Garza tossed a piece of rind on the ground. “Faith, huh? So now we’re on a first name basis? Since when did you and her get so chummy?”
Salazar ignored the comment. “The meeting is mid-morning.”
“How much is he willing to pay?” Garza asked. He popped an orange slice into his mouth and chewed.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not selling.”
Garza stopped in mid-chew. The tips of his ears started to tingle. “What do you mean? To him? Or to anybody?”
“To anybody. That girl is special.”
Garza swallowed, wiped the juice on his hands onto his pants, and pointed his finger. “Listen to me. I told you that girl is a gold mine. I was the one who found her. I was the one who took her. I sure as hell intend to get my cut. If you want her so badly, outbid everybody else and then give me my share.”
“Easy, Yago. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet. But don’t worry; you’ll get your cut. Haven’t I always done right by you?”
“So far. But don’t ever let that change.”
Salazar squinted his eyes. “Is that a threat? I’m still the one calling the shots. Remember that.”
Garza resented his cousin’s hard tone and decided to push back. “You wear your power like a robe, Enrique, but you’re losing your edge. Your hands are turning as soft as a woman’s. You rely on me to do the dirty work. You remember that.”
Salazar glared. “I’m not losing my edge.”
“At least hear Kingston’s offer. Otherwise, why bother meeting with him?”
Salazar rubbed his forehead. “I’ll listen to what he has to say, but I also want to find out what else he’s up to. Tito spotted him in town a week ago. He’ll be joining us tomorrow morning before the meeting to tell us anything new he’s learned about Kingston.”
“You think there’s more to him than meets the eye?”
“Just a suspicion. In the meantime, look at this.” He handed Garza a sheet of paper. “We have several new guests this year. We need to make them feel welcome so they’ll come back. More bidders, more money.”
Garza spent several minutes silently studying the paper. “The men are coming from farther and farther away,” he noted.
“Our fame spreads,” Salazar said, throwing out his chest.
“Our success might make Captain Ortega greedier,” Garza suggested.
“You mean his political aspirations? If he wants more money, we’ll give it to him. All politicians are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and Ortega is no exception. We could use a friend in the governor’s mansion.”
Juanita emerged from the side yard with Viper stumping beside her. “We’re back,” she said. The dog lowered its bulk down to the tiled floor next to Salazar’s left boot.
“How was your walk?” he asked.
“Informative.”
“What did you learn?”
“It was a chicken bone the dog was choking on. I saw the evidence. I assumed I didn’t have to bring it back to show you.”
“A chicken bone?” Salazar’s eyes went dark as dolmens. “Was it Moco or Chimo who was eating the chicken bone in the yard while the girls were exercising?”
“I don’t remember,” Juanita replied.
“Have Armando tell both of them to come here.”
Juanita went inside, and, a minute later, Armando came out and sprinted for the bunkhouse.
“So you think I’ve lost my edge, Yago?” Salazar asked.
“Enrique, it seems these days you focus on paper more than anything.”
“We run a good business, and we’ve done well, no? And we did it ourselves, the hard way. We risked everything because we wouldn’t settle for the ordinary. Others talked. We acted.”
“We’ve prospered like princes,” Garza said.
“Since we’ve taken control, this valley is thriving. No more Indian raids. No more pistolero attacks. Santa Sabino lives in peace.”
“Santa Sabino lives in fear,” Garza said, his voice calm, confident.
“That too, cousin. And I thank you for being the forceful hand that makes the villagers tremble.”
“Ours is a two-handed operation, Enrique. You extend your palm for money, and I extend my fist if people refuse to contribute. All I’m saying is, in the future, you could do more to help me obtain the women, especially if you intend to keep some of the fruits of my labor for yourself.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Minutes later, Moco and Chimo strode into the courtyard and stood between the cousins and the fountain.
“Which one of you dropped a chicken bone in the main yard?” Salazar asked. His voice was playful.
The vaqueros glanced at each other. Neither responded.
Salazar reached into his hip pocket, slid out a Remington Over-Under derringer, and cocked the trigger. “Once more, which of you dropped a chicken bone in the yard?” He widened his grin.
Chimo pointed at Moco with both hands. Moco threw his arms in the air and, with a puzzled look, asked, “What’s this all about?”
“You tried to kill my dog.”
“No, I didn’t,” Moco protested. “We were just having some fun with the girls. I never touched your dog.” He pressed his hands together.
“He almost died choking on the chicken bone you tossed.” The playfulness in Salazar’s voice was gone, and the smile had drained from his face. His eyes darkened, and he glared at Moco.
“I’m sorry I dropped it on the ground, Señor Salazar. I wasn’t thinking. Plus, the dog is fine. I saw it running around here earlier,” Moco said, running his sentences together.
“Vibora,” Salazar shouted. The dog sparked to attention.
“Listo.”
The animal issued a low growl, bared its fangs, and crouched several inches closer to the patio floor. Chimo quick-footed several feet backwards.
“Ataque!”
The mastiff raced towards Moco and lunged. The vaquero thrust his arm up to protect his face, and the dog clamped its jaws on his forearm. Moco flipped the dog loose, but the animal dug its back paws into the grout between the tiles for traction and lurched again. This time the dog’s clutch was tighter, and it hung off his arm in mid-air, trying to drag him to the ground. The weight of the animal buckled Moco to one knee. Viper lashed its head right and left, trying to rip the arm from the vaquero’s body.
Moco punched the dog’s nose, and it disengaged, only to regain its balance and attack again. It leaped, and its momentum shoved the vaquero onto his back. Moco screamed and thrashed, trying to keep the dog’s teeth from his throat. Only after the vaquero’s arm had been bitten into a pulpy mess did Salazar finally yell “basta.” At once, the dog released its grip and returned to Salazar’s side panting, its mouth slick and red.
“Get up,” Salazar ordered.
Moco wobbled as he rose, holding his mangled arm up with his other hand.
“Before I turn you into a memory,” Salazar said, “do you have any last words?”
“Last words?”
“Oh, Moco,” Salazar said. “Not very memorable.” He raised the derringer and fired point blank into the vaquero’s chest, dropping him backwards into the fountain. Moco writhed and splashed for several seconds, his blood tinting the water pink, and then he went still as stone.
Salazar slid the gun back into his pocket and glanced at Garza. “Losing my edge?” he asked. He turned back to Chimo. “Take him away.”
Garza could see Chimo’s hands trembling as he grabbed the body under the arms. He dragged Moco from the patio and then across the main yard, the dead man’s heels carving two thin furrows in the sand behind him.
“You do love that damn dog, Enrique,” Garza said.
“I love him to death,” Salazar answered. “Unfortunately, today it had to be Moco’s.”
They latched eyes for a second, and then their liquid laughter flooded the courtyard.
CHAPTER 15 RAGO
Reno, Soapy and Emmet rushed into the bungalow and found Kingst
on sitting at a kitchen table cluttered with maps and drawings.
“Reno says we got trouble. What’s wrong?” Emmet asked.
Kingston spoke without looking up. “It seems we have a mystery guest. There’s a bounty on Chiquito’s head.”
“What?” Emmet asked. “Are you sure?”
“There’s a Wanted poster of him nailed outside the Ox-Cart Saloon,” Reno said. “I thought I recognized him when he showed up here. I went back to the saloon to double-check. It’s him, all right.”
“What’d he do?” Emmet asked.
“Deserted the army and murdered somebody,” Kingston said. “His real name is Rago.”
Emmet chewed his lip. “This ain’t good.”
“A wanted man can draw lightning,” Kingston said. “The last thing we need here is a bunch of blue coats or a posse itching to lynch a redskin. I’ve got to believe that you didn’t know anything about this, Soapy.”
“Major, I swear on a ton of Bibles.”
“This Indian could be a Jonah,” Emmet offered, “so maybe it’s best to let that bad luck ride away. Otherwise, pray he’s good at covering his tracks, or else saving Faith could get a lot more complicated.”
“The fact that there’s a reward means the army has probably given up hunting for him,” Soapy said. “It also means bounty hunters could’ve already tracked him here and are watching us right now.”
“I guess we should have expected at least one bad hat in the bunch,” Kingston said. “Have a seat. I’ll go get our Indian friend. It’s time we had a chat.” A few minutes later, Chiquito pushed through the doorway.
Kingston wasted no time. “Is Chiquito your real name?”
The Apache gave him a wary once-over. “Yes.”
Kingston cleared his throat and peered into Chiquito’s eyes. “Look. This is serious. Are you Rago?”
The Apache sighed and dropped his head. Kingston tapped the top of a ladder-back chair twice with the palm of his hand, signaling him to sit.
“Now that you know who I am,” Chiquito said, “my guess is that you also know there’s a bounty on my head. But before you do anything, Major Kingston, you need to understand what happened.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Kingston gave a dull nod, scratched another chair across the floor, and set it next to the table. “Go ahead.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Shorten it,” Kingston said.
Chiquito pointed at Emmet. “Do you have tobacco?”
Emmet reached into his pants pocket, yanked out a pouch and a leaf from his book, and slid them across the table. “Any other last wishes?” he asked.
Chiquito didn’t react. He rolled a smoke and pushed the pouch back to Emmet. He sparked a wooden match with his thumbnail, lit the cigarette, took a long poke, and puffed out a small, blue cloud that hung shiftless in the air. The smell made Emmet crave a cigarette, but he decided to let the Apache smoke alone.
“Enough!”” Kingston shouted. “Talk.”
“I’d signed on for a six-month enlistment as a tracker,” Chiquito said, “under Lieutenant Charles Winthrop at Fort Currier. One day, my cousin Red Deer rode in and told me my father had been killed by a tribesman named Pojo. My father and Pojo were drinking and arguing. Their voices turned to shouts, the shouts turned to threats, and the threats turned to gunshots.”
Chiquito straightened in the chair, stiffening his backbone against the wooden slats. “Revenge is a sacred duty to an Apache. As my father’s only surviving son, that responsibility fell to me. I left the fort and tracked down Pojo.”
“And my guess,” Kingston said, “is that you didn’t let anybody at the fort know where you were.”
“No, I didn’t,” the Apache said in a deflated voice. He flicked ashes into an empty cup. “I had seven days left in my enlistment. My time was almost up. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was only thinking of my duty to my family.”
“Did you find Pojo?” Emmet asked.
Chiquito leaned toward Emmet and grinned. “Of course I found Pojo. He was easy to track. I simply followed the trail of whiskey bottles. Even though he had a two-day head start, I caught up to him in three days. To prove his killing was no accident, I shot him twice, just like he did to my father.”
“Interesting,” Emmet said. “I’ll have to remember that next time I want to make the same point.”
“What happened when you returned to the fort?” Kingston asked.
Chiquito pulled a piece of tobacco off his lip. “Lieutenant Winthrop charged me with leaving my post without authorization, dereliction of duty, and . . . desertion.”
“That’ll get you posing in front of a firing squad,” Soapy said.
“That was Winthrop’s intent,” Chiquito said. “I offered to extend my enlistment for the number of days I was gone, but he wouldn’t consider it.”
“That explains the desertion,” Kingston said. “What about the murder?”
Chiquito took two quick puffs. “Thompson tried to take me by force. Red Deer and I drew our weapons and took off for the gate. Winthrop shot Red Deer, and I put three bullets in Winthrop’s chest. Once I was outside the fort, I zigzagged my horse to avoid the gunfire from the towers. When I reached the tree line, I knew they’d never find me. I figured the army would pursue me south and west, so I came east.”
“I met up with Chiquito in Sweetwater,” Soapy said, “but I never knew anything about this.”
Chiquito took one last drag off the cigarette before crushing it inside the cup. “Major Kingston, who told you I’m a wanted man?”
Before Kingston could answer, Reno jumped in. “I saw your face on a Wanted poster.”
“How much is the reward?” Emmet asked.
“One hundred and fifty dollars,” Chiquito said.
“Actually, now you’re worth two hundred dollars according to the poster I saw,” Reno said.
“Dead or alive?” Emmet asked.
Reno looked down at the floor. “Yes.”
“What are you planning to do with me, Major?” Chiquito asked.
“If you’ve played us false, Rago, there’s any number of men here who’ll kill you on the spot.”
“I do not speak in two directions. And please, continue to call me Chiquito. You understand—for safety reasons, and to avoid confusing the others.”
“Okay,” Kingston said. “If we have to fight, we’ll need every man we can get, so even though you’re a man on the dodge, you’re still in. Stay out of sight. No need for you to show your face anywhere in town. There’s nothing we can do if bounty hunters have already trailed you here. You best be watching your back.”
“I always do,” Chiquito said.
“And you’re right; we’ll keep this our little secret. No point in whipping the others up right now. You can go.”
The Indian rose and left the room. A slow burn had been building inside Emmet. When Chiquito was out of earshot, he launched into Soapy. “What the hell did you bring us? A bufflebrained boy, an ornery Yank, and a wanted redskin?”
“Now you just hold on there, Emmet,” Soapy snapped back. “Major Kingston asked me to find him some able men. He never said they had to have pedigrees, otherwise this place would be emptier than a church.”
“Soapy’s right, Emmet,” Kingston said. “He did his best on short order.”
“Remember what these men bring to the party,” Soapy said in a voice that was still on the peck. “Billy is a top-rail muleskinner—just what we need. Frank knows how to fire a Gatler better than anyone—just what we need. And Chiquito is one fierce fighter—just what we need. So don’t try busting me because they ain’t exactly what you wanted. I brought you what you needed.”
Emmet sat in thought for a few moments and realized his second-guessing Soapy was out of line, that he had done the best he could. “I appreciate your efforts,” he said. “We’ll try to make this work.”
Soapy’s shoulders eased down se
veral inches. “Apology accepted,” he said. “Now, I think we’re all a bit cranky because we’re hungry. Out in those wagons are the fixings for my TNT stew, and I aim to whip up a batch for tonight’s supper.”
Emmet’s stomach growled at the thought of Soapy’s specialty dish—sweetbreads and choice pieces of calf simmering in a thick brown gravy with beans and peppers. Just the smell of it cooking could drive cowboys crazy. He clapped Soapy on the back as they walked outside.
“Now where’d you happen to get fresh meat for that stew?” Emmet asked.
“I grabbed a steer down by the San Rafael River. Unfortunately, I think it was standing on Salazar’s graze at the time.”
“Ain’t that stealing?” Emmet asked, smothering a laugh.
“I didn’t steal it—just took borrow of it. He’ll get it all back tomorrow in one form or another,” Soapy said in a voice as serious as a senator. And then the two of them broke up laughing.
Mariana was kneeling in the garden, and the men’s noise attracted her attention. She popped her head up and wagged a minatory finger at them, as if they were misbehaving schoolboys.
“Actually, Soapy, do you need anything else for that stew?” Emmet asked. “Some other fresh vegetables might sweeten the pot, no?” He was smiling at Mariana as he spoke.
Soapy noticed where Emmet’s eyes were fixed, smirked, and said, “Tossing some fresh vegetables into the mix is just what the recipe calls for. Emmet, she is one flat-out handsome woman.”
Emmet winked at him and said, “I thought you might think that.” Then he headed towards the garden.
“Can I help with the picking?”
Mariana glanced up from where she was kneeling and offered Emmet a smile as warm as a sun-dried towel. “Of course,” she said.
“You missed some fancy shooting today,” he told her.
“Emmet, maybe you could pull up some carrots while I pick the beans.” She handed him a brown basket. “Yes, I hear you’re an amazing shooter.”
Emmet gazed at row after row of carrots, their green leafy crowns sticking out of the rich black earth, filling the air with the fresh smell of springtime growth. He squatted and started yanking the vegetables out of the ground.
The Man from Misery Page 9