Clell Bowdrie thumped his Winchester down on the table top. “Lordy, Pasqual. You’re still as full of it as you ever were. Don’t you ever get tired of pickin’ all that brown stuff out of your ears?”
Acting as if he did not know what the gringo meant, Santiago asked, “What will it be today, my friends?”
“We ain’t your friends, you greasy breed,” Tick declared. “Just bring us three bottles of coffin varnish. And none of that watered down stuff you sell the Injuns, neither. Not if you want to stay healthy.”
Santiago’s resentment knew no bounds. But he was not about to court death by giving the Americanos a piece of his mind. “Whiskey it is,” he said pleasantly. “I will be right back.”
The Bowdries sullenly watched the proprietor hurry off, and Tick Bowdrie snorted. “I can’t stand a man who grovels. One of these days I might just put him out of his misery and blow out his brains.”
“It’d be a waste of good lead,” Clell commented. Leaning back and staring at the other customers with blatant contempt. “What the hell did we come here for, anyhow? I hate drinkin’ with Injuns and breeds.”
“It was handy,” Clem said, “and I had me a powerful hankerin’. After the way those Army sons of bitches treated us, I’m burnin’ up inside.”
Tick leaned his Spencer against the adobe wall. “Uppity bastards. Actin’ as if they’re better than everyone else. And after we went and brought back them deserters just like they wanted.” He shook his head. “Some folks have no gratitude, you know that?”
Over behind the bar, Santiago Pasqual took three bottles of his best stock and placed them on a tray. He was tempted to water them down just a little out of sheer spite, but he dared not take the risk. The Bowdries were not men to trifle with. Them with their smelly clothes and dirty faces.
As Santiago came around the end of the bar, he noticed something strange, something he had never noticed before. It surprised him so much that he broke stride.
Only two of the three Bowdries were greasy and dirty. Clell and Tick looked as if they had just crawled out of a pigpen after wrestling a boar. But the third one, Clem, the one with that peculiar hat, was smooth-shaven and clean, as were his baggy buckskins. The contrast was so striking that Santiago was amazed he had never spotted it before. Normally he was quite observant.
“Here you go, señores,” Pasqual said as he lowered the tray. “Is there anything else I can get you? Food, perhaps? My Teresina can make tacos like you have never tasted before.”
“We don’t want no greaser food,” Tick replied gruffly. “Just keep the tarantula juice comin’ and we’ll be right happy.”
“As you wish,” Santiago said, wishing he could stick the muzzle of his scattergun into the swine of a gringo’s mouth and pull the trigger. He smiled at Clell and Clem and went to turn when his gaze happened to drift to the level of the table top. He blinked in astonishment, then quickly hastened away before they saw, thinking that it couldn’t be, that he must be mistaken.
Once safely behind the bar, Santiago made it a point not to pay any attention to them. They drank and muttered among themselves while their creature dozed.
Perhaps an hour had gone by. Perhaps two. Santiago was not one for keeping track of time. He was about to partake of a bowl of beans when the drum of many hooves outside let him know he was about to have more customers. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry. He guessed there must be five or six of them, and he wondered what could be so important that they would push their horses so hard during the hottest part of the day.
Boots stomped toward the door. Spurs jangled loudly. Santiago faced around to welcome the newcomers but shock turned his tongue to stone. He thought for certain that he had somehow offended his Maker and was being punished for his transgression. For as if it were not bad enough that the vile Bowdries had seen fit to pay his humble saloon a visit, now into his establishment came men every bit as dangerous.
First to enter was a young man whose smooth, baby-like features belied his deadly nature. Billy Santee wore a wide-brimmed black hat and twin gunbelts crossed over his slim hips. He was the single most infamous gunman in the Territory and proud of it.
Next came a man whose reputation was almost the equal of Santee’s own. Surgio Vasquez had on a high-crowned sombrero and fancy Mexican garb. His oversized rowels jingled as he stepped to one side to survey the room.
More gunmen entered. Four, all told. Three of them Santiago had seen before but he did not know their names. The fourth was a lean stranger with the features of a hawk and an expensive pearl-handled Colt worn butt forward on his left side.
Then the entrance was filled from lintel to doorstep by an enormous man as wide as he was tall. He wore a brown suit and pressed white shirt and a hat which had cost as much as Santiago made in a month. Unlike the others, he did not wear a gun. He did not need to. The man himself radiated raw power and menace, much as might a giant grizzly.
Santiago Pasqual was flabbergasted. He knew this man. Not to talk to, but by the many stories told about him. Straightening, he forced his mouth to move, saying, “Señor Gillett! This is a surprise! How may I be of service?”
Miles Gillett was not one to waste words or time.
“You can’t,” he said curtly, and stalked over to the table where the Bowdrie brothers sat.
The Tennesseans were as taken aback by the arrival of the wealthy rancher as everyone else, but they did not let on. Clem studied the gunmen and seemed to find the hawk-faced man interesting.
“We need to talk,” Gillett announced. Taking a chair from another table and twirling it, he eased down, resting his powerful forearms on the top brace. The gunmen fanned out to surround their employer. “You know who I am and I know who you are, so we can cut to the reason I’m here.”
Tick Bowdrie shifted. He did not like being hemmed in by so many gun sharks and had half a mind to tell them to back off. But, as always, he would follow Clem’s lead, and Clem just sat there smiling. “Yep, I reckon we do know you, mister,” he answered. “Everyone in Arizona does.”
“I’ve been looking all over for the three of you,” Gillett revealed. He removed his hat as he spoke and took a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his sweaty brow. “We just missed running into you at Fort Bowie. Colonel Reynolds pointed us in the right direction.”
“Damn decent of the blue-belly, seein’ as how he hates our guts,” Clell mentioned. “But why would a big, important man like you need to see poor white trash like us so badly?” He nodded at Razor. “Are you in the market for one of them there pedigree dogs?”
Miles Gillett did not laugh. “Listen to me, you peckerwood. I didn’t damn near ride one of my best horses into the ground just to listen to you flap your gums.” He focused on Clem. “I hear that you’re the brains of the family.”
The blond found that highly amusing. “Ain’t it the truth. The brains and the looks. But don’t slight Tick and Clell none. What they don’t have between the ears they more than make up for in pure grit.”
Gillett nodded. “The three of you are supposed to be the best at what you do. Which is why I’m willing to pay ten-thousand dollars for the job I want done. Half now, half when it’s over with.”
Clem’s mouth dropped, and the others were just as flustered. “Ten thousand? Lord Almighty, we ain’t never seen that much money in all our born days.” Those wary blue eyes narrowed. “You must want us to go after someone awful special if you’re willin’ to fork over a king’s ransom. Who the hell is it? The President of these here United States?”
A grin touched the huge man’s lips. “Killing the President would be easier than the job I have for you.” He paused. “I want you to bring me the head of Clay Taggart, and I don’t care how you get it.”
“Taggart?” Clem repeated. “Ain’t he that White Apache feller? The one the whole blamed cavalry can’t catch?”
Clell whistled. “You’re askin’ a lot, mister. Taggart rides with Delgadito’s bunch. Those red devi
ls are pure terrors. If we go after him, we might have to go up against the whole band of renegades.”
“Don’t tell me that you’re scared of a few measly Apaches?” Gillett baited him. “And here everyone claims that the Bowdrie boys aren’t afraid of anyone or anything.”
The taunt riled Clell, who leaned forward and made as if to slap the rancher. Lightning quick, Clem grabbed the other Bowdrie’s wrist, then shoved his arm flat, saying with a meaningful nod at the gunmen, “Don’t be stupid.”
Billy Santee, Surgio Vasquez and all the other gunnies had tensed, except for the man with the hawkish countenance. He alone lounged against a wall, giving the impression he didn’t have a care in the world.
Clem looked Gillett in the eyes. “You won’t get nowhere insultin’ us, mister. It’s true that were not afeared of any man alive. But we’re not dumb, neither. Anyone would think twice about settin’ his sights on Taggart and those renegades.”
“Which is why I’m offering so much to have him taken care of,” Gillett said. “He’s been a thorn in my side long enough. After the other night—” He caught himself and let the words trail off.
“Taggart raid your place, did he?” Clem asked.
The rancher nodded curtly. “He killed my prize bull,” was all he had to say on the subject. But one of his own men had more.
Billy Santee tittered like a boy of ten. “That’s not all the varmint did. He cut the head clean off and then lugged it into the boss’s house. Right into the bedroom!” The young gunman slapped his thigh in merriment. “Can you imagine the sheer gall! What would make a man think to do such a thing?”
Clem’s brow knit. “It does give a body cause to wonder, don’t it?”
“Wonder all you want to,” Gillett said harshly. “But I need to know now if you’ll take the job or not. If you won’t, I’ll go find someone who will. One way or the other Clay Taggart is a dead man. I promised my wife that he’ll be dead before the first frost and I mean to keep my word.”
“A man should always stick by his promises to a lady,” Clem said with an impish smirk. “I know I would.”
Gillett did not take kindly to the remark and it showed. “Be real careful, mister. No one pokes fun at my wife, ever. The last hombre who did had to go out later and buy himself a set of false teeth.”
“I meant no disrespect,” Clem said, unbowed. “Believe you me, no one thinks more highly of womenfolk than I do.” The statement rang sincere, but it didn’t help matters any that Clell and Tick both chuckled to themselves and made of a show of finding the ceiling interesting.
The rancher made a sharp gesture. “Enough. What’s your decision? Will you take the job or not?” His hand slipped under his jacket and came out holding a wad of bills as thick as his wrist. “I have five-thousand right here. The rest is yours when you hand over Taggart’s head.”
Tick and Clell sobered and stared at the money as starving men might at a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. “I declare,” the former said. “Look at all that!”
“But it ain’t coin money,” Clell noted.
“I reckon we can make an exception this time around,” Clem remarked, and extended a palm. “All right, Mr. Gillett. You have yourself a deal. The Bowdries will fetch this White Apache. Once we’ve taken up his scent, he’s as good as done for.”
Miles Gillett tossed the wad into the air and caught it. “Before I hand this over, there is one condition I must insist on, given the circumstances.”
“Uh-oh,” Tick said. “Why is it the ones with lots of money always get so darned fussy about how we do our work? Seems to me a body ought to have a little faith.”
“With this much of my money at stake, I think I have a perfect right to impose on your good will,” Gillett said suavely. “Besides, the condition is a simple one. All you have to do is take one of my men along with you.”
The Bowdries glanced at one another, displeased.
Clem voiced the thought they all shared. “We work by ourselves. Always have. Always will.”
“Not this time. Not if you want the ten grand. I want someone along to sort of keep an eye on my investment. If it’s too much of an imposition, just say so.”
“It is,” Clell said flatly.
“Damned tootin’,” Tick agreed. “We don’t need no nursemaid along. If you don’t trust us, you should never have looked us up in the first place.”
Gillett ignored them. He concentrated on Clem, stressing, “It’s just one man. What harm can that do? And to make the pill easier to swallow, I’ll send another Southerner.” Twisting, he jabbed a thick thumb at the man with the pearl-handled Colt. “His name is Vasco.”
The lean gunman lost his casual air. Standing straight, he drawled, “The hell you say, seh. This wasn’t part of our arrangement. I hired on to throw lead for you, not be no nursemaid. Get yourself another gent.”
“You hired on to do as I say,” Miles Gillett countered. “Any man who takes my money and won’t do as I want can collect his pay and light a shuck for all I care. The choice is yours. But I figured you to have enough sand to handle anything I throw your way.”
A critical moment had arrived. Clell and Tick sneered at the gunman as if daring him to accept, while Vasco opened his mouth apparently to refuse. Just then, Clem Bowdrie surprised everyone by piping up with, “Very well, mister. We Bowdries agree to your terms. Any jasper who fancies such a shiny Colt must be mighty fast on the draw. He’s bound to come in handy.”
Tick Bowdrie was stupefied. “He is? Since when? What the blazes has gotten into you, Clem? I’m sorry, but I’m buckin’ you on this one. We don’t need no outsider ridin’ with us.”
Clell Bowdrie had glanced closely at Clem, then at Vasco. A thoughtful expression came over him. “Well now,” he said quietly, “ordinarily I’d agree with brother Tick, but seein’ as how you want it so much, Clem, I reckon I’ll go along with you. This feller can tag along. But heed me. He’d best not get in our way.”
“It’s settled then,” Miles Gillett said, and gave the five thousand to Clem.
Santiago Pasqual had been a fascinated eavesdropper to the whole conversation. In his line of work information was sometimes more valuable than the finest whiskey he sold, so he had learned to keep his eyes and ears open at all times. He did not see how he could make much money off this newest development, but there was no doubt that it would be the talk of the Territory for the next few weeks.
Miles Gillett stood. “When it’s over, bring the head to my ranch. Vasco will guide you there.” He turned to go, then drew up short. “Oh. One more thing. You might like to know that when Taggart left my spread the other night, he headed due east. And he was alone. My guess is that he was making for the Chiricahuas. Rumor has it that’s where the renegades hole up. If you hurry, you might be able to pick up his trail while it’s fresh.” Pivoting, the big man hustled on out and his men filed along behind him.
Billy Santee looked as if he were about to make a sarcastic comment, but something in Vasco’s eyes changed his mind and he sauntered oft with only a wink and a grin.
In the silence which ensued, anyone could have heard a pin drop.
Vasco walked over to the table and stood staring down at Clem Bowdrie. “Why?” he asked at length. “What made you change your mind?”
“I thought I made it plain. Were goin’ up against redskins, ain’t we? We can always use another gun.” Clem stood, hefted the Sharps, and brushed past the gunman. “Tick, you pay what we owe for our drinks, you hear?”
Clell and a mystified Vasco trailed him outdoors.
Scratching his head in confusion, Tick Bowdrie came over to the bar and plucked a handful of coins from a pocket. “If I live to be a hundred, I will never understand Clem,” he muttered.
“I feel the same way about my Teresina,” Santiago said. “But that is life, si? There are some things it is given a man to comprehend and there are some things which are not.”
“I don’t recollect askin’ you,” Tick sa
id. He was in a foul mood, and with good cause. Between the blue-bellies giving them a hard time about the deserters and now the high and mighty Miles Gillett all but forcing a new job down their throats, he was fit to be tied. Nothing that day had gone as it should.
As was often the case when he became irritated, Tick felt an urge to pound on something. Or someone. He half hoped the barkeep would give him an excuse to resort to his fists, but he should have known better. Pasqual was as slick as axle grease.
“How right you are, señor. Please forgive me for speaking when I should not have. I trust you will not hold it against me.”
Tick had a hunch he was being played for a fool but he could not say exactly how. “You’re forgiven, breed,” he snapped, and paid for the whiskey. “If we don’t set eyes on you for a year or so, it’ll be too soon to suit me.” Satisfied in his parting shot, he went out the door in a rush. The others, including Vasco, were mounted.
“Let’s go,” Clem said. “Daylight is wastin’ away. We can cover a lot of ground before dark comes.”
Swinging onto his mule without saying a word, Tick saw the older Bowdrie give Vasco a broad smile. Clell, meanwhile, was grinning at a private joke. None of it made any sense to Tick. He would be as happy as a lark when the whole affair was over with and they could go on about their lives as they had before that miserable day began.
Except for being ten-thousand dollars richer.
Seven
A whole day had gone by.
Captain Oliver Benteen propped himself on an elbow to peer over the mound of earth which screened him from the bluff. The exertion lanced his side with pain. Grunting, he automatically pressed a hand to the makeshift bandage which covered the deep furrow across his ribs.
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