Border Fever

by Pronzini, Bill

  It was false, M’Candliss realized, only a dream. But it had been like a dream at the time, a nightmare, with him half out of his mind when he had killed the three drifters who were taking turns mounting his wife. He couldn’t damn this woman now for the memories she stirred within him, for having a resemblance that might be mostly in his head, perhaps invisible to anyone else. Perversely, it was almost a relief. Isabella Gueterma was a woman—the first woman he had looked at in a long time.

  His face betrayed none of this, and his voice cut harshly into the silence. “De nada,” he replied, holstering his revolver. “But if you’re Señor Gueterma’s daughter, what are you doing in Adobe Junction?”

  “I have been living in Arizona. Did you not know?”

  M’Candliss shook his head, and Isabella went on. “Sí, I am attending the school in Nogales, to learn English and history and many other subjects which are not taught in Mexico.”

  “Strange, your father never mentioned you.”

  “But he must have! He sent me a telegram when he learned that he was being sent to the conference in Prescott. He asked that I leave my school in Nogales and meet him here, so that I might accompany him. He has not seen me in many months, and I... I...”Isabella burst into tears. “But when I arrived this morning, I hear that my father has been kidnapped by the revolucionarios, perhaps murdered.” Again she faltered, burying her face in her hands.

  M’Candliss felt awkward standing there, as he always did when confronted by a sobbing woman. He didn’t know what to do or say, and he certainly had not expected Frederico Gueterma to have a daughter in Arizona Territory, or for her to show up now.

  “I’m sorry about your father, Señorita Gueterma,” he said slowly, unsurely. “But there’s every reason to believe he’s still alive. If there’s a way to get him back safely, we’ll find it.”

  “Oh, Capitan, will you save him?”

  “Sure,” M’Candliss answered, with more conviction than he felt. “Let me just finish here, and we’ll go down to the café and have something to eat. My men are probably there already, and you’ll see we’re all dedicated to tracking down those banditos and saving your father before they can harm him.”

  As he spoke, M’Candliss turned to take his vest from the back of the room’s chair. He failed to see the young woman’s face suddenly lose its tormented expression and become grimly determined. He failed to see the swift movement with which she drew a smallish .38 Colt “Lightning” pistol from a concealed holster in her denims. And he failed to see her take two quick, silent steps forward, matching the twin strides he had taken toward his chair, and raise the pistol high over her head. All M’Candliss knew was an abrupt, blinding explosion of pain as the pistol barrel collided with his skull. Brilliant white light flashed in back of his eyes, then winked out into total blackness...

  There was sunlight glaring down at him.

  M’Candliss sensed the blistering heat first as consciousness gradually returned. But the sun was not overhead, or the heat would be searing his eyelids; it was off to one side. Mid-afternoon, or perhaps a little later. The sensation of thirst came to him, and he was aware of a parched, dusty taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes, his thoughts still jumbled and ravaged by pain.

  Through his slitted lids, he saw the hot blue expanse of sky overhead. When he turned his head the blue became flaked with gold, then turned into a pale yellow, then into the searing white of the sun. He turned his head back the other way and closed his eyes again.

  Then he realized that he was moving. He listened: a squeaky axle on one side, the dull rumbling of three other wheels, the padding of horses’ hooves and the occasional jingle of harness and collar. Wagon. He was lying on his back in the bed of a wagon.

  He tried to move, and couldn’t. And another realization came to him: he was trussed up with rope. His arms and legs were numb from the lack of circulation. He couldn’t even speak; he was gagged with his own neckerchief. There was a shadow over his face, and when he opened his eyes again to see why, he found himself looking up into the black pools of Isabella Gueterma’s eyes. She was bending over him, one hand cradling his head, the other hand holding a canteen.

  “Capitan?” There was concern in her voice. “Capitan?”

  M’Candliss managed a weak nod.

  “Bueno, you are awake at last. Listen to me, Capitan. I will take off your gag so you may drink, but please do not be so foolish as to think I will remove your ropes, or that you can escape. My father will be ready and promises to shoot. Entiende?”

  M’Candliss nodded that he understood, but he did not. Father? Isabella’s father, Frederico Gueterma? M’Candliss’ head cleared with the impact of her words. He struggled to sit up, the girl helping him, leaning forward, and untying his kerchief.

  She held the canteen to his parched lips, and M’Candliss drank slowly, making sure his lips were wet and the inside of his mouth satiated before swallowing. He managed to say, “Your father?”

  “Sí,” she said, nodding. “Mi padre. Por qué?”

  Why indeed, M’Candliss thought. He twisted about so he could see the man she was calling father. The wagon was a narrow-track, stiff-tongued, standard open farm type, very old and lacking paint. The man was straddling the spring seat so that he could handle the reins and keep an eye on his prisoner. There was a .56 Spencer held by one leg against the seat, and that big Spencer could bore a hole through him easily. The man was slim, small, a dark-skinned Mexican, and not at all like Frederico Gueterma.

  The man glowered at M’Candliss. M’Candliss turned back to the girl. “He’s your father, is he?”

  The girl, realizing his confusion, smiled and nodded. “I lied, Capitan. Señor Gueterma is not of my blood. I am Isabella Ortiz, and there is my true padre, Alfredo Ortiz.”

  Alfredo Ortiz said nothing. His expression was enough: contempt, resentment, a little fear.

  M’Candliss turned away from both girl and man for a moment and stared out at the landscape. It was the rugged country of the Southwest canyons, brush, boulders, and sand —an endless desert sparsely grown with prickly pear, barrel cactus, huisache, and scarlet-streaming octillo. Ahead were the silent, forbidding steppes leading to the Galiuro Mountains, which rose in a series of spires, plateaus, and cragged canyons.

  Tied to the back of the wagon was M’Candliss’ clay bank gelding. He turned back to the girl. “Why’d you bring my horse along?”

  “Ah, but of course we would. Would it not seem strange if your men found you missing but not your horse? This way, they will think you are out on an errand, perhaps, and will not worry.”

  “They’ll never fall for that.”

  “Perhaps. You know your men better than we do. But it was worth a try, verdad?” Isabella adjusted the chin strap of the wide sombrero she now wore. Her father also wore a large hat, though narrower of brim and more tattered.

  M’Candliss ran his hand through his hair, wincing as he touched the tender spot where she had gun-whipped him, and wished that the girl had thought to bring along his own hat instead of his horse. He said, “Okay, so where are you taking me?”

  Isabella looked at her father, then back at M’Candliss, and averted her eyes as she had back in the hotel room, as if embarrassed. Alfredo Ortiz answered for her. “There,” he said, pointing toward the Galiuros. “To the camp of the revolucionarios. My people.”

  “Is that where Gueterma was taken last night?”

  Isabella shrugged; if she knew, she wasn’t telling.

  M’Candliss demanded angrily, “Why have your people, as you call them, crossed the border to kill and plunder us?”

  The father spat over the side of the wagon, an expansive gesture of scorn in a land of little water. “Listen to the gringo! All gringos have grown soft since their revolucion. What does he know of our struggle, eh? Nothing.”

  “I know your fight is a Mexican one, not an American one,” M’Candliss snapped. “Whatever we are is no excuse for your actions.”

  �
�Excuse? Oiga!” Isabella said. “We fight for our lives, for our families, for our freedom, for our rights as human beings. We must conquer the federalistas, but we are so few against their many. We have been forced to be dishonorable at times, but is it not better to soil the hands so that one may have the chance of washing the whole body later?”

  M’Candliss fell silent. Isabella and Alfredo Ortiz were obviously visionary and idealistic. Sincere, perhaps, but grim with the necessity of their mission. Were the revolutionaries really banded together for freedom, or just for the sheer hell of it?

  Isabella seemed to need to talk more. “The federalistas, Capitan M’Candliss, the soldiers such as were shot in Adobe Junction, killed my mother. Murdered her after... using her.” The girl squeezed her eyes shut. “I do not pity the ones who died yesterday.”

  “Isabella,” Alfredo Ortiz warned, “we were told not to speak to this hombre. It is against my judgment even to allow the gringo the comfort of water.”

  “I am sorry I deceived you, Capitan,” Isabella said, in defiance of her father. “I am sorry for you and for all of us.”

  “Why have I been taken, Isabella?”

  She shook her head. “I follow orders. I do not know.”

  “Silencio!” Ortiz grabbed the stock of the Spencer for emphasis.

  They crossed arroyos and dry stream beds, entered apparently dead-end box canyons but always managed to find their way through. They moved forward and upward, into wilderness and isolation.

  Hours dragged by until, as dusk was darkening into late evening, a voice called out from a shadowed ledge, “Quien vive?”

  Ortiz reined the horses and raised his hands to his mouth.

  “El Grito!” The Insurrection.

  “Entra.”

  Ortiz gave a flip of the reins on the team’s withers, and the wagon lurched forward. A hundred yards more and all trace of the sentry was gone. M’Candliss reflected on what an easy place this was to live or die. No one would be aware of either.

  There was one bend after another, one sharp dip or rise followed by still more curves. The air grew cool; one horse whinnied, scenting water. Then there was a narrow cleft where the bottom was almost a tunnel between the towering cliff faces, and after passing through, M’Candliss saw that they were on the wall of a vast depression, shaped like a huge bowl, that dipped down and around.

  He heard a trickle of water in the near-distant gloom—a small waterfall which splashed into a pool of worn rock, then snaked its way into the bowl. Around the water grew sparse grass, and where it collected in the bottom of the bowl were a few scraggly cottonwoods and cedars. The desert mountains were like this, concealing canyons until one stood on their very edge.

  They descended, heading toward a ring of small campfires that were close by the trees. This, M’Candliss realized, must be the fortress that Darby Boyle had reported to the Buccaneer’s bartender. A natural fort which could be defended against the most intense attack with ease, this would be a perfect encampment for outlaws or revolucionarios.

  The Mexican rebels were badly equipped, which didn’t surprise M’Candliss. There weren’t any adobes or massive placements, or even a crude perimeter of stakes. The harsh mountains ringing them would serve as protection enough.

  Perhaps a hundred men were around the campfires. Rifles were stacked, equipment scattered. Horses and mules stood with their aparejos in place; a few dogs slept or fought over scraps.

  Whatever else the revolucionarios were, they were not military minded. The men rose and crowded around the wagon, a coarse and swarthy lot, sporting bandoliers and “Prairie” cartridge belts. Some were straw-hatted, but all stared and made crude comments openly and loudly. M’Candliss had seen their type before on both sides of the border, clean-shaven or whiskered, fancy-dressed or in tatters. These men were not peasants driven to extremes by oppression, by tyrants—they were oppressive tyrants themselves. Killers and thugs without morals or scruples, they would, if they ever gained control, be as corrupt and evil as the rulers they supplanted.

  M’Candliss glanced back at Isabella and her father. They did not belong here, blinded as they were by their zeal. The Señorita had said she was sorry; but now, seeing the glinting eyes, the razored knives and low-slung side arms of the so-called revolutionaries, M’Candliss felt sorry for her and Alfredo Ortiz. The Ortiz family was being used in an immoral war. Their deaths would be empty and in vain.

  He couldn’t help wondering how many other decent yet naive patriots were being similarly duped. Not that Ramon Esteban’s uprising was in itself necessarily unjust or false, he realized; it could be that this particular gang was merely an outlying extension of the main rebel force, one which Esteban would not sanction if he knew its contents and the makeup of its members. After all, the State of Chihuahua, where Esteban mainly rode, was a long way off.

  On the other hand, Esteban might well be aware and either didn’t care and was no better than these men, or was suffering them for lack of the power to disband them. It could even be that this was a rival band of insurrectionists, one not dedicated like the Ortizes and Esteban to a crusade for freedom from oppression, but using the call to liberty as a license to plunder and murder.

  It troubled M’Candliss not to have some idea of an answer. What he did and his chances of staying alive depended on knowing what he was up against—and at this point, his best guess was that he’d soon be up against a wall, facing a firing squad.

  The wagon stopped in front of the largest of three tents. This would be the headquarters of the leader, the one who had commanded the attack on the restaurant, the kidnapping of Gueterma, and the ambush of M’Candliss in the alley. And quite possibly had been the brains behind Bruno Deney’s snatching of Clement Holmes, which could mean, M’Candliss hoped, that Holmes was alive and being held in this camp too.

  He tensed expectantly, straining against his bonds as Alfredo Ortiz jumped down from the seat and went up to the man guarding the tent flap. The guard turned and ducked under the flap. He was gone but a moment, returning with the leader of the camp.

  The leader—this Gran Géneral de La Revolucion—strode to the wagon bed and stared up at M’Candliss. He was dressed similarly to his men, though in a slightly better pair of boots, a newer, less stained shirt, and a pair of pants without holes. Around his waist were two cartridge belts and holsters, one of brown leather and one of black and with differing designs, but the pistolas he carried were both pearl-handled.

  “Buenas tardes, Capitan M’Candliss!” he said with a grin.

  The man was Frederico Gueterma.

  Chapter Seven

  M’Candliss stared at the handsome countenance of the Mexican emissary. Gueterma responded with a cold smile, eyeing M’Candliss as he might a steer in a slaughter pen.

  “Have you nothing to say, Capitan?” Gueterma asked. “I had expected more reaction than outraged silence.”

  “I can’t believe that a man lives who could sit eating and drinking and joking with his own loyal guards, knowing he’s sentenced them to be butchered,” M’Candliss replied with tightlipped fury.

  “Loyal? Pigs!” Gueterma spat. “Pawns of Diaz and his Federalistas! They deserved no mercy; they deserved only to die.”

  “Is this the sort of man you want to lead your people?” M’Candliss said, turning to the Ortizes. “A cold-blooded killer who surrounds himself with cut-throat bandits?”

  Isabella seemed to flinch, but then her expression set with grim determination. Alfredo Ortiz remained stoic, his head held high and proud. But M’Candliss’ words had a definite effect on Gueterma. Rage blotched his features, and he leaned forward to slap the defenseless Ranger once, twice, three times.

  M’Candliss took the blows without wincing, his eyes fastened on the Mexican traitor’s face, sparking with frustration and hatred. Gueterma had personally supervised the wanton massacre of almost half a hundred innocent people in the past few months. That was plainly evident now, as was the power-mad compulsion which c
ontrolled him.

  “Untie this cretino and bring him to the fire,” Gueterma said to the guard beside him. “I wish to tell him some things in privacy.”

  The guard, aided by Alfredo, loosened the ropes binding M’Candliss, then pulled him out of the wagon and half dragged him toward the nearest campfire, where he threw him roughly to the ground. Gueterma came striding over, the dancing flames from the bonfire making his face look like the mask of some grinning demon. The guard hastened back into the tent; an instant later, he reappeared with a folding stool. Gueterma sat down on it a few feet away from M’Candliss, and impatiently waved away the guard.

  Watching all this, M’Candliss noticed that Isabella and her father lingered closer than the guard or the other members of the gang, huddling around the embers of a smaller, dying fire some twenty yards away. Isabella, avoiding M’Candliss’ gaze, began to rekindle the fire. M’Candliss turned his attention back to Gueterma, licking his parched lips as he saw Gueterma light a thin cheroot with a piece of kindling.

  “Why did you have me brought here?” M’Candliss asked in a hoarse voice. “You tried to have me killed twice last night, and now you have had me kidnapped instead. Why, Gueterma?”

  “For good reason, Capitan,” Gueterma said. “I did not think of this until I had ordered you disposed of, but I am glad now that the attempts on your life failed. You are much more valuable alive.”

  “For the moment, I suppose?”

  “Sí, for the moment.”

  “That still doesn’t answer why.”

  “You’ll learn, in due course.”

  “Does Esteban know of this, of what you’ve done?”

  “Ramon Esteban is a baboso—a fool.”

  “In other words, he doesn’t know what you’re up to. Yeah, that figures. According to Señorita Ortiz, you’re a part of Esteban’s grito, but from what I’ve heard about Esteban, he wouldn’t condone the kind of indiscriminate killing and looting you’ve been doing.”