by Steve Lee
'Yes, señor,' said Manolo, dipping his head.
Manolo led the way up a flight of stairs. Sloane and Billy followed.
'I look forward to the pleasure of your company at dinner,' said Don Luis graciously, his eyes following them up the stairs.
Sloane wondered what in Hell could be so important to a man like Don Luis that he had to grit his teeth and be nice to a pair of dusty saddle-tramps. He thought about that as he lay soaking the dirt from his bones in a hot steaming tub. Later, when he'd towelled himself dry, he found that Manolo had left a set of clean clothes on the bed and whisked his own stained garments into a cupboard where they could offend no one but the moths. The clothes were a good fit. Sloane watched his reflection grinning at him from the wardrobe mirror as he stood before it in the ruffled silk shirt and suit of ruby velvet. He grinned back.
Soon after, Manolo appeared and respectfully announced that dinner was served. Sloane met Billy as he emerged from his room. They smiled at the sight of each others' spanking clean duds.
Don Luis was waiting for them in the dining room along with Aguilar. Aguilar had also traded his riding clothes for a clean shirt and suit and he cut as fine a figure as his master. If the sight of the two Americans dressed up like gentlemen amused them, they managed to restrict their amusement to a gleam in the eye.
There was another person in the room — a young attractive girl of about nineteen. Her face, framed by a black lace rebozo, had the shyness and delicate beauty of a madonna. She wore a high-collared dress that didn't quite succeed in disguising the ripening charms it contained. The girl looked at the two strangers with demure fascination.
'My daughter Rosalia,' Done Luis informed them in a voice brimming with paternal affection. 'My dear — señor Sloane and señor Wang…'
She curtsied and held out her hand for them to kiss. Don Luis watched concernedly to see if the heathen Chinaman would brush his lips against her fingers as was politely expected of a gentleman — or whether he would sink his teeth ravenously into her pale wrist. Billy disappointed him.
They sat round an ornately-laid candlelit table and ate rich spicy food served on silver platters. There was steak, turkey and salads and enchiladas and many things to which Sloane couldn't put a name.
As they ate, Don Luis made polite conversation. He spoke spiritedly of the victories over the French and their mercenary army and of his own part in the struggle. His own efforts had not been satisfactorily recognised he told them. He had expected a part in the government at least. If that tyrant Juarez had not jumped in and forced himself on the people as President — Quién sabe?
Sloane paid little attention to the nobleman's talk. He'd come to hear about one thing only — El Muerte. Several times during the meal he caught Rosalia throwing discreet searching glances in his direction. Each time he found her out, she chastely downcast her eyes, veiling them beneath long silky lashes.
After they had eaten, coffee and brandy were served. His thin, uncalloused hands curled round the bowl of his glass, Don Luis settled back in his chair and fixed his imperious gaze on Sloane.
'We have heard with much amazement the story of your fight with the bandit Pancho Gonzalez and his cousins,' he confided. 'It is hard to believe this story. Aguilar has suggested that there were not twenty bandits as the story tells but perhaps only one or two bandits…'
'Don't matter none to Pancho Gonzalez what Mister Aguilar thinks,' said Sloane coldly and drained his glass.
'That is true,' Don Luis smiled, 'and since he cannot tell us himself what happened we must find some other way of establishing the truth.' He clapped his hands and rapped out an order that sent Manolo scurrying from the room. Then he proceeded to study his glass in silence.
A few moments later Manolo returned with the big moustachioed mestizo known as Toro. Toro had obviously been hanging around outside awaiting his master's summons. His massive body was bared to the waist revealing solid ridges of muscle. Without his great sombrero, his matted hair hung lankly to his shoulders. Toro bowed his head briefly to Don Luis then stood his ground a short way from the table, arms folded, legs apart. He glared at Sloane. Sloane and the Chinaman looked to Don Luis for an explanation.
'Toro is the best fighter on the hacienda,' the aristocrat told them. 'He has broken the backs of so many men that no one will fight with him any more. This makes Toro unhappy because he loves to fight — and it makes us unhappy because it gives us pleasure to watch him enjoying himself…'
Aguilar leaned over to Sloane and whispered to him in a leering voice, low so that Rosalia could not hear: 'He is called Toro because for strength he eats the cojones of the bull-the testicles!'
'Señor Sloane,' began Don Luis in an eager cajoling voice, 'I would consider it an honour if you would demonstrate to us your great skill by fighting with Toro.'
Sloane stared evenly at Don Luis, his face a mask. 'I'm no prize-fighter,' he said finally. 'I don't fight a man unless I got a good reason.'
'That Don Luis asks you this thing — is that not a good enough reason?' Aguilar asked soothingly.
'No,' said Sloane.
Aguilar lost his brilliant smile. 'Perhaps he was a sick man, this Pancho Gonzalez,' he said insinuatingly. 'Perhaps he was a cripple!'
Sloane impaled the Mexican on the end of his steely gaze.
'Please, Señor Sloane…' Rosalia appealed, her eyes wide and pleading, 'I would like to see you fight. Will you not do this thing for me?'
'There you are, Señor Sloane,' said Don Luis lightly. 'You cannot refuse the request of a young lady…'
Sloane could. He looked up at Toro's swarthy face. 'I'd like to hear what the man I'm s'posed to fight has to say about it.'
Toro bared his teeth in a snarling grimace. 'Pancho Gonzalez has many cousins,' he growled, 'I am one of them.' He spread his huge hands before him for them all to see. 'With these hands I will tear you to pieces, gringo… One piece for each of my cousins you have dishonoured!'
A tired smile tugged at the edges of Sloane's mouth. 'Now that's what I call a good reason,' he said.
The two men squared off in front of the casa, under the one-eyed gaze of the cannon. Don Luis stood watching them, one hand resting on Rosalia's shoulder. She had put on a shawl which she pulled close around her for the warmth of the evening had given way to the crisp chill of night. Close by stood Billy and Aguilar. Manolo and several vaqueros held flaming torches which threw an unsteady light on the two men who were going to fight each other.
Sloane had stripped off his shirt and jacket. In the dancing glare of the torches, his sinewy body was bronze. He faced the big dark-faced Mexican and waited for him to make his move. Toro watched Sloane with the same pleasure as a hungry thief eyeing an unguarded chicken. This was going to be easy, he thought. Enjoyably easy. He was so obviously superior to the gringo in both weight and strength.
With a bestial growl, Toro launched himself at Sloane, the fingers of his big hands stretching for Sloane's throat. Sloane watched his approach with bored disdain as if it was the least interesting thing in the whole world. Then, when the big man reached him, he side-stepped — neat as a toreador escaping the horns of a bull. One foot lashed out and swept Toro's feet from under him. The hulking Mexican toppled and tasted dirt. He didn't like the taste. He spat grit from his mouth and clambered to his feet, glowering furiously at Sloane. His heaving anger flared his nostrils. It made him look like the animal whose name he shared. Watching him, Sloane half-expected the Mexican to paw the ground with a hoof, lower his head and charge. He didn't paw the ground but he lowered his head and he charged, aiming to butt Sloane off his feet. He got as far as Sloane's rising boot. The spinning crescent kick tossed him back to the ground.
Toro's next attack was more cautious. Big hands defensively raised, he closed on Sloane with the slow wariness of a man trying to ease past a frothing-mad dog. But when Sloane's foot rose to meet him, he moved with the speed of a striking snake. He seized the booted foot two-handed and used it as a
lever to slam Sloane against the ground. Then he threw himself on top of the American, covering him with his crushing weight. The heel of one hand pressed against Sloane's chin, fingers hooking for his eyes. He laughed as he forced Sloane's head back at a neck-breaking angle. Sloane's knee hammered his groin. The big Mex roared. The sickening pain flashed through his body, forcing him to relax his hold for a brief instant. Just long enough for Sloane to snap straight his leg and send Toro hurtling from him.
When the Mexican staggered upright, Sloane was waiting for him. Toro reeled under the pulverising impact of a flurry of hammer-fisted blows. His own return punches were swiftly blocked and slammed aside. But Toro wasn't through yet. As a dragon's-head fist streaked at his face, he grabbed hold of Sloane's wrist and hauled him forward onto the receiving end of a fierce elbow slam. Before Sloane could recover, Toro wrapped both beefy arms round Sloane's neck in a deadly embrace. He held on tight, dragging Sloane back and forth in his choking grip.
Two rigid knife-hand strikes gouged deeply into the soft flesh beneath Toro's ribs. Toro gasped, suddenly breathless with pain. Sloane slipped out from under the slackened grip, wailing a loud inhuman Ki-Ai yell as he swung round and sent a roundhouse kick smashing against Toro's head. He pressed his advantage, advancing relentlessly on the dazed retreating Mexican. Punches pounded against Toro fast as rain. Fists hailed against his face, kicks thundered into his body.
Toro swayed groggily, struggling to keep on his feet. Sloane leapt up and delivered a straight-arrow flying-kick that sent Toro sprawling backwards. The big man barrelled into two torch-holding vaqueros, carrying them with him to the ground. The torches flew spinning through the air and flickered out. None of the three men in the tangled heap moved. Sloane sucked blood from his grazed knuckles.
Don Luis strode up, his face full of enthusiastic approval.
'Excellent, Señor Sloane,' he said. 'You have proved to us that all we have heard is true. If I had not seen these things with my own eyes, I would not have believed them.'
Sloane inclined his head modestly. Behind Don Luis he could see Rosalia watching him. Her coy eyes were bright with admiration. From beside her, Aguilar stepped forward. He handed Sloane his shirt and jacket and added his own enthusiastic congratulations, grinning so much Sloane could see the teeth in the back of his head. Vaqueros were gathered round Toro like bees round a honey pot. Billy Wang strolled over from the direction of the activity.
'All three out cold I Not bad, Sloane,' he reluctantly admitted. 'Not bad at all.'
Billy turned to Don Luis and Aguilar. 'Of course, if you want to see some real good Chinese boxing,' he told them, 'you have to come to a real Chinaman.'
'I look forward to that future pleasure,' said Don Luis with a slight bow of the head. 'But now my daughter and I must go to the chapel and give thanks to God for sending to us a man such as Señor Sloane…'
'Don't thank God — thank El Muerte,' said Sloane.
'Then for once good has come of evil,' said the hawk-faced aristocrat. 'Thank you, Señor Sloane, for permitting us to see your skill as a fighter. Tomorrow we will talk further of El Muerte.'
Don Luis bowed crisply then turned and joined Rosalia. He escorted her back towards the casa. Sloane watched them. As they made their way towards the house it seemed to him that Don Luis' hand slipped momentarily from Rosalia's waist to caress the firm curves that lay beneath. Aguilar followed his gaze to see what held Sloane's interest.
'There's nothing like a father's love for his daughter,' said Sloane thoughtfully.
Aguilar looked uncomfortable. He had to put a lot of effort into his smile. 'They are a close family, señor,' he said. 'Come, I will show you to your room.'
* * *
After he'd cleaned up his cuts and bruises, Sloane lay on the soft bed they'd given him with his hands behind his head and thought about a few things. Like why Don Luis had been so all-fired anxious to see him fight. And what the link was between the aristocrat and El Muerte. He was still lying there thinking when there was a knock on his door. A low secretive knock.
It was Rosalia. But not the demure madonna-like Rosalia he'd seen earlier. It wasn't coyness Sloane saw in her brown eyes now that she stood before him in something silky and lacy that revealed more than it hid. Without a rebozo her long night-black hair flowed freely down over bare shoulders. She looked up at him and smiled, the provoking smile of a woman who knows exactly what she has to offer a man.
She had a lot of nerve, Sloane thought, and nerve wasn't all she had a lot of. She was nervously playing with the chain of a silver crucifix dangling from her neck. The crucifix stroked the deep cleft of her breasts forcing Sloane to take notice of them — not that he needed encouragement.
'Isn't it kinda late for little girls to be out of bed?' Sloane asked her.
Rosalia lowered her eyes. She watched the crucifix bobbing between her dark breasts. 'But I'm a big girl, Señor Sloane,' she said. Sloane was looking the same place she was. 'I can see that,' he said. 'Any special reason for this visit or is it all part of the room service?'
She raised her eyes to his. They were dark and bright as polished oak. 'I wanted to tell you that I am glad you're here, Señor Sloane… It can be very lonely out here.' Her voice was hushed and girlish. 'Perhaps you feel that way too. I cannot sleep and I he awake… My room — it is opposite your's — down the passage-way a little…'
Her smile said drop by any time. Sloane looked down at her young inviting face without emotion. As he looked, he listened. He heard — the shivering whisper of spurs — the sudden exhalation of breath of someone who was doing a bad job of giving up breathing.
He said: 'Thanks for telling me where your room is, señorita. I'll be real careful not to go into it by mistake.'
Her red lips fell open. Her angry eyes snapped at him like castanets. 'You do not find me desirable?'
Sloane roved his gaze over her body. It was a good place for sight-seeing. Sure, he found her desirable. But not as desirable as staying alive. He reached out and touched her bare arm. Her skin felt soft and warm beneath his hand. He slid his hand up her arm to her shoulder. She trembled slightly and her breath grew thick. She closed her eyes and tilted her head towards his, her lips waiting.
'Taking another man's stray is the same as rustling,' he told her. 'You can get hung for both.' Then he pushed her out of the room and closed the door.
She stood there for a time in front of the closed door, eyes blazing and lips quivering. Then she tossed back her hair and flounced down the corridor towards her room. An arm blocked her path.
The arm belonged to Aguilar. He grinned toothily at her. 'That gringo is a smart man,' he said. 'Very smart. But you — you are not smart and soon I will be dancing on your belly…'
He dipped his head to find her lips. He found instead the stinging palm of her hand across his cheek. Pressing a hand to the burning pain he grinned as she retreated angrily to her room. The memory of the pain would sweeten his pleasure when she was his to do with as he wanted.
* * *
Don Luis sent for Sloane in the morning. Manolo ushered him into the aristocrat's study, a spacious sun-filled room smelling of wood and leather. Don Luis rose from behind a wide desk and greeted him. He gestured for Sloane to take a seat.
'Cigar?' Don Luis offered, pushing a box across the desk.
'I got my own,' said Sloane, drawing one of Joe's stogies from his breast pocket. He put it to his lips and leaned forward to accept a light from Don Luis. Puffing, he settled back in the chair and waited for the proud-faced Spaniard to do some explaining. He had a lot of it to do.
Don Luis paced the room, his lips pursed, his hands clasped regally behind his back. Whatever he had to say, he wasn't finding it easy, Sloane observed.
'There is much I must tell you, Señor Sloane,' the aristocrat began, his voice earnest, 'and I must ask that you be patient with me for my story begins many years ago — almost thirty years now — yet I remember the events of those days as if they h
appened only last week. You are still young, Señor Sloane, but I can see you are a man of experience, a man who has seen and felt much. I do not have to tell you how a man may change many times in his life.'
As he spoke, Don Luis walked over to one of the windows in the room. 'We are as clay in the hands of God, Señor. The woman we love today — we may hate tomorrow. So it is with much else in life I have found. We change from year to year. The idealism of our youth dies many deaths.' Don Luis swung away from the window and turned his gaze on Sloane. 'When I was young, Señor Sloane, I believed in the Revolution. Not the revolution of a bandit like Juarez but a revolution that would make Mexico strong again and all her people happy. Liberty for all! That was my promise. How I believed in that word libertad! I was prepared to kill for it — and I did many times. Too many times…'
Don Luis shook his head, his face bitter with regret. 'But there is only one such time about which I must tell you. With my vaqueros I was hunting for some men I believed to be my enemies — guerrilleros who were fighting against us. We followed them to the mission at Lascara. In those days I hated the Church as men hate a tyrant. We attacked the mission. We killed everyone there that we found. It did not matter if they were priests or women or children — they had to die for the Revolution!'
Don Luis sighed wearily, a sound of disgust. He stared once more out of the window. Something he saw seemed to hold his attention. The silence lengthened.
'Go on,' said Sloane.
Don Luis turned to face him. 'You cannot imagine with what shame I tell you of these horrors,' he said. 'I would give anything that they had not happened. But what is done is done. The past cannot be changed as easily as what a man believes… I can still remember the screams of the children, the wails of the women as my men fell upon them. These things I will always remember.'
Don Luis walked across the room and sank into the chair behind his desk. He looked across the desk at Sloane with tired eyes. 'You have heard of the crystal skull of Lascara?' he asked.
