Border Fever

by Pronzini, Bill

  When he landed on his forearms and thighs he rolled sideways, upending a chair and then slamming into the thick wooden serving table. He groped for one of the table’s legs, managed to overturn it and bring it down on top of him. Slugs gouged furrows in its surface as he pulled the table in front of him as a shield. Before he got his body wedged in behind it, a bullet cut a stinging furrow along his left temple. He shook his head, as if flicking away a fly, and dug his Colt from the holster on his hip.

  Suddenly—as suddenly as they had appeared —the banditos were gone.

  M’Candliss raised his head and cautiously peered around the smoke-filled room. It had been a slaughter. The guards were sprawled like ripped and bloodied rag dolls across the shattered remains of the table, food, and fine dinnerware. The walls and polished wood floor were splashed with crimson. The room stank of burnt gunpowder, blood, fear, and death. Only M’Candliss remained alive. It was luck, he knew—that, and having stood instead of remaining in his chair; and having realized what would happen and reacted a second before the actual shooting began.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran toward the open rear door. The dead guards had all eternity to wait; he could hear the drumming hoof beats of the banditos’ horses in back of the restaurant. His good luck would be their bad luck, he vowed as he ran. They should have killed him while they had the chance, because they weren’t going to get another one quite so easily. They were the ones who were going to die next, damn them.

  Chapter Two

  M’Candliss hit the steps of the back porch and ran into the middle of the alley between the restaurant and the livery stable. The inches-thick summer dust billowed into a pluming cloud around him, kicked up by the hooves of the horses as the raiders spurred their mounts. The yellowish pall was lung-choking and made the fleeing riders little more than blurred silhouettes that shimmered like objects seen through a sandstorm.

  M’Candliss steadied his hand and fired at the retreating shapes. A straggler of the group was having trouble controlling his horse, and M’Candliss directed his second and third shots at him. The man threw up his arms as 255 grains of lead punched a hole through his spine; he slumped forward, beginning to topple. But one heel caught in a stirrup, and he was dragged some twenty yards before his leg finally jarred loose and he dropped at the alley’s entrance.

  M’Candliss ran. He recognized the fallen man as the one who had smiled just prior to pulling the trigger, obviously pleased at the thought of his bullets striking down the guards. One down, M’Candliss thought as he used his boot to roll the man over and stare at his startled, blood-smeared expression. One down and five to go—plus Gueterma, God help him.

  By now, the volley of shots, the abrupt departure of the horsemen, and M’Candliss’ return fire had roused the town. Men were tumbling out of the nearby saloons, and a few were dashing from their houses further up the street. They began crowding around M’Candliss as he stood over the body, all of them talking at once.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Somebody get Tucker!”

  “Who’s the dead man?”

  M’Candliss just stood there, not bothering even to try to answer the barrage of questions. A rivulet of blood throbbed from where the bandito’s bullet had grazed the side of his head, and he daubed the wound with the sleeve of his shirt. He knew he ought to have it looked at, even though it was superficial, but Adobe Junction was without a doctor at the moment; the one they’d had had died recently and a replacement hadn’t been found yet. There was a druggist in town, though. M’Candliss could get some sulfa powder from him later on.

  A plump, swarthy man with a tarnished badge pinned to a rumpled plaid vest came elbowing his way through the crowd. “What the hell is goin’ on here?” he demanded.

  “You’d better get a posse together, Ed,” M’Candliss told him. “Gueterma’s been taken by a gang of banditos.”

  “Hell!” Scowling, Tucker hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. He had large ears and calm eyes, and looked about as dangerous as an old toothless hound. Which was plenty deceptive, M’Candliss knew. Ed Tucker was a shrewd, dedicated, and, when he needed to be, a hard ass heller of a lawman.

  “Gueterma’s honor guard is back there in the restaurant,” M’Candliss went on. “What’s left of them.”

  “All dead?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Tucker prodded the dead man on the ground. “This one of the renegades?”

  “Yeah. The others got away.”

  “They head south?”

  M’Candliss nodded. “There’s still half a chance you can catch up with ‘em before they reach the border.”

  “If that’s where they’re headed, maybe.”

  M’Candliss knew that he was thinking of the rumors that the banditos had set up a base of operations in the rugged Galiuro Mountains; he’d been thinking the same thing himself. He nodded again. “Or wherever they’ve decided to take the emissary,” he said tersely.

  Sheriff Tucker turned to the surrounding men. “You heard enough,” he shouted, “so get cracking. I want a dozen of you saddled and armed in the livery yard in ten minutes. Now go on, move!”

  Move they did, both townsmen and some of the punchers who had been in the saloons, scattering to collect their mounts and gear. Not all of the bystanders left to join the sheriff’s posse—although enough did to fulfill Tucker’s arbitrary quota—and those who stayed milled around, talking among themselves, their numbers growing as still more people came and grouped and asked what was going on.

  Above their clamor, Tucker’s foghorn voice ordered one of them to go fetch his own horse from the stable and a couple of carbines from his office. Then he regarded M’Candliss and asked, “You planning to ride with us?”

  M’Candliss shook his head. “I’ve got to report this.”

  “To Holmes?”

  “Yeah. And can somebody open the telegraph office?”

  Before the sheriff could answer, another man pushed forward. He said, his voice harsh and tinged with contempt, “It’s them Mexicans again! I keep telling you, they’re mad dogs.”

  “Some are bad, but most are good,” Tucker replied coldly. “That’s true with any bunch of folk, Arlo, whatever their color or nationality. Stop trying to lump them all together.”

  “No guts, that’s your trouble,” the man named Arlo said. “When will you get it through that skull of yours that you can’t deal with them?

  “The only thing they understand is a strong dose of rope and lead.”

  “Arlo,” Tucker started to say, “Arlo, listen. You—”

  “Rustling our stock, killing our men, raping our women,” the man went on, raising his voice. He was big in height, stance, and girth, stretching his denims and flannel shirt with his tensed muscles. His dark leather coat was open, its right side pulled back and tucked against the butt of a S&W .44, his cartridge belt and holster set low on his hip. “Well, by God, they won’t get away with it! This is our land now, American land, and we’ll band together and hunt them down, till every last—”

  “Damn it, Gillette, stop electioneering!” Tucker roared. “You’re not campaigning for governor yet!”

  “No, but I will,” Arlo Gillette retorted. “Somebody has to who isn’t afraid to put a halt once and for all to the greasers.”

  “You’re wrong,” M’Candliss said evenly. “You’re forgetting that the man they swiped was Mexican, one of their own.”

  “A trick. Probably he was in on it somehow.”

  “Hell. Fact is, these banditos or revolucionarios or whatever you want to call this killer gang are as much an enemy of the law-abiding Mexicans as they are of the Americans. The Mexican government’s been trying to stamp them out—”

  “With an amazing lack of success,” Gillette cut in.

  “The banditos have the run of a thousand square miles of desolate country, and they only strike at widely separated points, with no advance warning. For G
od’s sake, what do you expect?”

  “I expect you to show courage, even if the sheriff doesn’t,” Gillette said. “I can see I had the Rangers pegged wrong too. Well, you’ve made your point. While you stand around here with your asses pointing the wrong way, my men and I will be doing what should have been done long ago.”

  “Arlo, we’re forming a posse,” Tucker said. “If you and your ranch hands are going to ride, you’d best ride with us.”

  “To hell with you!” Arlo Gillette pivoted and stalked off up the street.

  Sighing, Sheriff Tucker led M’Candliss toward the livery yard, where a number of riders were already gathering. “Gillette’s a bigoted hothead,” Tucker said as they walked. “He owns the Bar-G, the biggest spread ‘tween here and the border, and damned if I don’t think he knows every one of his steers by name. Just like he knows every gold eagle he ever laid hands on. He loses a yearling, you’d figure it was his left testicle gone.”

  “Yeah, I can see how worked up he is.”

  “Well, give him his due; he’s lost more’n his share of stock to them raiders, and he’s naturally fed up with the rustling and killing. We all are, but still I don’t hold with his methods.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  Most likely round up his crew and ride out around the countryside harassing the Mexicans living over here. Christ, they’re already scared Out of their wits.”

  “How far will he go?”

  “If you mean will he burn ‘em out or string ‘em up or such like, I doubt it. That’d hurt him politically, and he’s got some right fancy notions about running for high office.”

  “Has he bothered the Mexicans here in town?”

  “Not yet,” Tucker said. “And he won’t, not as long as I’m around. He’s got more sense than that.”

  “But he’s liable to stir up others who don’t have any sense. If vigilante groups begin riding roughshod, like they did in the South against the Negroes and the Abolitionists...”

  “Then the Rio Grande’s gonna flow blood red.” The sheriff shook his head. “But what can I do, Oak? I can’t stop Gillette and all the dumb bastards who believe like he does—not one man alone.”

  “How about gettin’ this posse on the trail?” one of the riders said impatiently. “Time’s wasting.”

  “No it’s not,” Tucker told him. “We’re not gonna catch those banditos in the dark, no matter what we do. But with the moonlight we got, we’ll be able to see their dust miles away out there on the desert, and we’ll know which way to head. All we got to do is stay close enough to track ‘em come morning.”

  When the sheriff turned back, M’Candliss asked him, “Who can open the telegraph office for me?”

  “I can,” a crabbed, stoop-shouldered man said nearby. “Cable’s my name and cabling’s my business. My cubbyhole’s up the street, by the depot.”

  “Open up for me, Mr. Cable,” M’Candliss told him, “and I’ll be along in a few minutes. I’ve got to stop by the hotel first.”

  Nodding, Cable hustled toward the rail yards. As he did so, Tucker mounted his horse in response to the growing restiveness of the posse; the grumbling voices of the men filled the night air as heavily as the dust had, thick with resentment and bristling anger. M’Candliss wished them well and then headed for the hotel, hearing the posse gallop off behind him.

  Entering La Hacienda’s lobby, he saw the hotel clerk sneak a quick drink from a pint bottle of whiskey. When he realized M’Candliss was there, the clerk hastily stashed the bottle under the desk counter. “I was just going off duty,” the man explained sheepishly. He cleared his throat. “What was all that hoopla outside? I heard shots.”

  “I expect you did,” M’Candliss said, and left it at that.

  The clerk appeared in need of another bracer; his eyes were wide and watery, his mouth crooked in a jittery grin, showing yellowed teeth. “No shooting in here, thank God,” he said. “Been right here the whole time and nothing’s happened.”

  M’Candliss passed him by and went upstairs to the second floor. As he approached Clement Holmes’ room, the door next to it popped open. Inside there, Flynn and Meckleburg stood with pistols drawn and leveled.

  “Easy,” M’Candliss said.

  “Sorry, Cap,” Flynn said. They holstered their weapons. “Whatever that ruckus was out there really set us on edge.”

  “It’s going to set a lot more than the two of you on edge.” M’Candliss knocked on Holmes’ door. “Gueterma has been kidnapped.”

  “What? By who?”

  “A half-dozen of Esteban’s faithful. They murdered the honor guard and took Gueterma God knows where. Tucker’s got a posse out scouring the desert for them now.” M’Candliss knocked again, but there was still no response. “Holmes is in there, isn’t he?”

  Flynn nodded. “Maybe he’s just sleeping hard.”

  “Through all that gunplay?”

  “Well, hell, you remember Colonel Dueber, don’t you, Cap? The time he drank his way through a saloon brawl when four men were killed? Woke up and said he never heard a thing.”

  “Never mind Colonel Dueber.” M’Candliss rapped louder. Still no answer. “Mr. Holmes!” he called. “Are you in there, sir?”

  The silence which followed seemed thick with foreboding. The Rangers frowned at one another, and Meckleburg suggested, “If you want, Cap, I’ll go fetch a skeleton key from the desk clerk.”

  “I don’t like this,” M’Candliss said. “And I don’t want to waste any more time. Break it in.”

  Meckleburg looked at Flynn; Flynn nodded once. Together they shouldered the door until its lock split from the wood. The two of them tumbled into the room, followed by M’Candliss. Moonlight filtered through an open window; a faint, cool breeze that would die with the coming of dawn rustled the curtains.

  “My God!” Flynn gasped. “He’s gone!”

  M’Candliss walked over to the empty, rumpled bed. “Damn it, this doesn’t make sense. Did anyone visit him?”

  “Nobody except the clerk,” Flynn answered.

  Meckleburg said, “Clerk came up a couple of minutes after you left, but that was just to take Mr. Holmes’ dinner tray away and deliver another bottle of that snake-oil medicine Mr. Holmes was doctoring himself with. But we were with them the whole time Beasley was in here. That’s the clerk’s name—Beasley.”

  M’Candliss nodded. He moved to the bureau, picked up a silver-plated comb and brush set. “All Holmes’ things are here; doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed. The only thing missing...”

  “What’s missing?” Flynn asked.

  “I don’t see that bottle of medicine anywhere.” “Say, you’re right. That’s funny—”

  “No funnier than Mr. Holmes sneaking out in his nightclothes,” Meckleburg said. “Like magic, I’d say, if I believed in such foolishness.”

  “We were just next door, Cap,” Flynn said. “We should have heard him leave, just like we heard you. This room is the last one on the second floor, and he’d have had to get past ours to get downstairs; the boards squeak no matter how silent you try to be.”

  M’Candliss stroked his earlobe. “Maybe he didn’t go out through the door.”

  “You mean he went out the window?” “Could be. You didn’t hear anything at all?”

  “No, sir, not a sound,” Meckleburg said. “And damn it all, Cap, we were awake.”

  “Just like Beasley downstairs,” M’Candliss murmured. Yet even if the clerk had been nipping from his whiskey bottle so much he’d been in a stupor, surely Flynn or Meckleburg, so close by, should have responded to any commotion. He regarded his two men. Jay Flynn was the older of the pair, a veteran with the look of long, hard experience about him; Barton Meckleburg was taller and broader, his eyes seeming to sparkle with a certain maverick quality. Both men had always struck M’Candliss as shrewd, competent, and honest. He’d never had reason to doubt their word, and he didn’t doubt it now.

  But if there hadn’t been
a commotion, why hadn’t there been one? Why hadn’t Clement Holmes made a sound of any kind?

  M’Candliss went to the room’s window, which overlooked La Hacienda’s side yard. Raising the sash and peering out, he saw a shade-roof below, above the plank board path that connected the front boardwalk to the hotel’s rear stoop. Not an impossible or even a difficult drop to that roof and then to the walkway, but one which would surely have been heard.

  As M’Candliss pulled his head back inside, a splinter pricked one of his hands where his fingers were gripping the lower sill on the inside. Glancing at it, he saw a couple of gouges in the wood, but he was unable to attach any significance to the fresh scratch-marks. He looked out the window again, craning his head toward the main street, then frowned in irritation.

  “That idiot rancher,” he growled.

  “Who?” Flynn asked from behind him.

  “Arlo Gillette, owner of the Bar-G,” M’Candliss explained, his voice tight as he slammed the sash. “He’s out there collecting his crew for his own private posse. By the sound of them, he’s dragged his men out of most every crib and saloon in town, and they’re drunk and belligerent. If he doesn’t hold them in tight rein—and I have my doubts that he even wants to—a bunch of Mexicans could die tonight.”

  M’Candliss stood stolidly in the room, his hands bunched into fists. There was the equivalent of a lynch mob forming out in the main street, under the questionable direction of a reckless man hell-bent for the Territorial governor’s seat. And, like Sheriff Tucker, M’Candliss felt frustrated at stopping it.

  Jesus, he thought, but his mission had soured mighty fast.

  When M’Candliss had originally been given the assignment, he had been told it might involve danger. That was to be expected; that, after all, was what the Arizona Rangers were around to handle. But nobody, not even Governor Jaime Shannon, could have prophesied this.

  At the beginning, it had seemed a pretty straightforward matter. M’Candliss, along with two men under his command—he had chosen his top pair, Flynn and Meckleburg—were to accompany Clement Holmes from the Arizona Territorial capital at Prescott to Adobe Junction. Holmes had been picked by Governor Shannon to be an advance representative, sent on ahead of other dignitaries to welcome Frederic Gueterma to American soil. Gueterma, with his combination honor guard and bodyguard, had traveled from Mexico City to represent the Diaz government.