by Paul Lederer
‘That makes sense from Harte’s point of view. And, by the way, the word means to leave someone on the side of the road, in a ditch.’
‘That is what I thought,’ Carmalita said, with a seriousness that almost made Cameron burst out laughing. She again bit at her underlip as she pondered the real gravity of Harte’s deviousness. A sincere, strong and yet childlike woman she was a refreshingly bright strain of some new blossom in Cameron’s eyes, and in his heart. He chased his boyish thoughts away. Who was he, after all, even to hope for such a woman to stand with him? He, himself, was an escaped convict, a penniless desert coyote going nowhere – unless Tombstone with the vague and menial prospect of gaining a job as a muleteer could be called somewhere.
‘We’ll eliminate those two first,’ Cameron said.
‘How?’ Carmalita asked.
‘I don’t know. But Stony alone is still only one man. We’ll take care of Willie and Slyke some way.’
‘Murder!’
‘Carmalita,’ Cameron Black said, extending his hand across the small table, ‘I cannot murder. Thank God I am incapable of that act.’ She took his hand and her grip was warm, gentle and yet still strong. She was that sort of woman. ‘But we will find a way. Let’s think a little more about it.’
One thing still bothered him deeply. ‘Emily. She won’t want to leave Stony. What are we to do, kidnap her? You know you can’t convince her in minutes – you must have tried that.’
‘If it must be done,’ Carmalita said, with the determination of a child-woman, ‘I will kidnap her! I will not let my sister be turned into a whipped dog.’
And that was all there was to that. At least in the quite-resolute Carmalita’s mind. Before he told her what he had in mind for the outlaws, Cameron looked deeply into her Spanish eyes and said frankly, ‘Carmalita, you must understand one thing: I am not Robin Hood or Jesse James either.’
Their hands still touched and she squeezed his slightly. ‘I know that … this makes you better, you see, Cameron Black. You know you are not invincible and yet you are willing to try despite your doubts and fears. For me. This makes you better than they were. You, Cameron Black, are a man.’
Their plan was risky, but both knew they could not hope to snatch Emily from Stony Harte’s grip if all the while they had to watch their backs for the two other Harte gunmen who might appear at any time. The decision they came to was not one Cameron Black liked, but he admitted it was the likeliest ploy toward success.
It all centered on Carmalita and her desirability. Slyke and Willie both knew her, of course, if by sight alone, and once they were in their cups, they were bound to have their lower instincts aroused if it seemed Carmalita was a woman of promise. That was the part of the plan Cameron did not like. In fact, it revulsed him, but if there were any way to lure one of the gunmen away from the cantina crowd and keep him off his guard, this was it. It was difficult to imagine any man spurning Carmalita’s advances, and one in a drunken state would give no thought to the possible hazards beyond his own desires.
‘I don’t like it,’ Cameron said one more time.
‘I do not like it,’ Carmalita said simply. ‘Is there another way?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ he answered unhappily.
‘Then, we look to the goal and not to the method.’
There was no way to plan against all contingencies. There were too many variables. What they intended to do was remove Slyke and Willie Durant from the scene long enough so they could be sure of facing Stony Harte alone. Not that he alone was not enough of a challenge, but the odds were better nonetheless. All of it was to be done long after darkness fell, the closer to midnight the better. By then, as was their custom, Stony’s henchmen should be well in their cups and Stony himself asleep in Emily’s bed. Carmalita’s mother would also be asleep at that time – Cameron meant to cause her no more distress than necessary.
The day slogged past in hot white lethargy. The flies buzzed around the room. Children played in the streets, pursued by happy dogs. Cameron dozed stiffly in the wooden chair, his folded arms growing cramped. Each time he opened his eyes, however, there was Carmalita, awake and alert, looking through the curtains or glancing expectantly at the door to her room. He watched once as, weary with concern and grief over her sister, she leaned her fist against the wall and placed her forehead against it. Her shoulders trembled slightly with a sob, but she shook herself out of the mood and began straightening the already tidy room with nervous efficiency. She was a strong woman, and a bold one, this Spanish girl, and Cameron felt guilty about the pangs of doubt he held. Doubts of his own ability to rescue the situation. She had so much confidence in him, and yet he was forced to consider if he was up to the task.
The slanting sunbeams took on a more horizontal angle and then were devoured by purple dusk. Cameron still pretended to sleep although he needed to be up and moving. The waiting was enervating. There was no clock in the room, but he knew it was still too soon to make their try. He rose stiffly and walked to the window, staring out at the pueblo. Lamps and candles went off at intervals and there was the singing of the cicadas, the chirping of the crickets announcing the night’s entry.
‘Shall we go?’ he asked Carmalita, who had placed a dark shawl across her shoulders and she nodded.
‘I can’t endure waiting any longer.’ She glided rather than walked to him and placed a heavy object in his hand. ‘I don’t know if this is in fine order, but I thought it was a good thing for you to have. It was my father’s.’
It was an ancient Walker Colt, heavy and old-fashioned, the model they used to call a ‘horse pistol’ because it was carried on the pommel of a saddle, being too heavy for a man’s holstered leg. It had been kept in good repair, and recently oiled, it seemed. ‘It will do what it was designed to do,’ Cameron said, examining the .44 revolver.
He thrust it behind his belt and drew a deep breath. ‘I like none of this, Carmalita,’ he said, looking down into her hopeful eyes.
‘Nor do I, Cameron Black, but we will do what must be done.’
They went out into the boisterous corridor of the cantina.
Below, men drank, smoked, shouted, gambled and cursed. A woman’s shrill laugh rang out above the rumble of the male din.
With gestures, Carmalita urged Cameron Black into the storeroom at the foot of the stairs where all was silent and dim. Poking around as she moved away, he found a spool of waxed twine on a workbench. It was strong enough to do their work if Carmalita’s plan did not fail. Hoisting himself onto a crate Cameron Black decided that it could not fail. What man would not accompany her wherever she asked him to? Cam didn’t like to think what nasty, spidery thoughts could crawl through the mind of the gunman. He sat, alert with nervousness, and waited.
The cantina was alive with the whirl of dancers and the roaring laughter of the drinking men. Carmalita was not troubled by it. She had taken the upstairs room a long time ago when it became obvious that Emily would return frequently to her home with Stony Harte. She hated that man and needed to stay away from her mother’s house. Mostly the men who came to the cantina just drank too much and acted like silly boys. She paid them no mind, and she was afforded courtesy.
But on this night her slashing eyes were alert to every gesture and face. Both of Harte’s accomplices were there, though widely separated. The bald man, Slyke, stood at the bar, foot on the brass rail, hat tilted back. His partner, Willie, the one with the badly mangled nose sat in the far corner, holding a girl she knew only as Alicia on his lap. Now and then Alicia would try to rise and escape, but Willie kept her there by force, laughing at each attempt.
Which one? It did not matter, Carmalita decided. She had been steeling herself for this moment all day long. Now, like an actress confident in her role, she walked to the long, scarred bar and positioned herself beside Slyke who looked up at her with pleased surprise.
‘Hello, doll!’ Slyke said, adjusting his hat over his bald head. ‘I seen you around here, haven�
��t I?’
‘I work here,’ Carmalita answered. ‘I live here.’
‘Is that so?’ Slyke said, drinking a shot of whiskey. His very words, blatant in their implicit meaning caused Carmalita’s body to tense; her stomach seemed to shrink and grow hard. There was too much at stake to show any fear or doubts. She placed a falsely bright smile on her mouth.
‘That is so,’ she answered, and she could feel Slyke’s eyes disrobing her.
‘Well, well,’ the gunman said. ‘Nice we could talk. Would you like something to drink?’ He leaned nearer and Carmalita could smell his reek. His entire body smelled something like a badly rotted tooth. She tried her smile again; it was almost painful to do so as the badman continued to watch her with glazed yellowish eyes. But Slyke saw only what he wanted to see.
‘I do not like what they serve,’ Carmalita told him. ‘I only drink Madeira.’
‘Is that so? Well, where can we get some of that, doll? I’ll buy you some!’ he said, growing expansive, and too obviously drawing a twenty-dollar gold piece from the pocket of his jeans. Carmalita felt herself seeming to shrink again. How could any of these women live like this and have any self-respect! How could Emily …?
‘I have a good bottle of wine in my room. Upstairs,’ she said, gesturing with her head. ‘I don’t know if you would like Madeira.…’
‘Doll,’ Slyke said, tugging the brim of his hat even lower with a wink, ‘I like anything you like.’
Glancing around the room, a movement Slyke probably took for caution but which Carmalita actually used to turn her eyes away from the slug of a man, she answered as she had practiced, ‘Well, just for one drink, it might be allowed, sir.’
Slyke’s grin threatened to separate his face into different spheres as he tossed down the last of his whiskey and motioned with his hand.
‘Let’s go. Later we can decide what’s allowed.’
And Carmalita was still smiling brightly as she swirled her skirt once and led the gunhand toward the staircase. Her only thought was:
Let this work!
EIGHT
‘There’s nothing to it,’ Cameron Black was thinking as he watched the cantina from the storeroom, the door open only an inch or so. Grab the man from behind, club him down. He won’t know what hit him.
It didn’t go so simply.
The first sounds he heard were Carmalita’s heels clicking against the wooden floor. Then came the shuffling of boot leather. He caught a glimpse of the man’s face in the poor light. It was Slyke. She had chosen Slyke first. Cameron slipped the horse pistol from behind his belt and hefted the heavy, ancient Walker.
Cameron’s idea was a simple one, to crack Slyke’s skull with the revolver, drag him into the storeroom and bind him. Like many other things that seem simple in their conception, this proved to be anything but in its execution.
Just as Slyke stepped past the door of Cameron’s hiding place, Black stepped out, trying to bash the outlaw on the head with the barrel of the old Colt. Slyke saw the movement and instinctively ducked and turned away. The pistol barrel glanced off Slyke’s head, doing little damage. Slyke hollered out furiously and they could only hope that the racket in the cantina muffled his voice enough so that no one could hear and rush to his aid.
Cameron tried again to club down Slyke, but the bald-headed man’s hands found his throat and clamped down like two vises. Cameron failed to break the hold of the frenzied outlaw. He lifted one foot and slammed the heel of his boot into Slyke’s leg, behind the knee joint. Slyke grunted, lost his balance and fell over on top of Cameron in the rank little room. The pistol went clattering free and lost itself in the shadows.
Instead of covering her mouth in horror or shrinking away, Carmalita hurled herself onto Slyke’s back and began pummeling his head and back with her small fists. Slyke tried to brush her away with one hand, but to do so he had to give up his grip on Cameron’s throat. In a blind panic, Cameron drove his right fist into Slyke’s face, catching him just below the ear. It may have stunned him slightly, but the outlaw gave no sign of it.
‘His gun!’ Cameron shouted, and Carmalita dove on Slyke’s back again, pawing at his holstered Colt Army. Slyke clamped her hand with his as she tried to draw the weapon from its holster and that freed Cameron’s other hand. He drove his left fist into Slyke’s eye twice as Slyke cursed at him, sprayed spittle and writhed like a captured wildcat. Cameron tried to drive his knee up into Slyke’s body, but the bald man had him pinned to the floor.
Carmalita had the outlaw’s gun now and she began to use the butt of it as a weapon. All of her blows were delivered glancingly as Slyke rolled from side to side with wild anger. To defend himself from the onslaught Slyke had to change his position and Cameron was able to wriggle free from his weight, striking Slyke twice more, once on the cheek, splitting it to the bone, once on the throat which caused Slyke to roar a strangled curse.
Inches away, Cameron now saw the ancient Walker revolver and he struggled toward it as Carmalita, her eyes wide, her hair in wild disarray, beat on Slyke. Cameron’s fingers stretched to the Walker and he brought it around fiercely. The blow landed just as Carmalita’s last strike with Slyke’s own gun cracked off the outlaw’s skull.
It was enough. The wildly resisting Slyke went limp, his body across Cameron’s legs, his hand still resting on Black’s throat. More quickly than he would have thought possible, Cameron scooted away from Slyke’s weight and sat panting on the floor, holding his own head.
He was breathing raggedly. There was blood leaking from his nose. Carmalita had begun to tremble.
‘I don’t think we are so very good at this yet,’ she said shakily. ‘Do we tie him up now?’
‘We tie him quickly, efficiently, thoroughly,’ Cameron said, rising to his feet. He looked down at the motionless Slyke. ‘He didn’t look that strong, did he?’
‘I don’t like fighting after this,’ Carmalita said. Her voice had become more inflected, more Spanish. She was obviously shaken.
‘I don’t either,’ Cameron said, grabbing the spool of twine they would use to tie Slyke. ‘Unfortunately, we’ve only begun.’
Willie, thankfully, was less trouble. The badman was nearly blind drunk when Carmalita, after pinning her hair up, again returned to the cantina to lure the redhead with his savaged face after her toward the stairs. Her walk was careless and inviting, but Cameron could see the tension behind it. Willie bounced off the walls of the narrow corridor as he followed. It may have been that his drunkenness was what made it easier, but it took no time at all to strike him down.
Cameron had always thought of himself as a merciful man, but there was no mercy in him just then. Perhaps it was fear that impelled him – he knew that he didn’t want to go through another fight like the one he had just had with Slyke. When Willie passed half a step beyond the door to the storeroom, Cameron slipped behind him and drove the muzzle of the Walker Colt behind the outlaw’s ear with every ounce of strength he possessed. Willie slumped soundlessly to the floor and with a glance toward the cantina, Carmalita helped Cam drag the gunman into the room. Both outlaws were left tied, gagged, unconscious, behind the beer barrels scattered around the room.
When they had finished, Cameron stepped back, aching from every joint, feeling his bruises now. Perspiration streamed into his eyes and down his chest. Carmalita stood silently, seeming stunned by what they had accomplished. Then with a toss of her head, she said brightly, ‘Good. We have done that. Now these men cannot interfere.
‘It is time we get to our real work.’
The real work. Yes, rescuing Emily who probably did not wish to be rescued from the grasp of Stony Harte, the gunman who could pick out a snake’s eye with a careless shot from his pistol. Cameron had fully committed himself to the project, but whether it was cowardice or simple wisdom, he wished he could just ride out, flee onto the open desert and take no part in trying to best Stony Harte. In the near darkness of the storeroom, Carmalita’s huge Spanish eyes still stud
ied his with misplaced confidence and hope, and he found himself saying simply, ‘We’d better have our try now, while it’s still full dark.’
The ranchita which was both Emily and Carmalita’s childhood home was dark against the darker earth. A cluster of live oaks stood huddled together on one side, a lonely sycamore stood before the small, boxlike house. To one side there was a pair of small outbuildings for farm implements and tack, Cameron guessed. At their slow approach an owl dipped from the sycamore and glided silently away, casting star shadows. The air was warm and dusty, yet above that Cameron could smell water. There must have been a small creek somewhere nearby. Otherwise there was no reason for the ranchita to have been built amidst all of this desolation.
They halted cautiously and Cameron drew Carmalita to the night shade of the dusty oak trees, whispering to her.
‘Where will they be?’ he asked.
Crouching, she used a twig to draw the floor-plan of the small house. ‘One comes in the front door and that is the living-room. The kitchen is just to the left, the largest room in the house. There are only two other rooms beyond. The one on the left is my mother’s, the one across the hall is where Stony Harte and Emily will be sleeping.’
‘If they are asleep,’ Cameron said uncertainly. ‘Have you any idea …?’
‘About the gold?’ Carmalita said, rising to dust off her hands. Her expression was one of concern. Could it be possible that the gold was the only reason this man was helping her?
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told her. ‘You know that I need to return the gold to buy my freedom. Otherwise, we … otherwise I will be a wanted man the rest of my life, never knowing who is pursuing me.’
‘I didn’t mean to …’ she said hesitantly, remembering the words he had started to speak.
‘It’s all right.’ Cameron rubbed his hand across his dark hair. ‘I cannot live a hunted man, Carmalita. So, yes, the gold is important to me.’
