by Jory Sherman
“Ralph here will take care of you. See you both tonight.”
“Right,” Zak said.
Zak glanced at the Mexican woman as he and Jeff followed Zigler to the batwing doors. She spoke with her fan again, striking an alluring pose behind its pleated flare. It was almost a curtsy, the way she did it—and she was sitting down.
The man who had taken their rifles came up to them and handed their weapons back. He smiled for the first time, flashing gold teeth.
“Come back real soon,” he said in a drawl Zak could not immediately identify. Southern. Georgia or Mississippi, he thought.
They walked to the hitchrail.
“You can ride your horses down to the Hacienda, or with me you can walk,” Zigler said in his mangled English.
Jeff looked at Zak as he was preparing to mount.
“We’ll walk with you, Ralph,” Zak said. “Might get some of the kinks out my legs.”
“Yes, it is good to walk after a long ride. Did you come far?”
“Lordsburg,” Jeff said, as if to show Zak that he remembered the lie.
“Yes, that is far,” Zigler said.
They passed the false front on an adobe with windows. The sign read LA FRONTERA LAND OFFICE. Beneath the store name was the subtitle L & M ENTERPRISES. Next to that was L & M MINING COMPANY, with its notice: ASSAYS, CLAIMS, GOLD & SILVER BOUGHT AND SOLD. Many of the other businesses had the same name out front, such as the L & M Patent Office and the L & M Outfitters & Guide Service, with hunting, fishing, trophies, and taxidermy listed beneath its name.
Zigler waved at people who were standing in the doorways of those businesses, or who were looking through the glass windows out onto the street. Zak said nothing, but his mind was staking out ideas in a grid that he hoped he would be able to connect with strings of information. There were customers—horses tied in front, small carts and wagons—at nearly every business. The street seemed to be thriving. To Zak, it felt like a miniature city within a city, almost like in the financial district of New York, where stocks and bonds were traded on a daily basis, generating thousands of dollars for bankers, stockbrokers, and wealthy clients. Zigler offered no explanation for any of the businesses.
“Here’s the hotel,” Zigler said. “Out in the back is the stables. I will take you there?”
“Sure,” Zak said. “We’ve got to stay at the Hacienda. Might as well get our horses boarded and grained.”
“They will do that,” the laconic Ralph said.
Zak was not surprised that the painted sign on the stables read L & M LIVERY STABLES. Beneath it, more information: BOARDING, FEED, LIVESTOCK BOUGHT AND SOLD.
The stableman, Dagoberto Elizando, was a man in his fifties with a face sculpted out of bronze. He was wearing a straw sombrero and gloves, and boots that had seen better days. Zigler spoke to him out of Zak and Jeff’s earshot, and Zak saw Elizando nodding and grinning as he glanced at the strangers.
There were horses in the stalls, some out in a corral in back of the large wood-and-adobe barn. Zak smelled the heady scents of hay, corn, wheat, and manure, threaded with horse sweat and urine.
“You do not have to pay,” Zigler said cryptically as he led Zak and Jeff to a back entrance of the hotel.
“Why not?” Zak asked.
“Of the hotel, you are guests,” Zigler said.
They got two rooms and said good-bye to Zigler at the front desk.
“To the Silver Cup, you will come later, no?”
“Yes,” Zak said. “Sometime after sunset.”
“Good,” Zigler said and marched through the lobby, with its flowers, small trees, and cactus plants in colorful clay pots that had been painted and glazed so that their surfaces were shiny, almost like porcelain.
The clerk took their chits and turned the ledger toward them, handing Vickers a pen. He was an older man who wore spectacles and garters on his sleeves, a green eyeshade, brushy moustache, fuzzy gray sideburns. He had delicate, veined hands and a face frozen in a permanent scowl, as if afflicted with rheumatism that pained every joint in his body.
He handed them two keys.
“My name’s Cletus Fargo. I’m the day clerk. Slim Gardner comes on at night. No shootin’ up the rooms, no settin’ the beddin’ on fire. Chamber pot’s on the bureau, slop jar’s under the bed, but you got an outhouse at the side of the buildin’ nearest the Taos road. Numbers Four and Five, gents. Make yourselves to home.”
With that, Fargo turned and went into a little office and sat down. He closed his eyes, leaned back in an overstuffed chair, and put his feet up on a desk or table.
Zak threw his saddlebags on the bed, laid his rifle next to them while Vickers opened the door to Number 5.
“Jeff, come on over once you get settled,” Zak said, having left his door open. He slipped his key in his pocket and sat in a chair. There was a window that gave him a view of the Taos road and the Sangre de Cristo range, with its snowcapped peaks shining alabaster white in the sun.
When Jeff came in, devoid of his saddlebags and rifle, Zak told him to close the door and waved him to a chair. There were two chairs in the room, a small table, a chest of drawers, and pegs on the wall that served as a wardrobe. There were painted pictures of desert flowers and a golden eagle on two of the walls.
“Looks like we passed muster,” Jeff said. “At least with Pete Carmody.”
“He sure is spooning honey on our biscuits,” Zak said.
“What do you make of Zigler?”
“Don’t turn your back on either one of them,” Zak said.
“So, now what? We going to the Silver Cup tonight?”
“I’m curious about Leo Biederman. I got the impression that he’s recruiting men—gunmen—for something. And I’ve got an idea what he’s after.”
“You do?”
“I’ll keep it myself for now, Jeff. I just wanted to give you a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Ever been to San Francisco or Monterey?”
Vickers shook his head.
“When a ship docks, say from China or Japan or India, sometimes the sailors jump ship in port. When that captain has to sail again, he gets his crew from the saloons along the waterfront. Old Chinese practice.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“They put knockout drops in a man’s whiskey, or club him with belaying pins in an alley if he’s had a snootful. And then they carry these poor jaspers onboard ship just before they sail. When the poor bastards wake up, they’re far out at sea and won’t see land again for many months. They call this practice ‘shanghai.’ When they shanghai you, you’re virtually a prisoner of the captain and the vessel.”
“Why are you telling me this, Zak?”
“If you drink whiskey tonight, don’t swallow a mouthful with the first swig. Let the whiskey trickle past your lips. If your lips tingle a little or you feel like you have a thistle in your mouth, don’t drink any more. Just pretend, and pour the whiskey into your boot.”
“You think they might try to shanghai us?” Jeff said.
“I mean, keep your wits about you. Let me do most of the talking. You do all the listening.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Vickers joked.
“Ever been to Shanghai, Jeff? Me, neither. And let’s not go there tonight.”
Two hours later Zak tapped on Jeff’s door. He had napped and watched the traffic on the Taos road as the sun went down over the mountains. After it turned dark, the road emptied and there was a quiet on the land outside his window.
Like the quiet before a storm.
Chapter 16
Zak and Jeff left their keys at the front desk and walked outside the hotel. The street was nearly deserted except in front of La Copa Plata, which was lined with horses and men standing outside, their cigarettes glowing in the dusk, their voices floating down the adobe canyon lined with closed shops.
“Nice evening,” Jeff said. “I wonder what’s going on at the post.”
“Put those matters out
of your mind, Jeff. We have more important things to do.”
“I’m trying my best to be unmilitary.”
Zak laughed. “It’s probably something you can’t do. You can wear civilian clothes, but there’s starch in your backbone and that doesn’t wash out easily.”
“Does it show?”
“If anybody asks why you stand so straight, tell them you got bucked off your horse.”
“So, I look stiff,” Jeff said.
“As an iron flagpole,” Zak said, then stepped onto the street. Light from the hotel threw a parallelogram in front, and an oil lamp near the entrance made their shadows loom long across the dirt street, spilled its own light into a warped circular pool that wavered with the flicker of the flame inside the glass.
Zak stopped, put out a hand to hold Vickers back. Across the street, in the shadows, he saw the glow of a cigarette. His hand dropped to the butt of his pistol. Jeff saw the orange glow, too, and slid his hand down his hip until he felt the grip of his sidearm.
“Zak,” a voice called.
“Show yourself,” Zak said, easing his pistol an inch out of his holster.
“It’s me, Randy Bullard. Maybe you better walk over here, out of the light.”
Zak let the pistol fall back snug into his holster. Jeff breathed a sigh and relaxed his own gun hand.
“What in hell are you doing here, Sergeant?” Vickers demanded. “And how did you know where to find us?”
“Sir, I come down to Biederman’s to buy some store-boughts. Since Colonel Loomis is planning a campaign, I thought this would be my last chance. I got a pass.”
“And you knew where to find us?” Zak said.
“I had a drink at the Silver Cup with some of the other troopers who come in with me. I got to get back, but I heard tell about two new hardcases in town what was stayin’ at the Hacienda. I figgered it was you two.”
“Randy,” Zak said, “does Naldo Dominguez have a brother?”
Bullard dropped the butt of his cigarette on the street, ground it out with his heel.
“Yeah, he sure does. Forgot about that. Jorge. He works at the Silver Cup.”
“Did you see him when you had your drink?” Zak asked.
“Nope. He only works days, I think.”
“Is this what you came down here to tell us, Sergeant?” Vickers said. “We know about the campaign and Colonel Loomis.”
“No, sir, I come to tell Zak here, I mean the colonel, that a while ago, that sheeper rancher, Delacruz, he come to the Presidio. They sent him over to see Colonel Loomis.”
Zak felt his breath hold fast in his lungs. Bullard had caught him by surprise.
“Do you know what Gregorio told the colonel?” Zak asked.
“Hell, two privates, a corporal, and a sergeant-at-arms heard him tell Colonel Loomis that his neighbor had eighty, ninety head of sheep run off last night by Navajos. He said it was Narbona and Largos. His neighbor, a feller by the name of Lorenzo Villareal, got told by Narbona the same thing he told old Delacruz. Go tell the soldiers to come.”
“Any white men with Narbona?”
“Delacruz said no.”
“Why didn’t Villareal come in with Gregorio?” Zak asked.
“The way Delacruz told it, he was buryin’ some herders. His wife and daughter got stole, too. Delacruz is plumb scairt out of his wits.”
“Where is Delacruz now, Randy? Do you know?”
“He didn’t go back to his ranch, that’s for sure. I think he knows people here in Santa Fe. He was asking for military protection, same as Villareal. There’s somethin’ else you maybe ought to know.”
“What’s that, Sergeant?” Vickers said.
“Colonel Loomis ain’t goin’ to wait no three days to go after Narbona. He’s hoppin’ mad and issued orders to his officers to be ready to ride out tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Zak said.
“Yes, sir, that’s why I got to get back. I just come in to get some Piedmonts. Each man is to carry a week’s rations, fifty rounds of rifle ammunition, slickers and tents.”
“Anything else, Randy?” Zak asked.
“Yeah, he’s takin’ artillery with him, mountain howitzers, a couple of four-pounders, maybe a Gatling gun.”
“Shit,” Vickers said. “Zak, I have to go back to Fort Marcy.”
“You’re staying with me, Jeff.”
“But—”
“No argument. Randy, you haven’t seen us. Now, get on back to the post. Thanks for the information.”
“You be careful, Zak. You, too, Captain Vickers.”
“Don’t you salute us, Randy,” Zak said. “Somebody might be watching.”
Zak and Jeff walked away, leaving Bullard in the shadows. Vickers seemed ready to explode, but he held his tongue.
“Loomis double-crossed us,” he whispered to Zak when they were well away from Bullard.
“I figured he couldn’t wait three days,” Zak said.
“You did?”
“That’s why we’ve got to finish our business tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“If we can. I have a hunch we’ll know more by morning than we do now.”
“How’s that?” Vickers asked.
“If you can’t beat ’em,” Zak said, “join up with ’em.”
“Yes, but we’ve got loyalties and duties and—”
“And we’ll stay loyal and do our duties, Jeff. Now, go back to being a civilian. We’re almost there.”
La Copa Plata was a blazing beacon of light in the darkness of the street. The strains of lively music, guitars, trumpet, drums, blared out into night, and the sound of voices was a low drone under the melody.
As soon as Jeff and Zak cleared the batwing doors, Pete Carmody strode up to greet them, a grin on his face as wide and white as a bib.
“Leo’s right over there, gents,” he said with a wide sweep of his arm. “Just follow me.”
Zak spotted the man in the center of the room. He looked like a king holding court. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a ruddy face, wearing a white Stetson. He looked like a Washington politician, except for the hat, which would have put him squarely in Texas. But all the other attributes were there: the ready smile; the hearty handshake; the wet, puckered lips, suitable for kissing babies and young mothers.
“Mr. Biederman—Leo—this is Zak Cody and Jeff Vickers, the two men I told you about.”
The woman sitting next to Biederman had a face that appeared carved out of dark teak, with high cheekbones; a small, pudgy nose; bright brown eyes; and hair so black it shone like a crow’s wing under the spray of the lamplight. She had rouge on her cheeks and lipstick the color of blood on her thin mouth. Her clothes were fancy—black lace with trims of red and green woven into the sleeves and collar.
“I’m Leo, and this is my wife, Minnie,” he said, gesturing to the woman. “Minnie’s a full-blood Navajo lady and the light of my life.”
Minnie didn’t smile but looked at Zak darkly, skimmed her glance over Jeff, and then shifted back to Zak, appraising him with the hooded eyes of a savage, not of a wanton.
After the “pleasedtameetchas” Leo told Jeff and Zak to sit down, then raised a hand in the air. The band stopped playing Green Grow the Lilacs, paused and then broke into La Macarena, the song that was always played at bullfights in Spain and Mexico.
Zak sensed that they were sitting with a shrewd man who played his cards close to his vest. Behind the twinkle in Leo’s merry eyes, there were shadows that disguised his true feelings. He exuded power, like magnetized steel, whether he was standing or sitting—it emanated from him. He watched Vickers, who seemed awestruck by the magnanimous gestures and flamboyant manner of Leo Biederman. But Zak kept his eyes on Minnie, who had her own quiet strength. He could see the tears of her people in the lines etched into her face, feel the great sorrow and pride of an entire race who had once owned land that stretched farther than the eye could see. She, too, was magnetic, but in a different way from her husband.
She was the rock and granite of the mountain, while he was the ermine snow shining on its peak, supported by a woman who had once walked with giants of her own race and now found herself surrounded by fawning, obsequious lackeys who thought the world owed them a living. She, Zak could see, felt that it was the other way around. Her people owned the earth and nurtured it, roamed it, hunted on it, but never staked a claim to either water or dirt.
“Tell me, Cody,” Leo was saying, “what brought you out West to our part of this great country?”
Leo’s laughing expression had vanished from his eyes, and he wore a serious and skeptical frown.
“Possibilities,” Zak said.
Leo’s face went blank for a second; then he reared back in his chair and roared like a bull. “Haw, that’s what you got here, son! Possibilities. Ain’t no end to ’em. And about you, Mr. Vickers, do you share that dream?”
“I go Zak one more, Mr. Biederman,” Jeff said. “Probabilities. Carpe diem. That’s my motto.”
“Ah, you are a scholar, I see. Latin. Yes, that’s my motto, as well. ‘Seize the day.’ Make hay while the sun shines, gather ye rosebuds while ye may.”
“You’ve got us tagged, Leo,” Zak said. “We shucked off civilization and all its trappings, came to the heart of the trading world, Santa Fe, the center of the universe.”
“You’re a man after my own heart, Cody,” Leo said. “Now, Pete tells me you’re looking for honest work.”
“Did he say ‘honest’? I don’t think that word was ever spoken by me.”
“It’s a figure of speech, of course. Work is its own reward, of course.”
“Of course,” Zak said.
Jeff licked his lips, and a waiter appeared to take their orders. The Mexican band played a mournful tune from Jalisco, a sad song of love and betrayal and a woman’s tears at the foot of the gallows tree where her man swings in the wind, his neck broken by a thick rope knotted just under his ear.
“Whiskey,” Vickers said.
“I’ll have the same,” Zak said and saw Leo nod his approval.
