Border Fever

by Pronzini, Bill

  M’Candliss emptied his pistol at them, but in the moonlight he could see that none of the three dropped out of leather. Seconds later they were gone behind another low hill. The sound of their horses’ hoof beats faded to silence as M’Candliss slowed the clay bank to walk.

  When he neared the pond he saw movement in the grass to one side, the dark shape of a man on the ground. M’Candliss dismounted and went to the man in cautious strides. But the man was hurt, grunting with pain, and it was obvious that he was not one of the raiders; he wore cowboy clothes, and was a towheaded youth not long out of his teens. His shirt was bloody in the area of the right shoulder and there was a gash under his chin that was bleeding profusely.

  “Thanks, Mister,” the youth managed to say as M’Candliss knelt beside him. “I reckon you just saved my bacon. They’d have killed me sure if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Mexican bandits?” M’Candliss asked.

  “That’s what I thought when they come swooping down on me. But I got a good look at one of them before they plugged me; hell, he was no more Mexican than I am.”

  “You ever see him before?”

  “Matter of fact, yeah One of Gillette’s boys.”

  “Arlo Gillette?”

  “That’s him,” the youth said. “Mr. Miles don’t like Gillette worth a damn and neither do I. Troublemaker. And a damned fool too, if he’s taken to hiring men who turn out to be bandits.”

  M’Candliss frowned as he tore the youth’s shirt open. The chest wound, he saw, was not serious; a good deal of the blood came from the gash in the cowboy’s jaw. “You’ll be all right, son; you’re not hurt bad. What’s your name?”

  “Ben Eckinshaw. You?”

  M’Candliss told him. Then he asked, “What were you doing out here tonight?”

  “Keeping an eye on things,” Eckinshaw said. “Mr. Miles has been having trouble with them Mexican revolutionaries - and he ordered a bunch of us out to patrol his range.” He shook his head sheepishly, wincing. “Reckon I didn’t do such a good job of patrolling, did I?”

  “You did well enough. What were those three doing here?”

  “Take a look at those sacks over to the pond,” Eckinshaw said. “They’ll tell you right enough.”

  M’Candliss straightened and went to the water’s edge. In the shallow pond he saw the outline of three sacks, ropes attached with which the raiders had been dragging them. Wading in to the knees, he retrieved one and held it up. The water around it was a chalky white; the contents were half gone and dissolving rapidly, dropping more whiteness from the holes in the burlap. The sack had the head of a bull painted on one side, with words stenciled beneath it. The words read: Stockyard Brand Pure Quicklime.

  “Careful there, Mr. M’Candliss,” Eckinshaw called. “You’ll burn your hands if you ain’t careful.”

  M’Candliss wasted no time. He dragged the sack from the pond, heeding the youth’s advice to be careful, and hauled it up the bank far enough so that the runoff would not drain into the pond. Then he went in for the second and third bags and laid them alongside the first.

  “You reckon enough of that lime got into the water to poison it?” Eckinshaw asked him when he was done.

  “Might have. You’ll have to run tests.”

  “Damn!”

  “Tell me some things about Arlo Gillette,” M’Candliss said. “Him and Mr. Miles been feuding long?”

  “Wouldn’t call it feuding, exactly. Mr. Miles don’t like Gillette’s way of doing business, nor all his hate talk about the Mexicans. He also don’t like Gillette’s plans for expansion.”

  “Expansion?”

  “Gillette’s been trying to get Mr. Miles to sell out to him. I reckon he’s got visions of owning all the grazing land between the border and the Galiuros. Buildin’ himself an empire, you might say. Some figure that’s why he’s trying to get into politics. Wants to own the whole goddamn Territory.”

  M’Candliss mulled this over, and the answers he came up with were hard ones. It Could be that Gillette, in his greed, was taking advantage of the Mexican insurrection to do some private raiding of his own on neighboring ranches like Miles’—poisoning water, destroying property, shooting men, and making it all look like the work of Esteban’s revolucionarios. Hell, it could even be that Gillette was mixed in with Gueterma, a pair of megalomaniacs banding together to create a reign of terror so that each could build his own private dictatorship on either side of the border. Gueterma had bought the services of Bruno Deney and Vern Beasley, among dozens, maybe even hundreds of others; why not the services of Arlo Gillette as well? And if Gillette was in cahoots with Gueterma, he might know where Clement Holmes was being held.

  M’Candliss asked, “How far is Gillette’s ranch from here?”

  “About eight miles southwest, in Green Valley,” Eckinshaw told him. “Why?”

  “I’m thinking I might pay a call on him. Check on that hand of his who helped shoot you up.”

  “You want me to go along? I wouldn’t mind facing that bastard myself.”

  “No,” M’Candliss said. “You’d better get yourself doctored up. But I’d be obliged if you’d sell me your pistol. This one I’ve got is empty and I don’t have fresh cartridges for it.”

  “Sell it to you, hell,” Eckinshaw said. “You can have it. Least I can do in return for saving my life.”

  Thanks. But you take this Harrington. Man’s got to have a weapon these days, seems like, particularly in this neighborhood.” He exchanged pistols with the cowboy. “Your horse still around, or did they run him off?”

  “Should be in those trees yonder,” Eckinshaw said. “That’s where I left him.”

  “I’ll check. You figure you’re steady enough to ride home?”

  “Sure.”

  M’Candliss went into the trees, found Eckinshaw’s horse, and led the animal back to the pond. Then he got directions to Green Valley, loaded the cowboy’s old Colt, and shook hands with Eckinshaw. He mounted his clay bank and rode out.

  He debated going back to look for Isabella, to tell her if she was still there what he intended to do. But more than an hour had passed already, and two would have passed by the time he made it around to the other side of the hill. If she did as he’d told her—and he thought that she would—she’d be long gone by then. Let her go on alone; she was a strong woman, resourceful, and the sooner word of Gueterma’s plans got back to Adobe Junction, the better. No use him wasting any more time, either. He’d see what he could find out at Gillette’s ranch and then skedaddle for Adobe Junction himself.

  Less than two hours later, M’Candliss walked his horse up a long rise flanked on either side by heavy thorn and brush. When he topped the rise he dismounted and dropped the reins. He stood motionless for several seconds, studying the valley floor below and what it contained.

  Gillette’s Bar-G ranch was at the near end—a large rambling house shaded by paloverde trees, a scatter of outbuildings, a corral and hay barn, a silo, and the big gallows-like windlasses of a pair of wells. All the outbuildings were dark including the bunkhouse. But lantern light showed behind some of the windows in the main house. The men who had poisoned the Miles pond and shot Eckinshaw were either in there, or they had already finished patching up the one who’d been wounded and had turned in at the bunkhouse.

  On foot M’Candliss made his way down the brushy slope, careful not to break a branch or set a loose, stone rolling. At the bottom were clumps of mesquite and a couple of paloverde, then a whitewashed fence and the ranch yard beyond. Standing in the shadows, he took a long look around at the buildings. Nothing stirred anywhere that he could see.

  He moved ahead to the fence, climbed through, and then made his way across the yard, using the trees and one of the wells to cover his approach. When he reached the side wall of the ranch house he eased along to the nearest of the lighted windows and edged his head around to peer inside.

  The room was opulent; luxury in a wilderness of cactus and sand. There were ho
rsehair-stuffed chairs, each upholstered in a different color, and a heavy roll-top desk with silver handles and accessories. Hanging in the middle of the ceiling was a lighted candelabra with an old rose base and crystal drops, and long bands of twisted metal rather than the usual chains. The wallpaper, a rarity itself in this barren land, was bright with pink nosegays, and there were fine paintings on the wall of men on horseback, and hounds, and other mounted men in the process of jumping fences.

  At first glance M’Candliss saw all of those and nothing more; the room seemed empty of habitation. But on a second, closer look, he realized that there was someone lying on a leather couch on the far side of the room. The couch was positioned so that its back was toward the window and it faced a cold fireplace; only the man’s head was visible to M’Candliss, turned in profile. A silver-maned head, with just enough of the bearded features discernible for M’Candliss to recognize who it was.

  Clement Holmes.

  Chapter Ten

  Holmes moved his head as M’Candliss watched, and a snuffling congested noise came from him, just audible through the window. At least he’s alive, M’Candliss thought, tight-lipped. He tested the window sash, found that it was unlocked. He slid it up and stepped over the sill into the room.

  He didn’t move for a moment, listening. There were no sounds anywhere else in the house, no sounds at all except for Holmes’ catarrhal wheezing. M’Candliss cat footed across to the couch. When he came around in front of it he saw that Holmes was trussed up with ropes, hand and foot, and that his aristocratic features were feverish and twisted into an expression of acute displeasure. His eyes were closed, but he seemed to sense M’Candliss’ presence and opened them. They kept on opening, widening into a look of surprise and intense relief. He opened his mouth, but M’Candliss shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Holmes nodded and remained silent.

  M’Candliss fished out his clasp knife, hunkered, and began to cut through the ropes that bound the diplomat. As he did so, he murmured, “Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I am now. How did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t,” M’Candliss said. “Chalk it up to luck and Providence. Where’s Gillette?”

  “Somewhere in the house. At least he was a few minutes ago, the last time he looked in on me. How many men have you got with you, Captain?”

  “None.”

  “None? Good God, Gillette has a dozen or more here at the ranch. How are we going to get away?”

  “We’ll manage. Nobody saw me come in, I’m sure of that. Do you think you can walk?”

  “If I can’t,” Holmes said, “I’ll hobble.” He coughed, sniffled, and winced. “My grippe is much worse. I fear I have pneumonia.”

  “I hope not. But even at that, it’d be better than a bullet in your chest.”

  Holmes shuddered this time. “Yes. Neither Gillette nor that man at the mine, Deney, said so, but I gathered that would be my fate.” He paused. “That was where I was taken after they kidnapped me in Adobe Junction—to an old silver mine nearby.”

  “I know,” M’Candliss said. “We traced you there, but we showed up too late. They’d already moved you out.”

  “How did you trace me?”

  “I’ll explain everything later, sir.”

  M’Candliss finished sawing through the last of the ropes, put the knife away, and helped Holmes to his feet. The governor’s man was a bit unsteady, but he was able to walk without aid. M’Candliss pointed him toward the open window across the room-and followed a step behind him.

  Footsteps sounded somewhere nearby, inside the house. M’Candliss stopped, his hand dropping to the butt of Eckinshaw’s Colt. In the next second there was a noise beyond a pair of mahogany double doors. M’Candliss looked at the window, but they were too far away from it to make a run that way and hope to get through it in time. He shoved Holmes to one side, drew the Colt, and set himself just as one of the doors popped inward.

  Arlo Gillette came into the study alone. He saw M’Candliss at the same time M’Candliss saw him, and his heavy face twisted with a mixture of disbelief and rage. He wore the same dark leather coat be had in Adobe Junction, still with its right side pulled back and tucked against the butt of his S&W .44. He snapped, “You!” viciously, and went for the pistol.

  M’Candliss had no choice; it was kill or be killed. He fired just as Gillette cleared leather, and his bullet took the big man in the chest and spun him backward into the closed half of the doors. The rancher caromed off it and sprawled on his side in the open doorway, his hand still clutching the .44. One leg twitched, but it was nothing more than a spasm. Gillette was finished, and so were his grandiose plans to make Arizona Territory into his own private empire.

  And so were M’Candliss and Holmes, if they didn’t get out of there. The sound of the single shot had been loud in the room, and with the window open it would have been heard over at the bunkhouse. Holmes was already moving toward the window, a sickly expression on his face, but he was moving too slowly to suit M’Candliss. M’Candliss prodded him to the opening, pushed him through, and swung out himself. In the distance he could hear men shouting. He grabbed Holmes’ arm and ran him away from the house, toward the cover of a paloverde nearby.

  A man’s voice yelled, “Hey, there! Hey, you, stop!”

  Running, M’Candliss saw four dark figures rushing toward them across the yard, one of them carrying a lantern. Light from the lantern and from the moon outlined the pistols in their hands. M’Candliss snapped a shot at the men, and with his other hand he sent Holmes sprawling into the shadows of the paloverde just as two answering shots erupted.

  Neither of the bullets came close. M’Candliss had already left his feet in a diving roll that carried him in next to Holmes in the pocket of darkness. He came up on his knees, looking back toward the men. They had scattered for cover, and the one with the lantern had blown out the flame. A bullet kicked up adobe a few feet to M’Candliss’ left, and another splintered bark from the paloverde’s trunk. The night had come alive with muzzle flashes and echoing gunfire.

  The same voice as before shouted, “You get ‘em, Pete?”

  “Ain’t sure,” another voice answered. “Don’t think I hit either one.”

  “Ben!” the first voice said. “Go inside the house and see if Mr. Gillette is all right.”

  “On my way.”

  M’Candliss knew he and Holmes were trapped behind the tree. There was open space on either side of them, and in the moonlight they would be clear targets if they moved out. If he’d been alone, he might have been able to make a run for the fence and the mesquite beyond. But with Holmes in his weakened condition, he’d never be able to get both of them to safety. He couldn’t leave the diplomat... or could he?

  An idea came to him. He tilted his head skyward. Clouds floated all around the moon, drifting pale wisps like thin strands of lace across its face; none of them concealed it long. But other clouds, bigger ones, were in the sky, and there was a chance that one of them would blot out the moonlight for a few seconds or more. It had to happen soon, though. Otherwise Gillette’s men would surround them, and they wouldn’t stand a chance then.

  “What now, Captain?” Holmes asked His voice was shaky, but he hadn’t lost his nerve. After what he’d been through already, it would take more than what they were up against now to take away his courage.

  “We’ve only got one chance,” M’Candliss said. “As soon as one of those clouds blocks off the moon, I’ll make a run for the house.”

  “What for?”

  “To draw their attention away from you,” M’Candliss said, “and to give me room to maneuver. If I can create enough of a diversion, you might be able to make it clear.”

  “Are you sure that’s the only way?”

  “Dead sure. See that slope out beyond the fence? My horse is up at the crest. You get that far, ride out as fast as you can.”

  “Understood,” Holmes said grimly.

  “You know how to u
se a pistol?”

  “Yes. I’m a good shot.”

  “Okay. Then you take this one.” M’Candliss pushed Eckinshaw’s Colt into the diplomat’s hand.

  “What about you? You’ll be unarmed.”

  “Not for long, maybe. Gillette’s gun is still in the study. If I can get inside there...”

  He let the rest of it trail off. A heavy cloud formation was just starting to drift over the edge of the moon; and voices reached his ears again from across the ranch yard.

  “He’s dead, Clint!” It was the one who had gone to check on Gillette. “The boss is dead! Shot clean through the heart.”

  “Damn!” Clint said. He seemed to be the leader. “Pete, you get a look at the bastard over there with Holmes?”

  “Yeah. It’s that Ranger, M’Candliss.”

  Pause. “Well, he won’t get away this time. He’s a dead man for sure—him and Holmes both.”

  There was more talk, but the men lowered their voices and M’Candliss couldn’t hear what they were saying. Not that he needed to hear; he knew they were working out the best way to deploy so they could surround the paloverde. The time to move was now, moonlight or no moonlight.

  Tensing, he glanced skyward again. The cloud formation had swallowed more of the moon, and the pale light in the ranch yard was fading. He whispered to Holmes, “It’s now or never. Don’t do any shooting unless you have to, and don’t make any noise. Make them think you’re wounded or already dead.”

  “Just as you say.”

  Three-quarters of the moon was obscured when M’Candliss made his run for the ranch house. The element of surprise was on his side; he had covered a third of the distance, running in a weaving crouch, before they spotted him and sent the first shot his way. He felt a bullet tug at his pant leg and sting across the back of his calf, and he left his feet again in another diving roll. A volley of slugs slashed the air above him as he rolled into the shadows along the side wall, unhurt.