Pistolero Justice (A Piccadilly Publishing Western

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Valverde laughed. “I understand, señor. When your brothers come to Selva Vista, I would like to get a chance to speak to them.”

  “I’ll see that you do, Señor Valverde.”

  “I will give you a bit of information you may use to impress your brothers,” Valverde said. “Ask them if they want ‘sun’ coffee or ‘shade’ coffee.”

  “What is the difference?”

  “Coffee grown in the shade is more expensive,” Valverde explained. “It matures slower and has more flavor. It is planted among tall trees. The plants grown in the sun ripen very quickly, but the taste of the beans is plainer. Obviously those with gourmet tastes prefer what is grown in the shadows, and are not concerned with the higher price.”

  “I shall inform my brothers, señor. Gracias for the information.”

  “Now I must go, Señor Mackenzie. Con su permiso.”

  Raul nodded his farewell and turned back to the bar. He knew the man would spread the word with certain embellishments about potential contracts and deals. Soon it would be well known that Raul Mackenzie was the wastrel son of an important family with a lot of money.

  The hum of conversation in the barroom was broken by the noisy arrival of four young men. The group, expensively dressed with jeweled stickpin and cuff links, had obviously been drinking heavily elsewhere. They loudly demanded service and harangued the bartender with curses when he didn’t move fast enough to suit them.

  Raul knew that if anyone in Selva Vista could lead him to the brothel that held Loretta Slattery, these were the ones. He turned to them. “May I buy drinks for you caballeros?”

  The group fell silent and eyed Raul intently for several long moments with drunken snobbery. Now he realized he faced a possibility of trouble with the haughty revelers. Quite obviously, they resented strangers. One, who had been talking the loudest stepped away from the bar and continued the contemptuous glare.

  “Who are you?” he demanded to know. He was slim and dark with a carefully trimmed moustache. His long black hair was oiled and combed straight back.

  Raul ignored the absence of the polite title señor, and replied, “I am called Raul Mackenzie. I come from Sonora.”

  “Sonora?” the young man asked. “What in the world is a Sonora?”

  Raul maintained his cool attitude. He really didn’t care to be friends with these young blades; all he hope to accomplish was to find out the location of the area’s bordellos from them. “Sonora is a state to the north. It borders the Estados Unidos.”

  “The United States? What is a United States?” He looked closer into Raul’s face. “This man is a foreigner, no doubt. Look at those blue eyes with which he regards me. No wonder he speaks of this place called the United States with such flippancy.”

  “Perhaps you would prefer to keep the company of your friends,” Raul said, turning to his drink.

  “Do not show your back me,” his antagonist said. “That is bad manners.”

  Raul’s temper rose, and he turned a cold gaze toward the young man. “I am not a bartender who scurries to serve you drinks. Since I do not need a piece of shit like you to make my living, you will address me as a caballero.”

  “You called me a piece of shit?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “Nobody calls me that!” the youngster snapped.

  “Pardon my bad manners,” Raul said. “From now on I will address you as Señor Mierda — Mr. Shit.”

  The drunk stepped toward Raul, but one of his friends grabbed his arms. “Cuidado, Rodolfo.”

  “Yes,” Raul said. “Take care, Rodolfo. That is good advice.”

  He waited for further action, but the young men all withdrew farther down the bar. They huddled together, speaking animatedly amongst themselves for several minutes. Then they fell silent. Finally one left the group and approached Raul. “I am called Sergio Perez. My friend Rodolfo Arrozco demands satisfaction.”

  Raul winced inwardly. He was there on a delicate enough mission as it was. If he ended up shooting one of the local gentry in a duel, it would make a sensitive situation even worse. “Tell your drunken friend to sober up and think it over.”

  “You are refusing a duel?” Perez asked.

  Deep down in Raul’s multi-cultured soul there existed the brave pride of the Mexican and the flamboyant aggressiveness of the Highlander. Between the two he could reply but one way. “I do not refuse, señor. I thought you would have given your friend better counsel.”

  “We advised him to challenge you,” Perez said. “Therefore, you may choose the weapons.”

  Raul’s mind was racing. He had been tested enough with his pistols to know there would be no problem in besting Rodolfo Arrozco. He also knew that any attempt on his part to merely wing his challenger could result in his own death if such a try produced only a minor wound. Killing the arrogant troublemaker could put him in danger of revenge from the victim’s family. As he pondered the situation his eyes fell on a decoration mounted on the wall behind the bar. There was the answer.

  “I choose Bowie knives.”

  “Señor?”

  “Bowie knives,” Raul repeated. “Those up on the wall as a matter of fact. They’ll do nicely.” He motioned to the bartender. “Are those real?”

  The man, happy to see the rich upstarts at a disadvantage, grinned widely. “Indeed, señor. And well maintained as well. They are very sharp.”

  “Then those are our weapons,” Raul cheerfully announced.

  “But, señor,” Perez said. “They are not traditional.”

  Raul grinned almost to the point of chuckling. “Well, they certainly are in Sonora where I come from.” He knew that rich young Mexicans this far south were not schooled in such weapons. They left such things as knives and machetes to the indios on their plantations.

  “Perhaps if you thought it over,” Perez suggested. “Would you like fifteen minutes.”

  “Bowie knives.”

  “Con permiso,” Perez said. He returned to his friends.

  Raul watched the astonished expressions on the faces of Perez and his fellows. Arrozco kept shrugging and shaking his head as their buzz of conversation grew louder. Finally it ended and Perez returned

  “Accepted, señor. Tomorrow at dawn behind the hotel.”

  Raul was surprised. He had offered them the perfect out to avoid the duel. They could easily have scoffed at him and refused what was an outlandish offer in the local customs.

  “Are there no open fields away from the city?” Raul asked.

  “This is the tropics, señor,” Perez replied. “Our vegetation is all conquering unless an army of macheteros kept up a constant attack on the growth.”

  “Then behind the hotel it is,” Raul said agreeably.

  “There will naturally be a doctor in attendance,” Perez said. “And we will supply you with a second.”

  “I will use my man, gracias,” Raul said. “Do you object if the bartender is placed in charge of the weapons?”

  “No, señor.”

  The bartender was overjoyed. “I shall be there! I do not want to miss a moment of this most extraordinary event. The results will be interesting and unpredictable.”

  “Mmm,” Raul agreed. “And bloody as hell.”

  Chapter Eight

  Angel Moreno was worried. “Do you truly think you can trust those strangers, patron?”

  “I do not see why not,” Raul replied. “They seem to abide by some Código de Duelo — Code of Dueling. Although I am only familiar with gunfights that are brief, violent affairs, I have heard a little of such behavior among gentlemen.”

  “I do not trust caballeros,” Angel remarked. “Gentlemen are the most cruel of all men. They live by their own fine rules of what they consider fair play among themselves. The only trouble is they do not apply these high standards to the lower classes of people — or strangers.”

  “I have no choice. If I refuse the duel, I would be held in such contempt that my ability to rescue the girl would be severely l
imited.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, patron, but I think it was your hot blood that got you into this situation.”

  “Perhaps so,” Raul conceded. “But I did my best to avoid it with my choice of weapons. I gave them an honorable out. All this fellow Arrozco had to do was insist that knives were not gentlemen’s weapons. I could have stuck to my insistence and that would have ended the incident.”

  “It does not matter,” Angel pointed out. “What has happened is already too late to change. What if they tamper with the knives?”

  “The bartender is taking care of them,” Raul said. “From the way those fellows were talking to him, I doubt if he is very fond of them.”

  “Yes, but he must live here,” Angel said with his peon logic. “Long after you have gone, whether you are victorious or not, that man will have to reside in the same town as those rich men and their families.”

  “So I got myself into a bad situation. There is no way to salvage it.”

  “You had better concentrate on staying alive, patron. And unhurt. Those men are treacherous and we may have to flee for our lives if you kill their friend.”

  “And leave the girl?” Raul asked.

  “And leave the girl,” Angel echoed. “Perhaps it is her destiny to live a life as a plaything for many men.”

  “I will not accept that,” Raul snapped.

  “You might just have to, patron.”

  “Well, it is too late to make any definite plans one way or the other,” Raul opined. “It will be light soon. We might as well go down and see what awaits us.”

  “I have my pistol under my jacket,” Angel said. “And please, patron, do not speak to me of this violation of any Código de Duelo. I am a peon, and beneath such things.”

  “Maybe it will turn out to be a good idea if your suspicions are correct. And speaking of jackets, get my traveling one to wrap around my arm. I will need it as a shield against a slashing blade.”

  “It is ready to take with us,” Angel assured him.

  “Then let us go.”

  “May God protect you, Don Raulito!”

  ~*~

  Although dawn was a little more than red streaks on the horizon, it was already uncomfortably warm for Raul and Angel. The rear of the hotel consisted of a wide area to accommodate coaches and carriages. It faced the backs of the shops on the next street.

  A tiny, gray-haired man wearing a top hat and tails appeared with the bartender and Sergio Perez, the second for Rodolfo Arrozco. The older man approached them and bowed slightly. “Doctor Juan Ramirez at your service.”

  “I am Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza. And this is my second Angel Moreno.”

  “Come with me,” the doctor said to Angel. Together they walked to a central spot where Perez waited with the bartender. A few moments passed as both Angel and Perez examined the Bowie knives.

  Angel returned to Raul. “Esta bien, patron. Everything is in order as far as I can determine.”

  They walked to where the other three men waited as Rodolfo Arrozco appeared. The duelists came to a stop and gazed at each other.

  Dr. Ramirez spoke beseechingly, asking, “Do either of you caballeros have any statements to make?”

  “None,” Arrozco replied.

  “Nor I,” Raul intoned.

  “Do either of you caballeros desire to retract anything previously said or offer any apologies?”

  “I have nothing to apologize for,” Arrozco said.

  “The same for me,” Raul declared.

  The doctor sighed. “You are both such young men with so much life ahead of you. Why risk your futures over some trivial incident?” He waited, but when the duelists remained silent, he finally relented. “Don Rodolfo Arrozco-Huerta you have challenged Don Raul Mackenzie-Mendoza to a duel. He has accepted and chosen Bowie knives as the weapons in this affair of honor.” He turned his sad gaze to Arrozco. “As challenger you may choose your weapon.”

  The bartender held up a satin pillow on which the two knives rested. Arrozco studied them carefully then took one. Raul did the same, hefting the heavy cutting instrument in his hand to get the feel of it.

  Perez took a jacket to Arrozco and began wrapping it around his left arm. The challenger looked at Raul with a grin of contempt. “I am not as ignorant of knife fighting as you may have thought. My fencing teacher was Italian and part of his course of instruction included many hours with the pugnale; that means dagger in his language.”

  “How nice to have learned in such genteel circumstances,” Raul remarked as Angel wrapped his leather trail jacket around his arm. “My lessons were learned in the cantinas of Sonora. Oh! Pardon me! I forgot that you do not know what a Sonora is.”

  “Step back, caballeros,” Dr. Ramirez said. He raised his arm. “When I signal you are to begin. May God protect you both!” He brought his hand down in a rapid slashing movement and the two adversaries began circling each other, already feinting and offered their wrapped arms as elusive targets to each other.

  Arrozco moved well with much confidence, and it was obvious that whatever amount of training he had as a fencer, it was more than adequate. He was fast and unpredictable as he tested Raul’s defenses with skillful feints and full attacks that suddenly came to a stop as he withdrew out of harm’s way.

  Raul, on the other hand, lacked the stylized method of his opponent. But he knew the Bowie knife well and kept Arrozco at bay with ease. He had yet to launch any serious attacks of his own.

  A quarter of an hour passed with nothing much going on except a rush or two as each man waited for an opening. The sun was higher now and Raul’s lack of acclimation to the local climate began to tell.

  The growing heat became oppressive to him as he perspired heavily. The trouble was that the sweat didn’t evaporate and cool him in the high humidity. Instead it seemed to sap his strength as it dripped down his face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision.

  Arrozco was barely panting. Born and raised in the Selva Vista area, he was in the coolest part of the day as far as he was concerned, and he felt just fine. He sensed his opponent’s growing fatigue and began getting bolder.

  Raul soon found himself backing away, completely on the defensive. A moment of carelessness on his part would give Arrozco a chance to close in with a damaging or fatal thrust. Raul took a chance and pressed back, gaining a slight edge. But before he could take advantage of it, he was once again back-peddling as Arrozco steered him around the open area.

  Now Raul noticed something peculiar about Arrozco’s attack. While skillful and dangerous, his opponent was lacking something, and it took Raul several long and dangerous minutes to figure it out. He remembered that Arrozco had said he was taught fencing along with the dagger. The word dagger triggered the answer Raul was looking for to improve his defense.

  He had been reacting to Arrozco’s attacks as if he were using the Bowie knife properly. But now Raul knew this wasn’t the case. The young man was stabbing with the weapon; a method an Italian teacher of fencing might employ with a dagger. But the Bowie wasn’t a stabbing knife. It was designed for slashing, and Raul had been wasting his time in a defense from ineffective jabbing while expecting a saber-like attack.

  He suddenly rallied and went over Arrozco’s next move. Then with a quick down sweep, Raul cut his opponent’s face from eyeball to jaw line It was only a superficial wound, certainly not damaging. Even the bleeding wasn’t all that bad. He prepared for another attack when Dr. Ramirez shouted aloud.

  “Ya bastante — enough! It is over.”

  Arrozco stepped back and threw his knife to the ground as his friends rushed to him.

  Dr. Ramirez approached Raul who was still ready to fight. “It is over Señor Mackenzie. Blood has been drawn and honor satisfied.”

  “Ah!” Raul exclaimed with a sudden understanding of the local dueling code. The shedding of blood of a wound was good enough to stop the fight.

  Arrozco, smiling and dabbing at his cut face with a handkerchief approached Ra
ul with an outstretched hand. “Well done, Señor Mackenzie.”

  Raul accepted the friendliness of the young man’s gesture. “You did quite well yourself.”

  “Frankly, I thought I was going to get to you for a moment there,” Arrozco said. He was obviously proud of having fought the duel. “Where did I go wrong?”

  Raul explained the proper use of the Bowie knife as the other men crowded around congratulating him on a magnificent rally and win. He demonstrated various slashes toward different parts of an opponent’s body, hand-changing techniques and other tactics useful in fighting with a knife.

  Arrozco kept the handkerchief to the wound. “So I learned a valuable lesson and will have a magnificent scar to mark this honorable occasion.”

  The small crowd cheered and began to good-naturedly pummel both duelists as they renewed their congratulations. Raul was literally soaked in perspiration and now not feeling well. “I need to rest a bit.”

  “Very well!” Arrozco exclaimed. “And a celebration tonight.” He laid a hand on Raul’s shoulder. “You and I shall have a boisterous evening of carousing and drinking. Then we shall top it off with a manly attack on Selva Vista’s finest brothel. Can you join me, Mackenzie?”

  “Certainly,” Raul replied.

  “Fine. Meet me in the hotel bar at ten o’clock. And you will be my guest.”

  Raul nodded as he and Angel turned back to the hotel. Angel was fairly beaming. “Everything is now in order and you may begin your search for the girl.”

  “It looks as if our task has been simplified,” Raul conceded. “Let us hope that nothing bad has happened to Slattery’s niece in the meantime.”

  “There has been something in the back of my mind,” Angel said as they entered the hotel. “And it has been troublesome. Do you suppose the gringa might have killed herself rather than submit to being an inmate of a brothel?”

  “She has certainly had the time to do it.”

  “Then why not press your new friends for information now, patron?”

  “If I appear too anxious in looking for a particular girl, especially one in Loretta Slattery’s predicament, it might raise suspicions,” Raul explained. “Believe me; patience is called for here.”