“Astute of you, Capitan—more astute than Esteban has been. He believes me to be on his side, that I am backing his rise to the Presidency of Mexico by helping him overthrow Diaz’s government. But in reality, it is I who will become El Presidente.” Gueterma leaned forward, pointing his cheroot at M’Candliss like a spear. “My men here, and others like them in New Mexico, and mixed with Esteban’s revolucionarios in Chihuahua, will see to it that Esteban and his loyalists are properly taken care of when the time comes.”
M’Candliss was beginning to understand. “So that’s why you’re raiding on this side of the border. You want retaliation, vigilante committees lynching innocent men, reprisal raids into Mexico. You want hatred to grow between our countries—so there’ll be war.”
“But of course! Such a war could only weaken Diaz’s government and make it easier for Esteban and his grito to succeed.”
“I suppose the kidnapping of Clement Holmes is part of it too. What do you plan to do? Kill him and make it look like Esteban was responsible? Or have you already killed him?”
“Señor Holmes is not dead,” Gueterma said. “Not yet. But yes, his eventual death is part of my plan.”
“Where is he? Have you got him here?”
“No, he is not here. But you should not concern yourself with his whereabouts, Capitan. There is nothing you can do to help him. Or to help anyone else—including yourself.”
M’Candliss held his rage in tight check. He said, “I don’t see the reasoning behind your own kidnapping last night. That and the shooting of your honor guard will help stir up bad feeling, yes; but if this bunch here is supposed to be part of Esteban’s revolutionaries, how are you going to explain riding into Mexico later on as their leader?”
“There will be no need for explanations,” Gueterma said. “At the proper time, I will pretend to escape from this band and join Esteban’s main force in Chihuahua. When I am asked I shall say that these men were renegades, unaffiliated with the noble grito, and I will denounce their activities.”
“You have everything figured, don’t you?”
“Yes, Capitan, I do have everything figured. The Mexican people, once war breaks out, will flock to Esteban, for he is one of their own and they will be fearful, disgruntled, and be eagerly receptive to his promises for change and prosperity.”
“And peace,” M’Candliss added bitterly. “Then, once the overthrow is complete, some fatal accident will happen to Esteban.”
“A national tragedy. But I’ll be there to step in before my country can lose yet another war with your country. Not Esteban but I will be the one who will sue for peace, and it will establish me as a wise and benevolent leader in the eyes of both our peoples.”
“And the whole time you’re being hailed as the savior of Mexico, you and your gun hands will be robbing it blind.”
Gueterma laughed. “Even if you’re right, no one will know of it or be able to do anything about it. I will be too firmly in power. The name of Frederico Gueterma will be on the lips of every citizen, shouted in the streets and blessed in every prayer.”
“Not if I can stop you.”
“Ah, the irony! You will not stop me, my dear Capitan—you will help me. You will be a key figure in one of the final two incidents which will ignite the war. In a couple of days, an important official in Diaz’s government will be assassinated, a man who opposed my appointment as emissary to the meeting in Prescott. You will be there too, at the capital, and will be blamed for his death.”
“You’re crazy! Nobody’d believe I would murder a Mexican official.”
“But they will. We’ll be taking you to Mexico City, but it will appear as if that was your destination when you left Adobe Junction on your own. And it will be rumored that you turned assassin to avenge the deaths of the United States Senators and the Secretary of State.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The train carrying the delegates to the conference in Prescott will be blown up as it crosses the trestle at Saddleback Gorge,” Gueterma said with relish “My men and I will be there to make sure there are no survivors of the explosion.”
M’Candliss was shocked speechless. Gueterma’s intentions were the most depraved he had ever heard, for he knew the territory where Saddleback Gorge was located. More than a day’s ride from this Galiuro fortress, the gorge was in the remote, formidable Dos Cabezas Mountains, a range the railroad had found to be almost impenetrable. The section was treacherous at best, and if Gueterma and his gang dynamited the spindly trestle just as the train crossed over it, not a passenger on board would escape death.
M’Candliss looked past Gueterma and saw that Alfredo Ortiz had left the other fire, where Isabella appeared to be preparing a meal, and had edged closer to where M’Candliss and Gueterma were. Perhaps he was curious about the conversation, M’Candliss thought; he and Gueterma had been speaking in anything but soft voices.
An idea came to him. If he could keep Gueterma talking, make him reveal the kind of madman he was while Alfredo Ortiz was within earshot, it might be enough to jar the old man into reacting. As loyal to Mexico as Ortiz seemed to be, he might rashly break in, confront Gueterma, or even try to struggle with him. If he caused enough of an uproar, the diversion might allow M’Candliss the chance to get away.
Away to where, though? Assuming he had the luck to escape the camp itself, M’Candliss doubted he’d have enough time to grab a horse, much less a weapon to use, and he had no idea where in the Galiuros he was. He’d be pursued by shrewd, experienced hunters, and should he somehow manage to elude them, he’d still have to cross a rocky, arid wasteland before he could reach help.
Yet he knew he had to try. And if this failed, as it most likely would, then he must try again and again. Once they broke camp, each minute would send him that much farther away, as Gueterma took him south to Mexico City and a rendezvous with murder. M’Candliss held no illusions what would happen to him there. He’d be shot down near the point of the assassination, and the rifle which killed the Mexican official would be discovered in his hands. And a great many others of both nationalities would also die.
M’Candliss waited until Ortiz had edged to within a few feet of them, standing almost directly behind Gueterma. Then he asked, “What’s going to happen to Esteban? I mean, I ‘imagine you’ll rig a convenient accident for him, but what exactly did you have in mind? Another train wreck like the one you’re planning for the delegates?”
Gueterma’s eyes flashed in the firelight. “He will be struck down by the bullet of a Federalista, of course, thus cementing my position and my politics with the people. Esteban will become a martyr, a dead and mourned martyr—and there is nothing better with which to strengthen any cause.”
M’Candliss saw Alfredo Ortiz stop as if frozen. Only a few feet from Gueterma, Ortiz had overheard the exchange, and his face was etched with shock. He stared at Gueterma’s broad back with unblinking eyes.
“Gold and power, those are your twin causes, Gueterma,” M’Candliss snapped. “You care nothing for your people, for their well-being and liberty.”
“If it so pleases you, Capitan, it is true. I have only contempt for the brainless peons. But it is they who will cry ‘Viva Gueterma!’, who will bow at my passage, who will do my every bidding. They beg to be used—so they will be.”
“Just as you’re using Alfredo and Isabella Ortiz?” M’Candliss said. “Just like you’re taking them in, is that it?”
“Sí! They are like Esteban, blinded by their own witless patriotism—”
A bellow of rage erupted from behind Gueterma, and Alfredo Ortiz hurtled forward. His features were contorted, his gnarled peasant’s hands bunched into fists.
Gueterma swung around at the shout, then struggled to his feet, upsetting his stool as he saw Ortiz rushing toward him.
“Traitor!” Ortiz yelled at him, his hands punching and clawing. “Filthy guarro! You have deceived us all along! The gringo was right! I kill you with my bare han
ds!”
Gueterma swung an elbow viciously into the old man’s ribs, sending him staggering backward to sprawl in the dust. Then Gueterma drew one of the pearl-handed revolvers at his side and shot Ortiz in the chest while the old man was squirming helpless on the ground.
Isabella screamed in horror from the other campfire, dropping the pan in which she had been cooking scraps of meat. “Madre de Dios! Padre!”
Alfredo Ortiz grunted once, painfully. Gueterma shot him a second time, and Ortiz twitched, then lay still.
Isabella ran to her father and flung herself down beside him. She cradled him to her breast, her soft hair covering both of them like a shroud, and she cried abjectly, “Padre... Padre...”
M’Candliss felt sick at the brutal sight he had just witnessed. When he had conceived the idea to pit Ortiz against Gueterma, it hadn’t occurred to him that Gueterma would slaughter the unarmed old man. It was his fault Ortiz had died as he had, even though his death as a revolutionary was almost inevitable.
Gueterma holstered his revolver. “I am sorry, señorita,” he said to Isabella, “but your father became deranged and attacked me. I was forced to defend myself, as you must have seen.”
She did not answer him. She was moaning softly, holding the dead body of her father.
M’Candliss said, “Yeah, you must’ve seen, Isabella. You must’ve seen the kind of inhuman animal Gueterma is. He murdered your father in cold blood!”
“Enough, Capitan,” Gueterma told him. “The girl knows I acted in self-defense, that I would not have killed her father if he had not lost his head and attacked me. But he will not have died in vain. El grito will triumph!”
M’Candliss held his tongue. He did not want to have the girl killed too. A long silence ensued. Isabella lowered the body of her father down to the ground, then stood and stared dry-eyed at M’Candliss and Gueterma. There was a spark of defiance, of hatred, in her eyes.
“My leader is right, gringo,” she said to M’Candliss. “I do not condemn him for doing what he had to do; my father was old and perhaps the strain became too great for his mind. He has died so that others may gain their freedom.” She glanced down at her father. “Any price is worth the salvation of my people. Any price.”
M’Candliss felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He slumped backwards, weary. All hope seemed gone now of ever getting out of this camp alive, of saving the lives of the delegates on board the train, of stopping two nations from going to war.
Chapter Eight
Gueterma had nothing more to say to either M’Candliss or the woman. Instead he put his back to them and spoke to a group of men who had gathered around. “Begin loading the wagons,” he told them. “We must leave at once, caballeros, for Saddleback Gorge.”
There was a flurry of activity. Two wagons were rolled over to where a canvas tarpaulin covered several wooden crates. These were lifted into the wagons and tied down carefully. M’Candliss saw that roughly half the camp, about fifty men, were to be at the scene of the ambush in Saddleback Gorge. Gueterma was taking no chances, with half a hundred men and two wagonloads of explosives, of anyone aboard the delegates’ train escaping with their lives.
Isabella Ortiz had got two of the banditos to carry her father’s body to the bank of the pond, where they laid him, wrapped in a blanket, for burial. M’Candliss heard the men tell her that they would dig a grave later, after Gueterma and the others had left camp.
M’Candliss wondered how any woman could be so zealous in her beliefs as to venerate her father’s killer. Perhaps she would break down later—but later would be too late. Now she sat alone by the little fire, cooking the supper which had been intended for two and was now for one, her lips taut and her face a mask. She might have been made of stone.
She did not look up as Gueterma, astride his horse, ordered the formation of two columns of banditos with the wagons between them. Gueterma called out in Spanish for the columns to proceed, and M’Candliss had to bitterly swallow the dust the hooves and wheels threw up as they left the encampment. He watched with frustrated eyes as the raiders wound up the trail to the narrow cleft and then passed from view.
Silence fell over the camp again. The night grew cooler, and the remainder of the banditos drew closer to their fires. After a time, most of them bedded down for the night.
A guard had been posted beside M’Candliss, a swarthy Mexican with a pitted face and a pot belly, who scowled fiercely whenever M’Candliss made a move. When the other outlaws turned in to their bedrolls, the guard threw a little more straw on the fire before him, sending the flames leaping once more; then he settled back and made himself comfortable.
M’Candliss searched the camp by the flickering firelight, trying to find some chance—any chance—for escape. The horses were nearby, including his clay bank, but there was no way of reaching them. His guard didn’t sleep, and the relaxed pose he showed was deceptive; the man was alert, and would come instantly alive at the slightest movement. Isabella still sat, head downcast, immovable as the mountains around her. And M’Candliss knew there was no possibility of help from any of the banditos, or from a rescue party, even if one could find this fortress.
He sat watching the guard watching Isabella. The edginess inside him kept growing, and he knew it would prod him into action sooner or later. They were planning to kill him in Mexico City anyway; it was better if he died here, trying to escape so he could warn the delegates in Prescott.
After a string of minutes dragged away, Isabella finally stirred. M’Candliss watched her gather more meat and brown the chunks in animal fat. The fat sizzled and cracked in the pan, and the smoke was thick and fragrant; the smell made M’Candliss’ empty belly cramp a little, even though he wasn’t hungry. Then the woman stood, took a spoon, and walked with the still smoldering pan across the clearing toward M’Candliss and the guard.
The guard jumped to his feet as she neared. “What are you doing, woman?” he growled.
“I bring the anglo food,” she said.
“No. Take it away.” He waved his hand to emphasize the command.
“Miguel, don’t be stupid,” she snapped. “Do you want him to die from starvation? He has not had anything to eat all day. He must have food.”
The two faced each other, both adamant.
“Do you wish to follow my father, Miguel?” Isabella demanded sharply. “Do you desire a bullet from Gueterma’s pistola for having ruined his plans? The anglo is tied. He cannot escape. And I will feed him myself.”
The guard looked indecisive; then, finally, he nodded. “As you will, then,” he grumbled. “But do not be slow about it.”
Isabella went to M’Candliss and knelt beside him, her body positioned so that her hands were hidden from the guard as he sat back down. She held up the spoon.
“Eat,” she said. “It is badger meat, very good.”
M’Candliss shook his head. “No,” he said. But no sooner had he spoken the word than he felt something cold and hard along his wrist. He glanced down and saw that while Isabella was holding the spoon upraised in one hand, the pan balanced in her lap, her other hand was grasping a thin-edged knife. And she was slowly moving the blade along the rope that bound his hands.
“Eat,” she urged, and M’Candliss managed to conceal his surprise and the fresh hope that surged inside him. He ate. The badger meat was hot and some of the grease burned his mouth, but he barely noticed. The motions of feeding and chewing hid the other actions, the cutting of his bonds. He moved his hands in rhythm to Isabella’s sawing, until one by one the strands of rope parted.
“Pig!” Isabella said suddenly. “Dirty pig!”
The guard thought she was referring to M’Candliss and a harsh laugh came out of him. But M’Candliss saw the wetness of tears in her eyes, the trembling of her chin, and knew that she meant Gueterma and that her earlier avowals were false—a pretense so that later she could be free to help him. It had taken immense control and courage, more of both than most Men he k
new possessed.
“Isabella—”
“Do not talk. I do what must be done.”
She changed positions, letting her skirt drape over his legs so that she could work on the bonds around his ankles, which had been retied by the guard. But her movements left her more vulnerable to the scrutiny of the guard. M’Candliss held his hands together, hoping that the dim light would not betray the strands of rope that hung from his wrists.
Isabella worked on the ankle ropes blindly, still feeding M’Candliss as she did so.-But she hadn’t managed to cut all the way through when M’Candliss’ fears were realized.
“Hai!” the guard said and leaped up, frowning. “What are you doing?” He started to swing his rifle to bear.
Isabella whirled and threw the pan at him. It thunked off his shoulder, and the burning grease and hot bits of meat splashed and scalded his face; he threw up his hands, letting go of the rifle, and clawed at his eyes, screaming. “Aieee!”
M’Candliss rolled over, tried to stand. The rope was still around his ankles, but when he kicked out the last strands parted. Lack of circulation made his legs feel prickly and cumbersome; he stamped down hard on them, willing them to respond.
“Hurry!” Isabella cried. “To the horses, before—”
But the screaming of the guard had already roused the camp. Isabella grabbed Miguel’s rifle from where he had dropped it, then scrambled toward the horses. M’Candliss followed in an awkward, staggering run. The shouts of the banditos as they came out of their bedrolls, the screaming of the guard and the nervous whinnying of the horses created a confused din. Adding to it, a wild shot rang out.
Isabella cut the main picketing rope and threw herself bareback on a large bay. She fired the rifle—once, twice. Then, yelling at the top of her lungs, she kicked the horse into a hard run straight through the middle of the camp.
Border Fever Page 7
