecan trees about twenty yards away from the six-foot-high adobe wall ringing the don’s sprawling, multi-level casa.

  The night had closed over Hacienda de la Francesca. Stars sparkled in the velvety sky. There was only a slight lilac smudge between the far western peeks, marking where the sun had dropped an hour ago. Coyotes yammered in the hills on one side of the casa, and a lone wolf howled on the other. Probably from a bunkhouse came the faint strains of a mandolin.

  The casa itself was quiet, at least to Sartain’s ears. Now, he had to find a way over or through the wall without being spotted.

  He moved out from behind a pecan tree and started moving in a crouch toward the wall. Boots crunched gravel somewhere ahead and on his left. The sounds were growing steadily louder. Someone was moving toward Sartain, who whirled and high-tailed it back to the pecan on the balls of his moccasins and crouched behind the tree once more.

  A figure rounded the corner of the adobe wall on Sartain’s left. The man was a vague shadow, but his crunching boot thuds and spur chings were loud in the quiet night. A big man in a serape, gray slacks, and black sombrero, a billowy red neckerchief flopping on his chest. He had a carbine cradled in his arms.

  As he approached Sartain’s position, the man slowed steadily until, when he was to the place where Sartain had turned and retreated, he stopped altogether. A silhouette against the pale adobe wall, he stood staring toward Sartain, who jerked his head back behind the pecan, gritting his teeth and squeezing the Henry in his hands.

  There was a long silence, and then the man’s voice sounded crisp and clear as he said in Spanish, “Hey, you—amigo. I know you’re there. Show yourself, or I’ll start shooting!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sartain remained hunkered on one knee, pressing his cheek and shoulder against the pecan. He’d doffed his hat and hooked it on his other knee.

  A dull ringing sounded in his ears. He cursed his carelessness. He’d come so far. If he had to shoot and run away like a damned tinhorn, he was going to be mighty piss-burned at his fool self. Unless . . .

  He reached behind and wrapped his right hand around the horn handle of his Green River knife.

  “Hey, amigo,” the man standing between the pecan and the adobe wall said again. Then, more softly, less certainly, “Someone there?”

  Sartain began to slide the knife from its black leather sheath and parted his lips to draw a calming breath. He released both the breath and the knife when he heard the man’s boots begin crunching sand and gravel again, gradually growing quieter. Sartain looked around the tree to see the big, broad-shouldered figure walking away along the wall, to Sartain’s right.

  The man turned the wall’s far corner and disappeared.

  Again, silence.

  “Whew!” Sartain whispered softly, his heart slowing.

  He moved out from behind the tree and hot-footed to the wall. He walked along the wall in the same direction as the big Mexican. When he rounded the rear corner, he saw the man striding off along the wall on his left, breeze-ruffled mesquites and sycamores waving on his right.

  An opening in the wall lay about thirty yards beyond Sartain. Keeping his left shoulder nearly brushing the wall, he moved to the gap and swung through the gateless opening and into a courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard lay a gallery running along the building’s wall. Sartain made for it, weaving around transplanted trees and shrubs until his moccasins tapped softly on the stone tiles of the brush-roofed gallery floor.

  There were a number of large, arched windows in the wall of the casa. Many were lit. Sartain could smell coal oil, candle wax, piñon smoke, and the belly-nibbling aroma of roasting meat.

  As he made his way along the gallery, he moved swiftly past a window opening onto a large kitchen and dining room area, which was tended by two plump Mexican women standing with their backs to the window just then. They were chopping food on a long preparation table, chattering in Spanish peppered with Pima.

  Just beyond, a corridor opened off the gallery, running through what appeared the heart of the casa. Sartain had no idea how he was going to find Don de Castillo. He figured he had some time since it was still early.

  He had all night to find the man, learn why de Castillo wanted Sartain dead, what Phoenix and Jeff had to with it, and then kill the man by inserting his Green River knife into his belly just below the man’s breastbone, and shoving it up and into his black heart.

  He turned into the dark corridor and found himself under a roof. A short flight of steps took him to another level of the casa, and then he was walking down a dim hall between two adobe walls and no longer had any roof over his head.

  He stopped. He’d heard something behind him. The sounds grew louder—the clacking of shoes. A quick, determined tread. A soft, jovial whistling rose with the clacking, and Sartain darted into a dark doorway and stood in the shadows, waiting, listening to the clacking shoes and the happy whistling growing louder. He could smell the aromatic smoke of a fine cigar.

  Sartain’s pulse throbbed hopefully in both temples.

&n
bsp; The don himself?

  Could the Cajun be that lucky?

  He waited. The sounds and the cigar’s aroma intensified until a short, stocky figure strode past the opening hiding the big Cajun. Sartain stepped out quickly and pressed the point of his knife against the man’s back, stopping him instantly. The man threw up his hands and gave a surprised, shallow groan.

  In near-fluent Spanish, Sartain said, “If you call out, I’ll poke this pig sticker through your spine and into your heart. You’ll be dead before you hit the floor.” Sartain licked his upper lip and added in the same low, menacing tone, “Comprende?”

  “Sí.”

  “Drop your arms. Turn around slow.”

  The man did as he’d been told. Sartain found himself looking at a short, thick man with coal-black hair pomaded to one side. He was maybe Sartain’s own age, early thirties, but he had the dapper look of a dandy. He was well dressed in a short, broadcloth waistcoat, gaudy red tie, silk shirt, black belt, and Spanish-style dress slacks.

  His polished black shoes glistened in the darkness.

  He wasn’t old enough to be Alonzo de Castillo. Perhaps one of his sons.

  “Who are you?” Sartain asked, holding the knife against the man’s soft belly.

  “Dios,” the short, thick man said, eyes flashing fearfully. He looked at the rifle in Sartain’s left hand and the knife in his right hand, then returned his gaze to the Cajun, who stood a full head taller. He knew who’d jumped him.

  Sartain said with a quiet edge, “Once more—who are you?”

  “I am Carlos Areces,” the man said quickly, hoarsely. “The don’s bookkeeper.”

  “Where is the don now?”

  The thick little man thought about that. Then he said, “Probably in his quarters. His young lady just got back from San Luis with a new dress.” His voice sounded ever so faintly sheepish at the admission.

  “Take me to his room.”

  “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

  “Wanna join him?”

  “No!” The bookkeeper’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. In the darkness, Sartain could see his face turn a full shade lighter.

  “Then show me. Avoid the populated parts of the house. If we run into anyone, we’re gonna hide until they’re gone, comprende? If anyone sees us, I’m holding you personally responsible.” He paused for emphasis. “Comprende?”

  “Sí, sí. Oh, dear God!”

  “Which way?” Sartain said, keeping his voice low and level.

  The bookkeeper lifted his chin and glanced behind Sartain, who then turned and, keeping his knife pointed at the thick man’s bulging belly resting on broad, womanish hips, gave the chubby bookkeeper room to step around him. Then the Cajun followed the little man through two more corridors, up and down some stairs, and out into a dark, breezy courtyard. There was the sound of water splashing in a fountain. Sartain believed they were now on the southwestern end of the casa.

  The little man had done a good job. He and Sartain had run into no one.

  They came to a tall, deeply recessed window, heavy wooden shutters thrown back, red velvet drapes pushed aside. The bookkeeper stopped in the dark gallery before the window, turned to Sartain, and canted his head toward the window through which flickering red firelight emanated.

  Odd, quiet sounds drifted out the open window as well.

  Sartain gestured the little man back around him. He prodded him a ways back down the gallery, and then he rapped the butt of his rifle against the back of the little man’s head. The bookkeeper grunted, and his knees buckled. Sartain sheathed his knife, grabbed the chubby man by the back of his collar, and eased him down against the wall of the casa. The little man turned his head and slumped to one side.

  He was out. He’d waken with a headache, but Sartain knew how to put a man out without seriously injuring or killing him. Most of the time, anyway.

  Sartain doffed his hat and stepped up to the window. He slid a look into the room.

  It was large and well-appointed, with heavy wooden and leather furniture and trophy heads on the walls. A canopied bed abutted the far wall in a shrine-like recessed area roughly twenty feet to Sartain’s right. An elegant, balding old man stood at the end of the bed, facing the outer wall.

  The old man, who had a carefully trimmed beard and mustache, had his eyes closed, head tipped back slightly. There were many rings on his knotted brown fingers. He wore only a purple silk robe. The robe was open. His chest was bony and pale, grizzled gray hair bristling between the pouch-like lumps of his breasts. His belly bulged over meager hips. A dark-haired girl in a gaudy, frilly, peach-colored dress—obviously new and trimmed with white lace—knelt on the floor in front of the old man.

  The dress had been pulled down to her waist, baring her fragile brown shoulders and slender back to Sartain. Her hair was immaculately coifed beneath a peach-colored mantilla. A string of pearls ringed her brown neck.

  The old man grunted, placed a beringed hand on the back of the girl’s head.

  Sartain’s guts writhed. He curled his upper lip distastefully as he pulled his head back away from the window and donned his hat. He stood there on the dark gallery, listening to the breeze and the splashing of the fountain until he heard the don moan and gasp.

  Suddenly, the don cursed the girl as though deeply unsatisfied, then loudly ordered her from the room in such fast, heated Spanish that Sartain couldn’t make out everything he was saying.

  The girl apologized, cowering. Her new dress rustled. Bare feet slapped the tiles. There was the click of a door opening, the soft thud of it closing.

  Sartain looked into the room again.

  The don was moving away from him. He’d closed his robe and was looking down, moving his arms as though tying the robe about his waist.

  He stopped before a cherry cabinet behind a long, leather couch that fronted a fireplace on the room’s far end. The flames of the fire leaped and crackled, occasionally popping and spitting sparks into the room. The flames were reflected off the room’s thick, well-decorated walls.

  Sartain lifted one leg over the window ledge, then the other. He strode quietly toward the don, who was pouring liquor from a cut-glass decanter into a green goblet. The don must have heard or smelled the sweat on him because suddenly he dropped both the goblet and the decanter with a crash. His right hand shot to a drawer. He’d just got the drawer open when Sartain slammed his rifle butt hard between the man’s shoulder blades.

  The don fell forward across the cabinet, dropping the silver-plated pistol he’d tried to pull out of the drawer. De Castillo gave a guttural groan at the pain in his back. Sartain rammed the butt hard into the man’s back once more, then tapped it against the back of the man’s head.

  That stunned the don into silence as he continued to flail across the top of the cabinet. Sartain pulled him off the cabinet and threw him to the floor, where he went sprawling. The Cajun rammed the butt of the Henry into the man’s crotch and that caused the old man to jackknife, clutching his groin.

  His warty face was a mask of agony.

  As he stared up at Sartain, he hardened his jaws and then opened his mouth as if to scream. The Cajun snapped the butt of his rifle against his shoulder and aimed at the don’s open, gold-filled mouth. Sartain grinned threateningly.

  “You wanna die now? Go ahead and scream.”

  The don closed his mouth, wincing and groaning against the fiery pain in his loins.

  “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  “True. That’s why I’m here. But I’ll do it fast as opposed to slow. If you scream now, I’ll blow your stinkin’ oysters off. And then I’ll blow your knees out. And if I still have time, I’ll cut off the end of your nose and leave you here to die slow, screamin’.”

  Sartain shook his head slowly, grinning savagely, remembering Buffalo hanging from that tree in the rainstorm. “And there won’t be a damn thing anyone will be able to do for you, you old pervert.”

  De Castillo made anot
her face as another bayonet of pain stabbed his crotch. “And what do I have to do for this quick death?”

  “Tell me why you want me dead. And what you know about Phoenix Catipulso and Jeff Ubek?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Pour me a drink,” the don said, still writhing on the floor, clutching his battered balls.

  Sartain glanced at the pistol the old man had dropped. He kicked it against the wall, then he backed up to the liquor cabinet, opened another decanter, and poured what appeared to be brandy into the same stout goblet the don had been about to fill when he’d been so deservedly interrupted.

  Sartain handed the man the glass. De Castillo took it, threw back half, winced again, and lowered the glass to his left thigh. He still had one hand over his tender balls.

  He narrowed one eye as he stared up at Sartain. “You’ll never get out of here alive. You know that.”

  “All that matters is I settle a score for a friend of mine your first set of hunters killed.”

  “Ah, yes. Revenge is your profession.” The don looked grimly down at his glass. “Perhaps I underestimated my quarry.”

  “You wanted it to be easy, eh? Have me killed—bushwhacked—and you’d feel better.” Sartain negligently aimed the Henry at the man’s right temple. “Why?”

  The don stared at the Henry’s barrel, studying it. Only it wasn’t the rifle he was seeing in his mind’s eye. He slid his gaze up the barrel and past the scrolled receiver to the cobalt-blue eyes of the dark-haired man aiming the weapon.

  He flared his nostrils, ground his teeth, and raked out, “Phoenix.”

  “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “She loved you.”

  Sartain blinked, said nothing. His hard stare belied his incredulity. But he could feel his heartbeat gradually increasing. His hands began to sweat inside his gloves.