With a speed that made the boy gasp in awe, the ivory-handled gun on the big man’s hip seemed to leap from its holster into the man’s hand. The man fired without seeming to aim. As the gun roared, the rattler’s head exploded in a burst of gore. The snake’s body writhed and whipped madly for several seconds before its nerves and muscles realized that the head was gone and finally relaxed in death. A few final twitches ran through the thick, scaly corpse.
The big man laughed again and said, “Never set out to kill something, amigo, unless you are sure you can accomplish that death.” He swung the gun toward the farmer, and for a second the boy thought that the stranger was going to shoot his father, too. Strangely, the prospect didn’t bother him that much. He almost wanted to see it happen. His father, after all, was only a poor farmer, and there were mil- lions of them in the world. The big man on the fine horse was more like a god, and a god’s will could not, should not, be denied.
But then the man laughed yet again and holstered the weapon. He looked at the boy and asked, “Is there a cantina in this village?”
Wordlessly, the boy lifted an arm and pointed along the dusty street.
“Gracias, muchacho,” the big man said. He whirled his horse around and galloped toward the cantina. The others followed.
The boy watched them go. Then he walked over and picked up the hoe that his father had dropped in sheer terror. The boy went to the snake, ignoring the words his father spoke to him, and used the hoe to chop off the rattles. He dropped the hoe and held the rattles in the palm of his hand. A little blood oozed from the place where he had cut them from the snake’s body.
The boy’s hand closed around the rattles. He would keep them from now on, he told himself, so that he would never forget this day with all its fear and awe.
* * *
Down the street, Diego Alcazarrio swaggered into the cantina and called out for tequila for him and his men. The little man who ran the place hurried to bring the bottles and glasses to the hard-faced men who filed in and sat at the tables scattered around the room. It was cool inside the cantina because of the early hour and its thick walls that kept the heat out, but the proprietor began to sweat as he served his new customers.
He recognized Alcazarrio. The man was known throughout the region as a revolutionary who wanted to overthrow Porfirio Díaz, El Presidente. Díaz probably de- served to be overthrown, at least as far as the common people of Mexico were concerned, but while men such as Alcazarrio and those who followed him might call themselves revolutionaries, everyone knew they were actually bandidos, out to get everything they could for themselves. They demanded tribute from the peons. They rode into villages and took whatever they wanted—mostly supplies, but some- times the few coins and other valuables that might be found as well. And some- times women, the wives and daughters of the villagers. It was difficult to know how to feel about men such as Diego Alcazarrio and those who rode with him. They hated Díaz and the government, and the people hated Díaz and the government. But at the same time, those like Alcazarrio were thieves, rapists, and killers, and the people were afraid of them.
The way Alcazarrio saw it, that was good. The more fear he inspired, the better he liked it. He had thought about killing that farmer, just as an example of what should happen to the weak, but in the end he had decided it would be unwise to do so. If you saw an ant crawling along the ground by itself, you might step on it out of sheer disgust for the creature’s lack of size. But stomping right in the middle of an ant bed . . . ah, that was a different thing.
Alcazarrio splashed tequila in a glass and tossed back the fiery liquor. He refilled the glass and drank again. A familiar, pleasant warmth began to spread through him. His second-in-command, Florio Cruz, sat at the table with him and also drank. Unlike the burly, bearded Alcazarrio, the hatchet-faced Cruz was lean and clean-shaven except for a thread of mustache. He said, “You are sure this is the day the American was to meet us, Diego?”
“You question me?” Alcazarrio asked with a frown.
Cruz shook his head. “Not at all, compadre. I simply hope that we did not ride all this way for no reason.”
“I spied a few comely señoritas as we rode into town,” Alcazarrio leered. “No matter whether the gringo shows up or not, our visit will not have been for nothing.”
Cruz shrugged. He enjoyed women, but actually cared little for them, Alcazarrio knew. Money and power were the things Cruz really lusted for, which made him an excellent lieutenant. As long as he never grew so hungry for power that he would risk trying to take over this band of revolutionaries . . .
Alcazarrio had left a couple of men outside to serve as lookouts. One of them hurried into the cantina after a few minutes and came straight to the table where Alcazarrio and Cruz sat. “A rider comes, Diego,” he reported.
“One rider?”
The man nodded. “Sí, only one.”
Alcazarrio grinned and said, “It must be the American. Only a gringo would be so foolish as to come down here alone.” He refilled his tequila glass again and slugged down the stuff, then pushed himself to his feet. Like the bear he resembled, he shambled toward the open door of the cantina, followed by Florio Cruz.
The rider approached Arroyo Seco from the east, so the sun was behind him. All Alcazarrio could tell about the man was that he was slender and probably tall; it was difficult to determine that for sure when a man was in the saddle. The rider had to come closer, almost all the way up to the cantina, before Alcazarrio could make out the thin features.
The American wore whipcord trousers, a white shirt, and a cream-colored Stetson. He reined in and gave the revolutionary leader a curt nod.
“Señor Alcazarrio. We haven’t met, but I recognize you from Dolores’s description. I’m—”
“I know who you are, Señor.” Alcazarrio understood and spoke English fairly well and answered in that language. “You wear no uniform, but you are Major Trevor.”
The man grimaced. “No ranks, please. We’re a hell of a long way from Fort Sam Houston.”
“And you have no wish to be reminded of how you are betraying your fellow soldados, eh, Señor Trevor?” Alcazarrio asked with a grin.
Anger smoldered in the American’s eyes, but he controlled it. “I have what you wanted,” he snapped. “The itinerary for those guns.”
“And I have what you want, Señor . . . money.” Alcazarrio jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the cantina. “Come in and have a drink, and we will talk business, eh?”
A muscle in Major Trevor’s bony jaw jumped a little, as if in reaction to the obvious distaste he felt toward the man he was dealing with. But he nodded and swung down from the saddle.
Alcazarrio snapped his fingers at one of the village youngsters who had followed the revolutionaries to the cantina. “Hold the gringo’s horse,” he said to the boy.
“Do not let anything happen to it.”
The boy said, “Sí, jefe,” and sprang to obey. He took the reins from Trevor, who hesitated for a second before giving them up.
Alcazarrio threw an arm around Trevor’s shoulder, taking pleasure in the way the American stiffened in resentment at the familiarity. As long as they each had something the other wanted, they had to tolerate each other. When their deal was concluded, it might be different.
Alcazarrio led Trevor into the cool, shadowy interior of the cantina and sat him down at the table where the half-empty bottle of tequila still stood. He said to the owner, “Another glass, pronto!”
When the three men were seated and Trevor had a glass of his own, Cruz poured the drinks. Alcazarrio lifted his glass and said, “To the success of our arrangement!”
Neither of the other men echoed that toast, but they both drank when Alcazarrio did. When Cruz reached for the bottle again, Trevor shook his head.
“It’s too early in the day. One drink is enough for me.”
Alcazarrio laughed. “Too early in the day,” he repeated. “This is something I have never understood. One ti
me is as good as another, so far as I can see. You would not say that it is too early in the day to enjoy a fine meal or to make love to a pretty señorita, would you, Señor Trevor?”
“Let’s get on with it,” Trevor suggested instead of answering Alcazarrio’s question.
The Mexican’s brawny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Of course. Whatever you want, Señor. Tell me about the rifles.”
“Five hundred of them,” Trevor said as he leaned forward. “Brand-new repeaters being shipped by rail from San Antonio to Fort Bliss in El Paso.” He reached inside his jacket and brought out several folded papers. “I have a map of the route and the schedule right here.”
He slid the papers across the table toward Alcazarrio. The revolutionary leader’s ham like paw came down on the documents and drew them to him. He unfolded them and studied them. Though he was not a highly educated man, he knew how to read and write and could even make out most of the English words. And his cunning was second to none.
That was why, working through an intermediary in San Antonio, a beautiful young woman named Dolores who happened to be a cousin of his, he had been able to locate and negotiate with an officer in the American army who was willing to sell out his compadres for the right price. Dolores had arranged the meeting, and now Major Hugh Trevor was here in Arroyo Seco, bringing with him the information that Alcazarrio needed.
The promise of repeating rifles would cause the ranks of his army to swell. They would become a force to be reckoned with, even for that brutal pig of a dictator, Díaz. And with each new success, the number of Alcazarrio’s followers would grow even larger, he knew. People made the mistake of thinking him to be a mere bandit. A bandit he was, to be sure, but there was nothing “mere” about him or his plans. He really did intend to overthrow Díaz, and once he had established himself as El Presidente, he would turn his attention elsewhere, beyond Mexico.
For example, it had always bothered him that the damned Texans had ripped away that which was not rightfully theirs. It was past time for Mexico to regain control of the territory north of the Rio Grande, and under Alcazarrio’s leadership, that was exactly what would happen.
Or so the future played out inside his head anyway. But the first step, he knew well, was to get his hands on those guns.
“They’re not being shipped on a military train,” Trevor was explaining. “The army’s trying to keep the whole thing quiet, in fact. They’ll be in crates inside a baggage car that’s part of a regular train.”
“What about guards?” Cruz asked. He liked to think of himself as a strategist, although in truth it was Alcazarrio who came up with all the plans for the group.
Trevor’s thin lips curved in a smile. “The army’s not foolish enough to rely totally on secrecy. There’ll be a dozen armed guards inside the baggage car with the rifles.”
“Only a dozen?” Alcazarrio waved a hand as if he were shooing away a gnat. That was all the American resistance would amount to—an annoyance. He frowned as he studied the map some more, trying to figure out the best place to at- tack the train and steal the guns.
“That’s all you need from me,” Trevor said. “I’ll take my money now. Dolores said you would pay two thousand dollars in gold coins.”
“You wish your payment, eh?” Alcazarrio said without looking up from the map. He flipped a hand toward Cruz. “Florio has it.”
Trevor turned toward Alcazarrio’s segundo. Cruz stood up and said, “It is on my horse.” He started toward the door of the cantina.
His route took him behind Trevor. Without warning, Cruz suddenly looped his left arm around the American’s neck, jerked his chin up, and used his right hand to draw a razor-sharp bowie knife across Trevor’s throat. Trevor died without making a sound, blood fountaining out from his slashed arteries. Alcazarrio lifted the papers so that the crimson flood wouldn’t splash on them.
Cruz let go of Trevor. The dead man fell forward so that his head landed in the pool of gore that was already forming. Cruz wiped the blade on Trevor’s jacket and replaced the knife in its sheath on his hip. He turned to Alcazarrio and asked, “Do you know yet where we will strike?”
Alcazarrio turned in his chair so that he could smooth out the papers on a part of the table that wasn’t covered with blood. He pointed at the map and grunted,
“Here. The train will stop here for water.”
The tip of his blunt, strong finger rested on a spot not far across the border. According to the map, a small settlement was located there.
It was called Sweet Apple.
* * *
On a hilltop overlooking the village of Arroyo Seco, a figure crouched behind a rock and trained field glasses on the welter of mud-daubed buildings. The man tensed as a couple of men in sombreros carried something out of the building where all the horses were tied up in front. The watcher put his field glasses on the two men, and his breath hissed between his teeth as he saw that the thing they were carrying was a body. One man had the corpse’s legs, the other grasped it under the arms. As the man on the hill watched, the two revolutionaries took the body around to the rear of the building and tossed it into a ditch as if it were nothing more than a sack of trash.
And that was about all it amounted to now, the watcher thought bitterly. He had warned Major Trevor that the damned greasers weren’t to be trusted, but as usual, Trevor thought that he knew better than anybody else.
The watcher didn’t really give a damn about Trevor. But he did care about the money that the major had been promised. Part of the money was supposed to be- long to the man on the hill when everything was over and done with. Distant strains of guitar music drifted up from the village. The bandidos who called themselves revolutionaries were celebrating. They had double-crossed the stupid gringo, taken the information he’d brought to them, and given him only death as a reward.
But when the time came, the Mexicans would have a surprise waiting for them, the watcher vowed. He lowered the field glasses and slipped down the far side of the hill to where his horse waited.
A moment later, he was spurring northward toward the border.
Chapter 21
Deuce Mallory always kept an eye on his back trail, and once it became obvious to him that no posse was coming after them, the outlaws slowed down as they headed for the Rio Grande. Mallory was eager to carry out the raid on Sweet Apple and then cross the border into Mexico, where he planned to enjoy a long vacation from robbing and killing, but at the same time there was no reason to get into a rush either. Those poor bastards back in Buckskin were probably still licking their wounds from the damage the Mallory gang had done.
Along the way they had stopped at a few isolated ranches, killing the settlers and taking anything that might be of use. At one place in the mountains they’d run into a cantankerous old-timer who had amused Mallory so much he’d decided to let the geezer live. They’d settled for burning down his barn instead of killing him. The men were getting a little antsy, though, Mallory sensed. They were ready for action, ready for another big raid. They had too much violence and brutality inside them, and they had to get it out from time to time or they’d be liable to turn on each other. As the leader, Mallory had to gauge things like that and decide when it was time to strike.
That time was coming soon.
For now, though, he was content for the gang to remain another day or two at this camp in a wooded canyon south-west of the Davis Mountains, about halfway between Fort Davis and the Rio Grande. They had been there for a day already, letting their horses rest after the long ride from the Texas Panhandle. Mallory listened to the men laughing and talking and caught the undercurrent of tension in their voices. They had been without women for a while, they were low on booze, and they were edgy.
That was the way he wanted them. Let the steam build up a little more. Then when they hit Sweet Apple, they wouldn’t even think about holding back. It would be an orgy of death and destruction, looting and killing and raping.
Just the way Mallo
ry liked it.
He was playing a desultory, small-stakes, three-handed game of poker with Steve Larrabee and Gus Brody when Carl Henderson approached. Mallory figured that Henderson wanted to be dealt into the game, but then he realized that the man had a worried look on his face.
“What’s wrong, Carl?” Mallory asked.
“The lookouts spotted somebody comin’, Deuce,” Henderson replied. “Just one man, but he’s hunched over in the saddle like somethin’s wrong with him.”
Mallory had given orders that a couple of men were to be posted at both ends of this canyon at all times. The last thing he wanted was for the gang to get penned up in here.
He was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside the blanket on which the cards and money were scattered. Like a snake, Mallory uncoiled from that position. Instinctively, his hand moved closer to the gun on his hip.
“Which end of the canyon?” he asked.
“South,” Henderson answered with a jerk of his head in that direction.
Mallory motioned to Larrabee and Brody. “Come on. Let’s see what this is about.”
The four men strode toward the south end of the canyon. Their purposeful manner and the grim looks on their faces attracted the attention of some of the other outlaws. They left behind what they were doing and followed Mallory and his lieu- tenants, so that there was a sizable group gathering at the south end of the hideout canyon.
One of the lookouts waved to Mallory and said, “You can see him from up here, Deuce.”
Mallory climbed to the top of the leaning rock slab where the man was posted with a rifle and a pair of field glasses. He didn’t need the glasses to see the approaching rider, who was now about three hundred yards from the mouth of the canyon. As Henderson had said, the man was slumped forward in the saddle and appeared to be holding on tightly to the horn to keep from falling.
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