by James Lewis
Mallory glanced again at the truck. Pressed against the windshield, palled in horror, was the battered face of Villega. The face disappeared into the darkness of the truck cab a moment later.
Gutierrez climbed into another truck, and it pulled away. One by one the other vehicles followed. In the dimming light, Mallory noticed that a few lingering soldiers were over by the bodies, kicking at them. Anyone who seemed still alive, they shot with their pistols.
He ran for his horse, disdaining the shadows. If they saw him now, they’d have to be quick to kill him. Otherwise they could chase him as far as they wanted; what did it matter now? He couldn’t lead them anywhere they didn’t know about already.
An hour out of town he saw the first flares soaring above the mountains. Oh God, they were there already. They must have moved out a large force even while the other troops began the search through Mesa Verde for the rebel suspects. They would have taken the Aguadiz road, knowing that the main road, the one he was on, might be watched. Otherwise they had been smugly confident; Gutierrez remaining behind was proof of that. He wondered if the sentries had spotted the troops in time to give warning.
Even before he reached the farmhouse he knew they hadn’t. The flares were bursting feverishly in the inky distance, splashing the dark, cloudy sky with dull pastels. And beneath them, lower to the ground, there were flames.
As he neared the farmhouse, he saw Juan’s bulky form run out and jump on a horse. The Mexican wasn’t taking any chances. Mallory called to him, and Juan held his horse in rein.
“Well? What happened?” Juan asked when Mallory stopped beside him.
“You can see for yourself.”
Juan worriedly followed his gaze toward the glowing flares. “What’s happening up there, Irish?”
“Anything but fireworks.”
“It looks … it looks like our side …” Juan muttered. It was the first time Mallory had ever detected anxiety in the Mexican’s voice.
“Pretty hard to judge from this distance,” he said.
Juan threw him a pained look and kicked his horse. Mallory galloped off after him. He saw Villega’s ghastly face all through the ride into the mountains.
Chapter Six
“We’d better go the rest of the way on foot.”
They were in a thicket a half mile from the cave. A gray, somber dawn had begun to edge its way along the horizon, but there was still enough darkness to conceal them. The woods smelled fresh and wet, though it had not rained in the mountains.
They crept forward slowly. The last flares had burned out two hours earlier, and the stillness had increased their apprehension as they rode. Now it made them suspicious. There was nothing to be heard but night sounds.
They stopped every ten feet and listened. Nothing. Could the troops have gone or were they lying in ambush? Mallory hoped they were out still chasing the rebels, but he knew the wish was a lie. The flares told him that.
“Over there,” Juan whispered, pointing.
On the ground a dozen feet away lay a hat which looked strangely familiar. They moved toward it, and Juan bent and picked it up. It was Nino’s.
Juan looked anxiously around. A shadowy form lay half-concealed by a bush. He rushed to it and brushed back the leaves. Even from where he stood Mallory could see it was the old man.
Nino had no stomach left. It had been blown away by a shot fired from very close on. The old man had died instantly.
Mallory looked at Juan. Except for the slight flaring of his nostrils and his bloodless lips, his face showed nothing. Juan turned away and moved grimly toward the cave.
The last gasp of the moon showed them a deserted clearing in front of the cave. They crouched behind some bushes and waited. A moment later, from below, came a faint metallic clicking and the muffled whinny of a horse.
“They’re down along the road,” Mallory whispered. “They must figure that whoever would come to the cave would come up along the road. Besides, it gives them better cover.”
“Maybe they left somebody in the cave.”
“I don’t know. Be careful.”
They edged along the outsides of the clearing, heading for the mouth of the cave. Juan stopped suddenly. Ahead, propped against a rock, was the body of a peon, his face grotesquely contorted in pain. He had been shot in the neck and had obviously died slowly, the blood running down into his lap.
Juan straightened. In anguish, he stepped out into the clearing and moved quickly toward the cave, indifferent now to any danger. Mallory watched from behind some trees. It was better, he thought, to leave Juan alone. If there were soldiers in there, they would have found out soon enough anyway.
Juan disappeared inside. Mallory waited, and when nothing happened, edged closer. Down below a horse snorted. It was the only sound.
The moon slipped behind some clouds again and darkness blanketed the clearing. Mallory stepped to the side of the cave entrance and leaned back against the wall, into the shadows. There was nothing to do but wait.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, though it couldn’t have been much, when Juan came out. He was walking woodenly, his eyes vacant. A machine gun and some belts of ammunition were under his arm. Mallory moved up beside him. The Mexican didn’t even look his way.
They stood there for long moments, saying nothing. Juan was breathing deeply, hauling the air in loudly and letting it go in short, fitful bursts. It wasn’t much but it told Mallory all he had to know.
He didn’t ask. He waited for Juan to say it. When he finally did, Juan’s voice was dull and distant, the voice of a man not hearing his own words. “All of them, Irish,” he breathed. “All six.”
He calmly lowered the machine gun to his hands and began loading it. Mallory touched his arm. “They’re waiting for somebody down there,” he said, “You won’t really get them by surprise.”
“I know.”
“Let me get some dynamite, first.”
“No. This time I do it my way.”
It was a kind of madness he had known before. They always wrote about it in books about wars; that point beyond fear when the only thing to be done was the stupid thing: there were no other options. Mallory watched Juan disappear into the darkness, then turned toward the cave.
The first body was ten feet inside, a peon shot before he could reach his gun. The weapon leaned against the cave wall, the dead man’s hands only inches from it.
The rest of it didn’t surprise him. The inside of the cave was littered with their bodies. Only a few had been able to get to their weapons before the soldiers pouring in had cut them down. Most of them must have died quickly in that first assault, not knowing what had happened until it was too late.
He saw Chulo first. His small body was tightly balled in a fetal position with his arms across his chest. The body was lying across the chalky ember of a fire. The boy appeared to have been wounded in the diaphragm. He would have died in agonizing pain, gasping for air.
Juan’s other children were scattered around the dim chamber. Sebastian, the oldest, was over by the smashed Gramophone. In death, he had aged immensely. He looked more like his father than ever, Mallory thought.
Benito, who was what … all of fourteen? … was the worst of them. His face had been shot away and someone had stepped on his hand, pancaking it to the ground.
In the near distance Mallory heard the chatter of machine guns followed by faint shouts. Juan was on them. Or they were on him. Mallory stared down at Benito and found himself suddenly wanting badly to join the Mexican.
Mallory moved quickly toward the rear entrance to the cave. It brought him out on a knoll overlooking the road down below. The shooting had stopped. The wind woofed up from below, carrying the muted sounds of scuffling and of orders being snapped. In the gray darkness he could make out some vague, thrashing forms. A struggling figure was lifted up and carried away. It could have only been Juan.
So they had captured him. Gutierrez’ orders would have been to take alive any late v
isitors to the cave. Presumably they would have either emissaries from Villa or messengers from Mesa Verde who might lead them to any remnants of the rebel network. That meant they’d bring Juan back to Mesa Verde for questioning. When they discovered he didn’t know anything, they’d shoot him.
There was only one thing to do.
He went back into the cave and searched for his suitcase. It was gone. The soldiers hadn’t minded leaving a few weapons around, but they weren’t going to be generous with explosives. The death smell unnerved him, and he went outside again and sat down on a rock.
There’d be no chance to free Juan now or on the ride back to Mesa Verde, not without explosives. His only chance would be in the city. If they took Juan to the garrison, he might catch them off guard: familiar surroundings always relaxed men and made them careless. If not there, then perhaps while they were taking him to be shot.
Mallory returned to his horse and led it to a point where he could overlook the road into the cave. It was growing lighter now, the beginning of a thick, sullen day. He waited until a platoon of a dozen soldiers rode out with Juan and watched to see which road they took to Mesa Verde. They were going by the main road. Mallory chose the Aguadiz route.
The ride back was interminable. The horse was very tired, and he had to let it set its own pace. If he pushed it any more, the animal would drop under him and die right there on the road. He was tired also. How long had it been since he had slept? Oh yes, ten, twelve hours earlier in the evening, before that pale boy had come with the news of Villega’s capture. Mallory’s body ached and his spine was sore. He had never ridden so far so fast in his life. Not even during the worst days in Ireland.
He half-dozed for a while, popping awake at every unexpected sound. He guessed that though his route was slightly longer, he’d arrive in Mesa Verde before the troops. They would stop a few times to rest, and given the hour, probably to cook a meal. He thought about Juan. Under any circumstances, by the time they got back to the city Juan would have the soldiers believing he was just a dumb, innocent pimp who’d gone to the cave because a messenger had said there were these men in the hills who wanted some women. To him, it was just a business deal. Then when he’d seen the bodies, he’d attacked the soldiers because he thought there were only two of them and that they were bandits. How could he know they were soldiers?
But there weren’t other circumstances. Juan’s sons were dead. He’d be breathing hatred and defiance. The soldiers would probably punch him about some during the ride in.
Mallory was passing high grass now. In a short while he’d be going through farmland. He took off his coat and draped it across the horse’s neck.
Chapter Seven
Mesa Verde proved to be quiet. With word out about the night’s shootings, the citizens seemed to be staying even more to their homes than during the height of the rebel fighting. And there weren’t many troops about either, just an occasional soldier sleepily standing guard at key buildings. The others must be snugly in bed, Mallory thought, resting up after their night’s work. Mallory rode calmly down the center of the street without being challenged.
He left his horse at a livery a few blocks from the garrison. The proprietor took him for a German and was very solicitous. Mallory told the man he was a mining engineer. Was there any place he could buy dynamite and blasting caps? He needed it back at the mine.
“No, señor,” the man said. “The soldiers do not permit it.”
Mallory walked cautiously toward the fort. He passed a saloonkeeper opening his door for the day, and the man nodded to him. The smell of frying sausages wafted out from the tavern and made his stomach stir.
He had to get some explosives. Somewhere in the city there would be some, even if under lock, key, and armed guard. He couldn’t go around asking civilians where they were; that would be too suspicious. He’d have to find out at the source, from the troops themselves.
The garrison was a low stone building of two stories with a large courtyard. The yard and the building were surrounded by an eight-foot stone wall. Mallory circled it from a distance, keeping out of view behind the shops and houses. There were two entrances to the garrison, one on either side of the building, each with an iron door guarded by two soldiers. He wondered if the explosives were stored within.
Mallory picked out the youngest and dumbest-looking soldier and, stepping out into the street, walked toward him. He buttoned and smoothed his coat and set his hat at a respectable angle on his head. The soldier didn’t notice him until he was a few feet away.
The boy turned and brought his rifle up lazily. On the far side of the door, his burly companion came to attention.
“What are you doing here?” the young soldier asked.
Mallory flashed him a stern look. “Young man, change your tone with me.”
The boy stiffened and looked confusedly at his companion. He turned back to Mallory. “Excuse me,” he said uncertainly. “But I must ask all visitors their business.”
“My name is Eugene Graham and I am a representative of British-Mexican Exploration, Ltd.,” Mallory said. “As you probably know, we lease mining lands in the North Sierras. I came into town now to purchase explosives which are vitally necessary for our operations, only to be told that the army had confiscated all blasting material. Unless I am immediately provided with the needed materials, I shall have to telegraph President Huerta and inform him of the matter.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “We don’t keep explosives here,” he mumbled nervously. “Only ammuniton. The explosives are in a storehouse behind the tax assessor’s office. You will have to see the lieutenant there.”
“Which way is the office?”
The youth gave him directions.
“Thank you very much. I shall commend you to the lieutenant”
Only the lieutenant and two other men were on duty at the assessor’s storehouse, a squat adobe structure with a thin metal roof. The guard there must have been stripped for the assault into the mountains, Mallory guessed. Gutierrez would have considered that a heavy guard was no longer necessary, now that he was about to round up the rebels.
Mallory strolled casually up to the lieutenant as he sat on a bench under the warehouse portico. The two guards stood inattentively at the door. They clearly expected no trouble.
The lieutenant had a doughy, characterless face. He raised it indifferently to Mallory and asked, “What do you want?” in a tone that said he didn’t care to be bothered.
Mallory told him he was Eugene Graham, mining representative.
“Oh? You have any identification?” the lieutenant asked sourly.
“Yes, of course.” Mallory reached inside his coat. His hand came out holding a gun. The lieutenant and the two soldiers looked at it and quickly up at his face. He smiled, and the smile froze them.
“Unlock the door,” he ordered.
He herded them into the windowless building and made them lie face down on the dirt floor. The room was dim and steamy. Boxes of dynamite lined one wall. At the back barrels of powder were stacked to the ceiling. Along another wall were caps and fuses.
And something else.
Leaning against some of the cartons was a black metal machine that set Mallory’s heart pounding against his ribs. Incredibly, there before him stood a motorcycle, a sleek, obviously new, very large and powerful bike. It was German made, Mallory recognized immediately. One of the finest machines he’d ever seen. “Whose is that?” he asked.
The lieutenant raised his head. “The tax assessor’s.”
“Thank him for me later, would you?”
Mallory loaded his coat pockets with dynamite, fuses, and caps. He pushed still more dynamite into the motorcycle’s pouches, then wheeled the machine to the door. “If the three of you take turns, you should be able to dig your way out of here in less than a day,” he said. “Or if you get lucky maybe somebody’ll miss you before that.” He pulled the door closed and snapped the lock. The door was too heavy for them to break
down, and nobody would hear them if they screamed.
Across from the garrison, Mallory remembered, was a small restaurant. A picture of it flashed to mind. It was within a stone’s throw of the far end of the garrison courtyard. The building had a flat roof, didn’t it? He was certain it wasn’t sloped. A flat roof with an abutment, a small wall, facing the street. It would be perfect.
He stayed with the alleyways. Nobody saw him. When he reached the restaurant, Mallory parked the machine behind a small shed in the side alley, checking it first to determine whether it had gasoline. It did. If the restaurant owner didn’t come out, the motorcycle would be safe there.
He went round back and discovered, to his pleasure, that the back wall was easily scaled. A moment later he was flat out on the roof, hiding behind the two-foot-high front wall, watching the garrison through a hole in the adobe.
It wasn’t until an hour later that they brought Juan in. The sun had begun to burn away the clouds, and Mallory was hot and uncomfortable on the roof. His eyes burned with sweat. He saw them ride past with Juan, who stared stonily ahead.
They turned the corner and stopped at the gate. Mallory heard an order growled, and Juan dismounted. In a moment they had vanished inside.
He gave them an hour at the most. That was all it would take to satisfy themselves that Juan knew nothing. He waited 15 minutes and then slipped down from the roof. In the shed beside the building he found an old piece of canvas. It would be perfect. He wrapped the canvas around four sticks of dynamite.
Mallory walked directly away from the garrison, circled a block and came up on the same side of the street as the garrison wall. The street was clear. He strolled casually along the wall and, when he was opposite the restaurant, dropped the package. He walked another dozen feet, cut across the road and circled another block until he was back at the rear of the restaurant.
From the roof he could see his package nestled against the garrison wall. In the dirty canvas it looked like someone’s garbage.
They brought Juan out twenty minutes later. The soldiers pushed him roughly toward Mallory’s end of the courtyard. Mallory could see as Juan came toward him that his face was reddish and badly bruised.
