Pistolero Justice (A Piccadilly Publishing Western

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Her flare of anger had startled Angel. “But, Serafina — “

  Raul interrupted the conversation. “We must go, Angel.”

  “I should take her home, patron.”

  “Can you not see it is too late?” Raul asked.

  Angel sighed his acceptance of the awful truth. “Si, patron, vamanos — we go.” He remounted and took one more look at Serafina. “I will tell your parents I have seen you.”

  “You will say nothing to them! I am dead.”

  Raul reached over and patted Angel’s shoulder. “Do as she asks. Keep what you saw here a secret.”

  “Bien, patron,” Angel agreed.

  They turned their horses and rode back toward the entrance of La Colonia Roja. They had just reached the exit of the area when a man called out to them. “You señor, do you seek Silvestre Vasquez?”

  “I do,” Raul replied.

  “He is at the Hotel Pacifico waiting for you,” the man said, pointing. “Down the street at the corner.”

  “Gracias. Let us go, Angel. With luck we can have the Slattery girl freed by tomorrow.”

  Raul and Angel rode to the indicated location and tied up their horses at the hitching rack. When they walked into the lobby of the deluxe hotel, the guests looked at the pair with a mixture of curiosity and distaste. Both were trail dirty and carried strong odors of stale perspiration, campfire smoke and horses. They approached the clerk at the desk who eyed them with an expression that hovered between disgust and nervousness. Before he could say anything, a large, well-dressed man stepped up to the strangers.

  “You are looking for Señor Vasquez?”

  “We are,” Raul replied. “We were directed here.” He gauged the husky stranger carefully. Raul had seen the type before. In the city they were tough enough, provided they had the element of size, numbers or surprise on their side. But this style of fighter depended on a surprise assault along with those favorable conditions to win. If that same man found himself in the mountains or out on the desert, deprived of food and rest while in a dangerous situation, he would wilt fast enough.

  “You have business with Señor Vasquez, eh?” the man asked. “What is the nature of the transaction you are pursuing?”

  “I am looking for a woman.”

  The man laughed, baring tobacco-stained teeth. “Then go back to La Colonia Roja. There are plenty of women there.”

  “I want a particular woman,” Raul explained. “I am representing a family.”

  The man nodded his understanding. He had seen this situation come up many times before. Such profitable dealings always put his boss in a good mood. “Come with me, señor. I will take you to his rooms.”

  They followed the man up the heavily carpeted stairs to the second floor and down a long hallway to a suite off to one corner of the hotel. There was no doubt that Vasquez profited well from his profession.

  “Your guns, señor,” the man said.

  Raul drew his revolver and handed it along with his carbine to Angel. “I will let my companion keep them for me here.”

  “As you wish,” the man said. “But I must also search you.” He was quick but thorough. “You are clean,” he said as if it were news to Raul. Then he unlocked the door and stepped back, ushering the visitor inside.

  The interior of the room was overly furnished in a style that spoke of gaudy bad taste. A large fat man sat at a table in the middle of the room noisily attacking a plate of frijoles and steak with pieces of tortilla ripped apart in his pudgy hands.

  He looked at Raul with his cheeks bulging with food. “You wish to see me, señor?”

  “If you are Señor Vasquez.”

  “Soy, Vasquez,” the man acknowledged, reaching for a glass of beer. “Que quiere usted?”

  “I am in search of a young American woman,” Raul said. “Her name is Loretta Slattery. I have spoken with Demonio and he tells me he sold her to you.”

  “Que horrible!” Vasquez exclaimed, his eyes widening in mock dismay. “Do you think I deal in mujeres cautivas — captive women?”

  Raul ignored the outburst. “Her family wants her back.”

  “I do not know of anybody named Demonio.”

  “I know him well,” Raul said. “I am Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza of Rancho San Andres in Sonora. Demonio has known me and my family for many years. It was he who personally directed me to Mazatlan to find you.”

  Vasquez belched and smeared the grease on his face with a soiled napkin. “He is a tough hombre, that Demonio, eh?”

  “Tough enough,” Raul agreed.

  “Are you a mexicano?” Vasquez asked, studying Raul closely.

  “Yes. I told you I am from Sonora.”

  “You speak Spanish without an accent, but you look like a gringo to me. Your eyes are blue, no?”

  Raul ignored the fat man’s musing. “I want to talk about the girl.”

  “Which one?”

  “The norteamericana called Loretta. Her family wants her back.”

  “Es huerita?”

  “Yes, she’s blond,” Raul said, forced to play by the man’s rules.

  Vazquez shrugged. “I do not have her anymore.”

  “Where is she?”

  Vazquez shrugged. “I do not remember.”

  Raul reached inside his jacket and produced a leather coin purse. He walked to the table and emptied the contents in front of Vasquez. “Where is the huerita?”

  Vasquez looked at the silver pesos. “Keep your coins, señor. They mean nothing to me. I sold the huera for eighty thousand of these. She now belongs to a friend of mine who owns a putaría in place called Selva Vista.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Many miles to the south,” Vasquez replied. “In fact it is as far south as one can go and still remain in Mexico. It is on the border with Guatemala.”

  “Is it a big city?”

  “Not big,” Vasquez said. “But a wealthy little place. All the rich men who own the coffee and mahogany fincas in the vicinity go there for relaxation. The residents earn much money from these visitors.”

  Raul felt his expectations slump. If a brothel owner had paid that much for her — and there was no reason to doubt Vasquez on that point — then the ransom demanded for the girl would be completely beyond the monetary limits of even a well-to-do rancher like F.T. Slattery.

  “We have lost her then,” Raul conceded.

  “It would appear so,” Vasquez agreed. He turned his full attention back to his meal as a gesture of dismissal.

  ~*~

  Back on the street Angel sadly shook his head. “Is that the end of it, patron?”

  Raul, deep in thought, ignored him. He stood at the curb for several moments, then clapped his hands together as an idea took hold.

  “Vamanos, Angel. We have things to do. First we shall find a hotel free from Vasquez’s prying. After that we will board the horses in a good stable. They must be fed grain, and rested up for a few days.”

  “Where are we going, patron?”

  “To place farther south called Selva Vista,” Raul replied. “I still must work out some details. Then I will explain everything to you as soon as I am able.”

  They sought out a hotel nearer the beach and found a modest but clean establishment. The desk clerk’s disapproval of their collective appearance vanished with the silver pesos Raul paid in advance for the room. His request for hot water in which to bathe further pleased the hotel man.

  An hour later, the two, now clean but wearing soiled clothing, strode out of the hotel and headed for the small commercial district of Mazatlan. Raul went directly to the local office of the Banco Nacional and asked a teller to take him to the branch manager.

  The nervous clerk, noting their appearance, shook his head. “I shall be capable of handling any business you might wish to transact with us,” he assured Raul.

  Raul pulled a leather pouch from his jacket and took a thick document out of an inner pocket. “Here is a letter of credit from my bank in Nogales. Also a s
tatement of my personal account as well as that of Rancho San Andres which is owned by my family.”

  The teller appraised the papers, and changed his attitude. “Un momento, señor, I will inform our manager of your arrival.” He scurried away with Raul’s references.

  Angel, ever curious, could not resist pressing his boss. “Are you going to get enough money to buy back the gringa?”

  “That is impossible,” Raul said. “My brothers would never permit ranch funds to be diverted for such a purpose. And while my own account is large, it would not cover the price that would be demanded for her release.”

  “Then why are you getting money, patron?”

  Raul grinned and patted Angel’s shoulder. “Simply to buy us some fine clothing, my faithful friend.”

  The teller reappeared, bowing slightly, saying, “Please come with me, señor.” He led them through a door that bore a sign reading DIRECTOR DE SUCURSAL. A portly man sat behind a heavy desk. He stood up and offered his hand. “Jorge Lopez-Huerta at your service,” he introduced himself.

  “Mucho gusto de conocerle,” Raul said politely shaking with the man. “I am Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza.”

  Lopez slid a box of cigars across the table to him. “Sit down Señor Mackenzie. I am well acquainted with your family’s bank. I began my career in Nogales. How may I serve you?”

  “I would like some funds transferred from Nogales down to this office and I also need a local letter of credit,” Raul explained. He indicated his clothing. “My man and I have made a rather impetuous trip and our clothing indicates that most plainly. Now I find I have nothing in which we can move about in the better social circles.”

  “Of course, señor,” Lopez responded. He took a pad of paper by his elbow and began writing instructions on it. As he scribbled, he spoke. “How is your father? I knew him quite well.”

  “I am sorry to inform you that he died five years ago,” Raul said. “My older brothers now manage the ranch. Actually I have very little to do with the running of our enterprise. When at home, I am in the way. Therefore, I travel quite a lot.”

  “I see,” Lopez said. “I am sorry to hear of your father’s death.” He rang a little bell on his desk. The teller reappeared and the bank president handed him the paper. “Take care of this as quickly as possible,” he ordered. “Señor Mackenzie is terribly inconvenienced at the moment.”

  “Of course, Señor Lopez.”

  Raul nodded to the bank manager. “I appreciate you courteous help.”

  “A pleasure to serve you while you are in Mazatlan,” Lopez replied. “Please remember me to your brothers.”

  “I shall,” Raul promised.

  He left the office with Angel sticking close to him. “Patron, now what do we do?”

  “We go to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  Angel laughed aloud. “I knew you would not give up.”

  “I am worried about the girl now,” Raul said seriously. “Let us hope that she hasn’t given up.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mexico was bordered on the south by the Republic of Guatemala. The area was tropical and wild, making the international division between the two countries vague. However, the geography mattered little to the local residents; no matter if they were the rich plantation owners or the poor Indians who slaved for the land barons. The finer points of political divisions did little to affect the luxury — or misery — of their lives.

  Selva Vista was a moderately-sized city on the Mexican side of the border was close enough to Guatemala to be convenient for those people to visit. The Guatemalan masters of coffee and lumber plantations made use of the community as a commerce and recreation center. Several fine brothels with attractive inmates were the most popular of these latter attractions.

  Raul and Angel rode up the main street, taking in the sights to familiarize themselves with the location. The buildings were typical of tropical Latin America with wide doors and windows to admit the maximum amount of ventilation. The rooms of the edifices had high ceilings to allow the heat to rise up and dissipate. Heavy shutters on the windows were ready to be closed during the heavy downpours that would suddenly descend on the area without warning.

  Both Raul and Angel noticed that most of the people were well dressed; obviously connected to merchant families or plantations. But there was one sight that contradicted any appearance that the prosperity was shared by all. A group of miserable Indians, small and swarthy, were huddled together on a side street next to the city jail. They squatted on their haunches as two armed Mexicans watched them closely; ready to shoot any that might decide to make a dash for freedom. They were waiting for transportation to take them out to distant plantations to toil in the lumber and coffee industries. The natives who got into the trouble with the law, even on minor charges such as drunk in public or disturbing the peace, could expect sentences of indeterminable periods that put them into virtual slavery.

  Raul and Angel’s own collective appearance was that of having been long on the trail, but this time they were not clad in soiled vaquero clothing. Instead, their apparel was obviously well-cut and expensive. Raul looked the wealthy young master, and Angel seemed the perfect manservant as they dismounted in front of a large hotel with a veranda.

  Their welcome at the desk was cordial from the start as Raul signed up for a suite of rooms. The clerk, although used to extravagant spending, was puzzled by the transaction. “Are you sure you and your man need that much space?” he asked in a polite tone of voice. “Our accommodations are quite roomy and we have smaller quarters that are just as comfortable.”

  “I need extra room,” Raul replied loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear. “I expect my brothers to arrive in the next day or two. We are from Sonora and hope to make some arrangements to buy coffee for import north to the United States.”

  “You have come to the right place,” the clerk assured him. “All the businessmen and plantation owners stay here when they are in town. You should have no problem making contacts.”

  “Bien,” Raul said in satisfaction. “But before my brothers arrive with their stuffy business, I plan on enjoying myself for a few days. Tell me…” Raul lowered his voice. “Where does a gentleman find pleasure around here?”

  The clerk smiled and leaned closer. “I suggest that this evening you come down to our bar. I am sure if you make the acquaintance of our guests, they will be pleased to direct you to any special activities that you might have in mind.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  “I will have you taken to your rooms,” the man said, striking the desk bell to summon a bellboy.

  ~*~

  Later that evening, Raul ordered two light suppers of wine, fruit and vegetables sent up to the suite. Neither he nor Angel had much of an appetite because of the heat. They were more used to the dryness of the desert, and the heavy humidity was an unexpected discomfort.

  Angel finally gave up trying to eat and pushed his plate aside. “I cannot take a single bite, patron. This weather is like steam from a kettle.”

  Raul, who was simply picking at his food, agreed. “This is jungle country. That means wet heat and lots of rain.”

  “I do not feel very good.”

  Raul finished his wine and set the glass back on the table. “You should rest a while. I will go down to the bar and see what I can find out. If the Slattery girl is being held in one of the local brothels, I should be able to find her within a few days.”

  “Then we will attack the place and rescue her, eh?”

  Raul smiled at his younger friend. “I had hoped to come up with a slightly more subtle plan. But you may be right. Try to get some sleep and do not worry about the heat. With luck we will not be here very long.”

  Raul left the room and descended the stairs to the lobby. Now, after sunset, the hotel was beginning to show signs of life. He lit a cigar and went into the hostel’s saloon, spotting several groups of men, all wearing nearly identical white suits. They lined the long mahogany
bar that spread across the entire length of the room. Raul walked across the hardwood floor, and the drinkers paused in their conversations to scrutinize him. They were not used to strangers; particularly blue-eyed ones with light skin.

  The bartender nodded politely to Raul as he stepped up for a drink. “Si, señor?”

  “Tequila,” Raul ordered. He noticed the accents in that part of Mexico were different from Sonora. Instead of the deliberate pace of the desert Mexicans, these jungle dwellers spoke in a near rapid staccato that jarred his ears. When the bartender served the drink, Raul downed it quickly and shoved the glass forward for another. “This is the only thing that seems to cut the heat,” he casually remarked.

  One of the strangers turned to him. “Ah! You are a stranger here, señor?”

  “Yes,” Raul replied. “I am here on business.”

  “There are two kinds of business in the Selva Vista area. Café y caoba — coffee and mahogany. May I inquire as to yours?”

  “Perhaps both,” Raul answered. “I am from Sonora on the border of the Estados-Unidos. My family and I have an import-export business. We had hoped to make contacts to purchase coffee for sale to the gringos. But if there is a market for mahogany up north we might include that in our plans as well.”

  “I think you will find there are people here interested in such transactions,” the man said. “I am Francisco Valverde — a sus ordenes — at your service.”

  “Raul Mackenzie a sus ordenes, señor.”

  “May I buy you a drink?” Valverde asked as he signaled to the barman. He turned back to Raul. “You name is foreign, is it not?”

  “My grandfather came from Scotland. My father married into a Mexican merchant family. I was born in this country and claim it as my home.”

  “I have a coffee plantation in Guatemala,” Valverde informed him. “As a matter of fact a crop is ready to be harvested within the week. Perhaps we could make arrangements for a sale.”

  Raul smiled with a shrug. “I must confess my brothers do not think of me as all that responsible. I am sad to say they tend to mistrust me in serious matters. I am the youngest and admit to a wild streak.”