It was difficult for Loretta to know how many days they’d traveled when they finally reached their destination. She was sure it had been longer than a week. When the door was opened, all the women stepped out to see a large adobe building. After being ushered inside, they were allowed to bathe and given new clothing. Best of all, the group was allowed three days of rest.
But once again Loretta was forced to submit to other men. They were gentler, subtler men, but demanding just the same. She tried to refuse after a week but food was withheld from her. Loretta thought she had known hunger before, but to go to the limits she endured was to live a life that made everything in the world, be it honor or sacred beliefs, pale to insignificance when compared to the craving for something to eat.
She eventually capitulated, fully and permanently.
~*~
Now, in the ship’s cabin, she began crying softly, holding Raul Mackenzie’s carbine with the barrel against her chin. A few tense moments passed, then she gained a little control over herself and set the weapon back against the bulkhead where it had been.
~*~
The two men reined up their horse in front of large shack that served as the harbormaster’s office of Ocos, Guatemala. The larger, followed by the other, went into the building and signaled to the clerk behind the counter.
“Did any ships sail from here yesterday?”
The clerk checked his records. “Si, señor,” he replied. “The Bonny Prince Charlie bound for Mazatlan, Mexico.”
The other was interested. “I see. Do you happen to know if there were any passengers such as two men and a woman traveling together?”
The clerk shrugged. “How can I remember such details? There were several people on the ship.”
The man reached inside his vest and produced some coins. “Silver money is silver money,” he reminded the clerk, “whether it be Mexican or Guatemalan. It spends anywhere, is that not right?”
The clerk scooped up the coins. “I think I remember three people.”
“And what else?” Another peso were dropped on the counter.
“Three horses.”
One more peso followed. “What did the people look like?”
“One latino and the other two like gringos. The woman was a blonde, señor.”
The large man turned to his companion. “Ya vez? I told those estupidos we should go south instead of north. That is what those three wanted us to believe.” He turned back to the clerk. “Where is the local telegraph office?”
The clerk indicated the key set on a table by the far wall. “This is the office.” He pulled a pad of forms from under the crude counter. “Do you wish to send a message?”
“Seguro,” the man replied. “To Señor Silvestre Vasquez, Hotel Pacifico, Mazatlan, Sinaloa, Mexico.”
Chapter Eleven
Throngs of dockworkers, hucksters and seafarers crowded Mazatlan’s waterfront as Raul struggled through the crowd on his way back to the Bonny Prince Charlie. Not even the persistent pushing and shoving of the throng irritated him. The reason for his good mood was that after docking at the Mexican port he had searched out and found an American vessel headed for San Diego, California. Things couldn’t have gone better if he had planned them out step-by-step. Loretta Slattery was almost as good as on a train for her uncle’s ranch in Arizona.
Raul went up the gangplank and stepped onto the deck. “Angel!” he called out, looking around. “Angel! Come here pronto! We do not have time to waste.”
A sailor coiling rope nearby said, “Your friend is aft.”
Raul walked around the galley and down the vessel, then stopped short. The trafficker Silvestre Vasquez was standing just below the quarterdeck. Three armed men who Raul recognized from his first visit to Mazatlan, loitered along the rail. Raul noted they had him well covered from the positions they occupied. He was caught flatfooted.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, tensing for what was an inevitable showdown.
The fat traficante laughed. He was clad in an expensive, but soiled suit that had obviously been worn many times without cleaning. The velvet collar and cuffs were frayed, their deteriorated state matching the fancy top hat that sported both a torn brim and a very noticeable dent. Vasquez tipped it in a gesture of disdain. “My friends in Selva Vista tell me you are a wily fellow.”
Raul didn’t smile. “Did they? Does that not worry you?”
“Not a bit,” Vasquez said. “I am not at all concerned about your wits, señor. It is your bad manners that appall me.”
Raul wanted to cut through the verbal jousting and get down to business. “You are obviously here for a reason. State it now.”
“Fine,” Vasquez said. “I want the girl back. Let us walk off the ship with her, then you and your little friend will be free to go. That is a generous offer on my part, no?”
“No!” Raul stated, feeling his nerves tense. “This may surprise you, Vasquez, but the girl does not wish to go anywhere with you. And I can think of no reason why she should.”
Vasquez sneered. “Reason? You want reasons? I will give you one that you can judge for yourself. If you do not stand aside damn quick you will be a dead man.”
“There is a reward for the girl,” Raul said, hoping to stall until something better presented itself. “Her family in los Estados-Unidos are anxious for her return.”
“Any reward you can come up with will be doubled by my associates in Selva Vista. We are wasting time. Stand back, Mackenzie.”
“Her family has millions,” Raul lied.
“We have learned that her people own a small business somewhere up north in the United States, and that her uncle has a ranch in Arizona. The family cannot match what will be paid me in Selva Vista. It will triple the profit I earned for her.”
“Your information is erroneous.”
“Stop wasting my time,” Vasquez hissed. “I am not going to stand on this ship talking to you all day. Now step aside or die.”
Raul stood his ground. “You have already made eight thousand silver pesos on her. I do not think you can trust your amigos in Selva Vista to pay you more even for her return. They are going to take advantage of you.”
“That is my worry, is it not?” Vasquez said.
“Vasquez, you are a pedazo de mierda — piece of shit,” Raul growled. He whipped up his hand dragging the .45 Colt from its holster, and squeezed the trigger in one motion. The first round hit Vasquez’s leg, and the second slammed into the forehead of the trafficker’s nearest henchman.
As Vasquez fell screaming to the deck, holding onto the bloody, splintered mess that had once been his knee, his men rapidly returned fire. Several rounds hit various areas of the ship, sending hunks of woods flying. Nearby sailors wasted no time in either jumping through open hatches or diving over the side into the bay.
Raul emptied his first pistol killing another man, then drew his standby revolver from his belt. The third gunman retreated toward the bow of the ship, covering himself with quick, unaimed shots. Raul kicked loose a couple of rounds to hurry him along.
The next shot fired in the incident was so close that Raul’s hearing was dampened. He whirled to see Vasquez, his plump face folded into a furious grimace, trying to steady his aim of the derringer he had pulled from a small shoulder holster. Once more the Smith and Wesson came in handy as two quick pulls on the trigger sent bullets into the trafficker’s skull and shoulder.
Thus ended a despicable career in prostitution as the traficante’s life’s blood flowed across the deck through the ship’s scuppers.
Raul ran up to the quarterdeck for a better view of the area. He arrived just in time to see the third man fleeing down the gangway, barging into the crowd that had congregated around the ship. He was unable to fire for fear of striking people in the curious mob of onlookers.
He returned to Vazquez’s body to find Angel standing over him. The peon was grinning. “I was not worried, patron. I knew you could win this fight. I am sorry it took me so long
to get up here.”
Raul looked down the deck and could see the cabin door had been broken down. Loretta stepped outside. “Are you all right, Mr. Mackenzie?”
“Yeah, thanks. You seem to be unharmed.”
She nodded and looked down at Vasquez’s bullet mauled remains. She grimaced and swallowed hard, but her words were firm and determined. “I’m glad he’s dead. It’s just what the devil deserved.”
Angel sensing the meanings of Loretta’s words from the expression on her face as well her tone of voice, agreed. “He is dead, no doubt. He looks to have been hit three times at least.” He turned his eyes to Raul. “Your pistola was true to you today, patron. Like a faithful woman, no?”
Loretta was worried. “Is this the last trouble we must face? I mean; am I truly free yet?”
Raul shook his head “I’m sorry. I don’t think so until we’ve cleared Mexico. One of Vasquez’s men escaped. I’m sure there’s someone in that gang that’s been waiting for the opportunity to become the boss. The first thing that fellow will do is try to earn the money the Selva Vista people are offering for you.”
Angel was also troubled. “We must leave soon.”
“At least getting out of here is taken care of,” Raul said. “I’ve booked passage on a ship bound for San Diego. If we hurry we’ll just have time to gather up our things and the horses to board her before she sails.”
“Mr. Mackenzie!”
Raul looked down the deck to see Captain MacDonald hailing him. The skipper walked up with a serious expression on his face. “Ye’d best head fer a sheltered quay, laddie. ‘t’would appear that the local law has arrived on the docks.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Raul said. He turned to Angel. “See to the horses quickly. If it looks like there will be too much of a delay; forget them.”
Angel was stunned. “Borrasca too?”
“Yes, por Dios, Borrasca too!” He started to speak to Loretta when the deck suddenly echoed with the sound of boot steps and jangling spurs.
“Alto, señor! Las manos arriba!”
Raul could see a policeman, whose only sign of authority was a metal badge pinned to his leather vest. For one, wild moment he thought of shooting his way out, but another voice from the stern of the vessel showed he was cornered. He slowly raised his hands. “We will miss that ship now, even if I can clear this up.”
“Let us fight, patron!”
“No, Angel. Take care of the baggage and the horses. Wait for me at the hotel where we stayed before.” He handed him his leather purse of money. “If I am not back in three days, I am charging you with getting Señorita Slattery safely to Arizona. By then there will be a new traficante, and he will move swiftly against you.”
“I understand, patron. But surely you can clear yourself of any accusations involving this dastardly deed performed against you, no?”
Raul shrugged. “Vasquez undoubtedly had a lot of palms greased in Mazatlan. Some of those officials may be extremely upset that their financial situations are disturbed until a new traficante establishes supremacy.”
“Ay! Nada es fácil in la vida — nothing in life is easy!”
~*~
Four policemen in all were involved in Raul’s arrest. And each of them felt obligated to demonstrate his individual part in the apprehension with kicks and punches as they led him down the gangplank.
The crowd gave way to the lawmen and their prisoner as rumors were passed through the throng about the gunfight that had just taken place. By the time the stories had filtered to the outer fringes of the mob, the incident was described as a bloodbath in which dozens of men had died.
Raul and his escort finally reached the local jail and no time was wasted in booking him on charges of multiple murders. After his name was entered in the arrest roster, he was simply dragged to a crowded cell and thrown in with the latest catch of criminals and cutthroats.
Raul looked around and gauged the situation. His clothing and good boots would prove too tempting to resist by the other prisoners. If the opportunity was suddenly there, half of the thirty men in the crowded area would happily beat hell out of him to acquire the apparel. But Raul knew what to do; he looked around for the biggest and meanest man in the cell, and approached him.
“Are you the jefe here?” Raul asked.
The man, an evil-looking giant with heavily-muscled arms, stood up. “I am el jefe. Whatever you need in this cell, be it food or blankets, must be purchased through me. Understand?”
“Tu madre, cabron!” Raul spat the insult loudly and arrogantly.
He drove the heel of his right hand straight up into the man’s chin, lifting him clear of the floor. Then, in the blink of an eye, Raul slammed him twice in the belly for effect. He stepped back and let him fall. The man’s eyes, though glazed, were still open and showing signs of functioning. A quick kick to the side of the head remedied that as the former cell chief’s consciousness went out like a snuffed candle.
Raul grinned viciously at the others. “Did he have any assistants?” When no one claimed responsibility for that high office, he quickly searched his victim. The effort produced a handsome knife. Raul raised it as a symbol of his authority. “Now I am the jefe, no? And if one of you bothers me or anyone else in this cell, I will double what I gave to the gruesome one here. Comprenden? Good!”
Raul ruled his domain for nearly twenty-four hours. His reign, though brief, was benevolent and the smaller prisoners were able to relax during the reprieve from the constant harassment and bullying by the bigger inmates. Raul saw to it that food was distributed fairly without bribes and that the blankets were redistributed so each man had at least one.
When the guards came for Raul there was feeling of genuine sorrow at his departure. One prisoner lamented, “They will hang him for sure.” They already knew he had been charged with killing Silvestre Vasquez and one of his henchmen.
“Not him!” another declared. “He is such a man they will do him the honor of shooting him like a hero.” The others agreed loudly as Raul was shackled securely for his appearance before the magistrate.
The trip from the cell to the small courtroom was yet another series of punches and kicks, and Raul had several fresh bruises by the time he was hauled up in front of the judge. The prosecutor wasted no time in launching into his pronouncement of the heinousness of Raul’s crimes.
“Señor Juez,” he began speaking to the judge, “this despicable villain snuffed out the life of one of our beautiful city’s leading citizens. I am referring to that beloved benefactor Silvestre Francisco Vasquez-Ruiz. Our charges are that this man Raul Mackenzie, a foreigner, treacherously shot and killed Don Silvestre while the latter was visiting aboard the ship Bonny Prince Charlie which is moored in our harbor.” The prosecutor thought that was enough of a case to present, but he added, “I have dozens of witnesses if you feel it necessary to go through the tiring process of examining them.”
“I think not,” the judge said, eyeing Raul with a severe glare. “And what have you to say for yourself after the commission of these horrible crimes.”
“I did not do it, Señor Juez,” Raul said in a respectful tone of voice.
“Liar! Blackguard! Murdering wretch!” the prosecutor yelled.
“I was not aboard that ship,” Raul insisted. “And I have a witness to prove it.”
The judge showed his disbelieve with a sneer as he waved a finger in Raul’s direction. “Do not think for one moment that you will be allowed to parade any of your lying friends in here to besmirch the honor of this court.”
“My witness is Don Jorge Lopez-Huerta, president of the Banco Nacional here in Mazatlan. I was in his office at the time the crime was committed.”
“And what was the exact time?” the prosecutor asked.
“Ha!” Raul snapped. “You are bringing these charges. You tell the judge what time they occurred.”
“Never mind,” the judge said. He looked at Raul more carefully now, taking in the quality of his clothi
ng. Even though the garments were obviously for outdoor activity, they were of high quality material and tailoring. He was beginning to feel some doubt as to the guilt of the prisoner. “What is your relationship with such an esteemed caballero as El Señor Lopez?”
The prosecutor interjected, “We are wasting time! The sooner this villain is executed the safer our streets will be.”
The judge was suddenly angry. “Shut up, Paco!”
“Yes, Uncle,” the prosecutor said. He sullenly sat down. There had been a generous bribe offered him if this particular prisoner were to swing from the gallows.
“Señor Lopez is a close friend of my family,” Raul explained. “We own a large rancho in Sonora and have done business with him in the past. Only recently I completed a transaction — “
“Espere — wait!” the judge interrupted. He motioned to one of the policemen guarding Raul. “You! Trot over to the Banco Nacional and ask Don Jorge Lopez if he knows this man Raul Mackenzie.”
Raul smiled. “Mackenzie-Mendoza, Señor Juez. I am proud to claim citizenship of the great Republica de Mexico.”
The policeman, now worried, replied,” I shall be but a few moments.”
“And tell him the circumstances and charges against this man.”
The policeman saluted before hurrying out of the courtroom.
The judge eyed Raul. “If you are lying to me, I shall have you at the end of a rope within fifteen minutes.”
Raul was not as confident as he sounded. The possibility that perhaps Lopez wasn’t in his office or out of town was very real. The agitation of the prosecutor, who had obviously been bought off by someone in the dead traficante’s organization was another worry.
The policeman rushed back into the room alone. He stood catching his breath as the judge impatiently tapped his fingers on the table in front of him. “Well? Where is Señor Lopez?”
“He is…on his …way, Señor Juez.”
Jorge Lopez appeared in the room and stared at Raul. “Why is this gentleman shackled like a common criminal?”
Pistolero Justice (A Piccadilly Publishing Western Page 10
