by Abe Dancer
‘There is no killer here,’ she said firmly. ‘I think the both of you are running to and from ghosts.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, those wounds of his weren’t put there by any goddamn skookum. There is a chance this man Cayne hasn’t shown yet, but by your saying nothing Jack’s life could be at risk. You want to settle for that by not telling me?’
Connie hesitated a moment. ‘He’s riding south to the stage station. . . going to my father’s ranch.’
‘The Nogales coach?’
‘Yes. Aqua Cajon,’ she said after a moment’s thought.
The lawman gave a brisk Thank you, returned to the main street and the nearest open cantina.
He took a quick glance around the single room bar, immediately saw the lone figure of Magro slumped at a corner table. His deputy had his eyes closed, was sitting snoring with many empty tequila glasses in front of him. The lawman shook his head understandingly, went straight on to the lodging house near the centre of the small town.
‘Is Señor Luna in his room?’ he asked the patron.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ the man replied unhelpfully.
Rebo looked ominously around him. He noticed the man sitting sprawled in a chair with a range hat covering his face, apparently asleep.
‘Is Señor Luna in his room?’ he asked for a second and clearly final time.
‘Sí. A half-hour ago. I think maybe he was poco drunk.’
Have you got a sheet of paper . . . a pen?’ Rebo asked.
The man rummaged around under a makeshift desk, produced an old Wanted dodger and a stubby pencil.
‘I’ve got this,’ he offered.
Rebo folded the paper and wrote a few words on the back. It was a note for Rafael, saying where he was going.
‘Make sure Luna gets this,’ he told the patron. Without looking back he walked out to the street, briskly on to the stable to collect his horse.
As soon as Rebo had left the lodging house, the slumping man pulled his hat away from his face. He got to his feet, with his right hand reached behind his back.
A moment later, the surprised patron watched helpless as the point of a skinning knife was jabbed five or six times against his stomach.
‘Don’t shout. Just keep quiet,’ the man warned.
‘That’s what I’m good at,’ the wretched patron mumbled. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’
‘I’m not goin’ to do it now. But unless you stay shtum for at least ten minutes, I’ll find a way later. Comprendes?’
The terrified patron stayed rooted to the spot. Only his eyes moved, rolling around as he listened for any sound from the street. After more than double the ten minutes he dared to move, looked around to see that the man had taken the message intended for Rafael Luna.
CHAPTER 6
Muttering aggravations to himself Carlos Rebo led his sorrel into the deserted street. He swung up to the saddle, heeled the animal into a brisk trot towards the shadows of the cedar brake. Despite hot days, border nights were often bitterly cold and he shivered under his mackinaw coat. A nightjar’s squawk made him flinch, reminding him of another bird’s call when, in the previous year, he’d been shown the body of Will Morgan. For a brief moment he thought the man’s features had, in a strange way, resembled those of Jack Finch.
Rebo emerged into the silvery light beyond the brake, set his mount to a canter. He was now thinking seriously about the killer he’d trailed from San Simon. He’d started with a basic description, but since meeting Jack Finch he knew a bit more how to describe Dawson Cayne. What he and Jack didn’t know or understand was the man’s reason for murder. Being deluded or psychotic didn’t somehow fit.
Three miles from town Rebo could just discern where the south trail ran alongside the deeper shadow of a rimrock ridge. The moon dipped behind the north rim and the lawman slowed his horse, walked it close to the clefted wall. He’d gone about halfway along the section when he stopped.
He swung the sorrel around, peering carefully into the darkness ahead and above. A sense of danger filled the night air and he reached for the butt of his Colt. He was considering the error he might have made when a bright flame stabbed the darkness. An explosion reverberated wildly along the ridge and the first bullet knocked him from the saddle.
You don’t need a goddamn cannon from thirty feet, he was thinking ruefully as he hit the ground. Gasping and grinding his teeth at the pain, he was almost up on his knees when the second bullet hammered him between the shoulder blades. Slammed back down with his face twisting against the acrid dirt, he heard a guttural cough from close behind. Then there was deep pain. Then there was nothing.
There was little for anyone to see on Dawson Cayne’s face. Just a cold smile, and the pale, straggly hair that hung beneath his range hat.
‘You’d have done for me,’ he grated. ‘An’ I didn’t need your interference.’
Jack rode into the loose spread of half a dozen adobes, dismounting at the one that carried the stage depot sign. He looped his reins to the hitching pole and stepped up to where a lamp oozed light through a glazed front door.
A night duty clerk was bent over a map of Mexico when Jack entered.
‘When’s the next Nogales stage?’ Jack asked him. ‘I want to go to Aqua Cajon.’
The old man looked up and blinked vacantly, but someone else laughed from a dim corner of the room. Jack looked towards the man who rose from a bench seat, stretching his arms in a long yawn.
‘Aqua Cajon’s a funny sort of place, is it?’ Jack retorted.
The big, heavily built man slowly lowered his arms and stared back at Jack.
‘Sorry, feller, it’s not that,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s just that we gringos always assume everyone speaks English, no matter what godforsaken world we fetch up in.’ The man stepped forward and extended a beefy hand. ‘I’m Tolliver Spatch.’
Jack accepted the handshake but didn’t give his name. ‘I wanted to know about the stagecoach,’ he said.
‘It’s always on time, if that’s what you mean. But that means any time between now an’ midday,’ Spatch said. ‘I’ll be goin’ to Vaca Pasada . . sure be glad o’ your company.’
The ride had made Jack tired and achy but he kept the exhaustion hidden behind a straight face.
‘Where do you buy tickets?’ he asked.
‘At this time o’ night you pay the driver. This old galoot don’t want to keep any money around the place.’
It was cold in the depot, and Jack didn’t think anyone would object if he tipped what looked like cow dung and brushwood from a box into the grate. He stirred the lifeless fire to get a flame moving; hunching down he warmed his hands, stared into the gather of yellow flames.
‘Well, it’s a long haul to reach where you’re goin’,’ Spatch said, settling back down on the bench.
‘How do you mean?’ Jack asked.
‘Aqua Cajon must be at least sixty miles. What’s out there that’s so important?’
‘Just personal stuff,’ Jack said without taking his eyes off the rising flames. ‘How about you and Vaca Patata?’
‘Vaca Pasada. It’s Vaca Pasada,’ Spatch corrected, sounding curiously hurt. ‘I got me some land. It’s a small spread, but the dollars I paid wouldn’t have bought a corn crib where I come from.’
‘Cattle?’
‘Yeah. I’m thinkin’ of introducin’ some new stock. Build a herd that’s small on grass an’ big on lard.’ Spatch laughed then fixed his eyes on Jack. ‘You know anythin’ of cattle dealin’?’
‘Not much,’ Jack lied.
‘Hmm. Aqua Cajon, eh?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Jack gave a short nod.
‘I guess you must know Ralph Kettle then. Apart from his foreman an’ a few cowhands he’s the only American out that way. You can see his RK brand in the stockyards all along the border. South of it, that is.’
Jack was aware of the name Kettle, the man he was intending to work for: Connie’s father.
‘Wh
y are there so few of us Americans down here?’ Jack asked.
Spatch considered his answer for a moment.
‘Plenty o’ reasons I guess. With the price o’ land I couldn’t make it anywhere else but Mexico. South of Nogales there’s little stomach for business, an’ as for the Mexicans themselves, they’ve got beef comin’ out o’ their asses. But they hate it. They mix it with chili an’ pretend it’s somethin’ else. So people like me see the gain in movin’ it all north to Abilene or Cheyenne.’
‘And you all think like that?’
‘The few of us who’s here, yeah. Except your friend Ralph, o’ course. He had another reason, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone named Ralph, Kettle or otherwise.’ It was the truth that Jack stated and he turned to stare up at the big man. Spatch grinned.
‘If you say so. Perhaps it’s just as well. But as I was sayin’, he came south ’cause o’ some trouble up near Flagstaff. He crossed half the Colorado Plateau with his whole family in tow. They say his wife originally came from San Miguel.’
That would explain Connie’s looks, Jack immediately thought.
‘How long ago was that?’ he asked.
‘About ten years. He might have fled Flagstaff but, as the sayin’ goes: “good luck often comes behind the bad”.’
‘It’s not inevitable,’ Jack said, thinking it must be very difficult and dangerous going forward while looking behind you. There had to be a moment in between. He thought about Connie’s lucky acorn in his pocket, sensing he was getting close to needing some of its power. He slowly pushed himself upright, felt weariness taking its toll again. His neck and arm ached, his whole upper body. He stood leaning against the door jamb, gazed into the darkness along the street.
A lone rider was moving in from the north, appearing gradually through the darkness. Aches and pains momentarily forgotten, Jack felt his muscles tense as the rider came slowly towards him. His mouth turned dry, but the fingers of his right hand flexed as they touched the handle of his Colt.
As the distance closed Jack saw the unmistakable form of a Mexican vaquero. He lifted his left hand, touched the brim of his hat.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening to you,’ the rider returned as he swung down and tied his horse alongside Jack’s chestnut gelding. ‘I’m after the Nogales mail coach – hoping not to be too late,’ he added, walking up the steps.
‘It’s difficult to be that. But there’s a fire inside,’ Jack offered.
A moment later he turned his back on the street. He could hear the big voice of Tolliver Spatch, plying the newcomer with questions.
‘You sure you ain’t got a bag o’ samples outside, feller?’ the man was saying. ‘I hear our juice is sellin’ real well in your neck o’ the woods. No? Well if you really are headed for the RK you won’t find it any clambake. Ol’ Ralph himself ain’t so bad, but his foreman, John Fishback’s as mean as a bitin’ boar. You’ll find out soon enough, though; don’t have to take my word for it.’
‘I won’t, señor,’ replied the man who had introduced himself as Raul Chama. ‘And as yet, there’s no reason for me to get bit.’
Ha! Good for you, Jack thought.
‘I’m just givin’ you a friendly warnin’, feller. Just passin’ on what I heard. Apparently there’s always an empty bunk at the RK. Fishback works the men ’til they crawl willin’ into their crate. Some reckon he’s even got a cinch ring on the boss.’
Raul Chama didn’t say any more. No one bothered to feed the fire again or stoke the ashes. Jack was thoughtful, troubled by what Spatch had to say about Connie’s father. The night clerk went back to studying his maps, taking an occasional look at his stemwinder.
A north-westerly wind had blown in and dust was swirling around them as they tied their mounts to the rear of the coach, slung their saddles up into the box.
The clerk was standing in the doorway, waited to raise a hand as the coach pulled away, minutes later.
‘Back to his maps I suppose,’ Raul Chama said, looking back. ‘What’s to learn about this place? There’s nothing but sand in every direction.’
‘Yeah, an’ then some,’ said Spatch gruffly. The wind was insidious, taking all the good-humoured bluff and bluster from him. ‘Pull down those goddamn flaps before we choke to death,’ he said to Chama while fastening the one on his side of the coach.
With all the flaps now covering the windows the coach’s interior turned gloomy.
‘So we catch up on our slumber,’ Chama suggested. ‘Unless anyone’s got something better in mind, I’ll be saying adios.’
The coach swayed gently across the flat terrain in the cradle of its long, leather thoroughbraces. Settling back in his corner, Jack moved into comfort, then on into sleep.
Hours later he became aware of the change in the light. The window blinds were rolled back up; to the east the sky was streaked with watery colours of dawn. Sitting opposite, Chama was watching him and grinning.
‘You had a good sleep, amigo,’ he said.
Jack flexed his neck, rolled his shoulders.
‘I must have needed it,’ he replied, feeling a good deal better than he had the previous night. ‘Where’s Spatch?’ he asked quickly.
‘He left us about an hour ago. You miss him already?’
‘Yeah, like a rotten molar,’ Jack said. ‘I’m travelling to the RK as well,’ he continued a moment later. ‘Thanks for not asking, but I did realize we were going to fetch up there together. I just didn’t want ol’ trumpet-mouth knowing about it.’
‘I understand, amigo. And I didn’t ask, because we are so close to the border. Such questions are often imprudente – unwise.’
‘Hmm, I’ll remember that,’ Jack said. ‘How much longer, do you reckon?’
‘An hour or so. Looks like we’re chasing the rain to get there.’
‘Rain?’
‘Yes, it does happen. From where I’m sitting I can see it rolling up from the south.’
CHAPTER 7
The rain fell steadily. Thin surface mud sucked at the boots of Jack and Raul Chama as they walked the short distance from the coach to the steps of the simply signed Cantina.
‘There will only be one of everything, so why name them?’ Chama said wistfully. ‘Did you see the town notice?’ he asked. Jack gave a half-smile.
‘I saw it,’ he said. ‘You and me are pushing the population to over two hundred.’
The interior of the cantina saloon was low on fancy trimmings but high on basic sounds and pungent aromas.
‘Come far?’ the inscrutable barkeep asked.
‘Far enough.’ Chama laughed. ‘I can see how Aqua Cajon got half its name. Salud,’ he said and raised his stubby glass.
One or two bleary-eyed customers looked up, gave a cursory glances towards the two strangers. A tall lean American who was drinking alone at the end of the bar was taking a little more interest.
Jack nodded. ‘I’m guessing you’re John Fishback,’ he said.
‘An’ I’m guessin’ you’re Finch an’ your friend here’s Chama,’ the man replied. ‘The two hands Mr Kettle’s been expectin’.’
Jack gave a faint shrug.
‘More or less,’ he agreed uncertainly. He couldn’t help wondering why Connie hadn’t mentioned Fishback, a man who apparently carried some notoriety. Perhaps that’s why, he thought. Fishback had an inch or so on Jack, looked like he’d be a tough proposition in a brawl, but his face lacked character. There was fierceness in his stare, but no real steel.
‘Let me pay for those dust-cutters,’ Fishback said, moving towards them. There was a distinct slur in his voice.
Probably been here all day and all night, Jack thought; didn’t say as much.
‘No thanks. Being in your debt don’t seem the right place to start,’ he said.
Going with the sentiment, Chama shook his head.
‘We have to see to our horses,’ Jack said, intending that Fishback could take
it as an excuse. ‘They’re needing grain and a stall.’
‘Suit yourself. When you’re done, come back,’ Fishback suggested. ‘But don’t take too long. There’s a ranch waitin’ for us.’
Jack met Fishback’s pale, challenging eyes.
‘If you’re gone, you’re gone. Don’t hang around on our account,’ he said. ‘We’ll find our way.’ Still looking at Fishback he drained his glass, set it on the bar with a purposeful clunk. Then he placed a dollar coin beside it. ‘Give Mr Fishback a drink,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a private joke. He’ll understand.’
Jack followed Chama back out into the rain. They unhitched their sodden mounts from the rear of the stagecoach, led them into gloom of a livery stable along the street.
A efficient-looking liveryman promised he’d take good care of the horses for fifty pesos. Chama stood watching the man remove the damp bridle and reins.
‘I didn’t warm to that hombre,’ he said to Jack. ‘Do you think buying us a drink, was buying us into trouble?’
‘Yeah, a first payment. Balance for sometime later, when it better suits him. He’s trouble with a kind face.’
‘A kind face?’ Chama repeated dubiously.
‘Yeah, the kind you want to bury your fist in,’ Jack said with a cold smile. He handed the liveryman two dollars. ‘That’s fifty pesos, right?’
‘But I didn’t come looking for a fight,’ he said, turning back to Chama.
Chama smiled. ‘Me neither, amigo.’
John Fishback wasn’t in the cantina when they got back. The bartender pushed Jack’s dollar across the counter top.
‘Señor Fishback turned you down. Said it was very funny but he didn’t want a drink.’
‘What else did he say?’ Jack asked.
‘You can spend the night in town. But to be at the ranch at sunup. He’ll be waiting for you.’
‘I don’t like the idea of keeping someone waiting,’ Chama said. ‘You got somewhere we can stay?’
The bartender thought for a moment, shook his head as if considering.
‘Sorry, señor. We have rooms, but right now they are all occupied.’
