Chapter 5
The settlement of Suicide lay about five miles due south of Gunsight Canyon and the Black River country. An hour after crossing the Texas border, McBride and Bear Miller topped a shallow rise and looked down on the town, a sprawling annex of hell huddled along the bank of a shallow creek that showed dry in places.
McBride’s gaze took in the sun-hammered, gray adobe and wood buildings, rickety corrals and scattered, tar-paper shacks, and his heart sank. Not a single shade tree or tall building redeemed the squat, squalid ugliness of the place.
Suicide did not look like a town where a man might prosper.
“Well,” Bear said, “what do you think?”
“You call this a town?”
“Nearest thing to a town you’ll find within a hundred-mile, John. A man can ride on down there and get grub, a drink and a bed. What else does a town need?”
“People, for one thing.”
“Folks are all indoors, warming at the fire. Maybe you hadn’t noticed, but it’s turned right chilly since we cleared the ridge.”
McBride eased himself in the saddle. Bear was right about that. The earlier rain had turned to a slanting, wet sleet driven by a keening wind that cut him to the bone. The old scout said it was early in the season for sleet, but in this neck of the woods a man never knew. The Texas weather was just as contrary as Texans themselves.
Stunted by a lack of water, the cottonwoods along the creek were smaller than usual and crowded close together, but prickly pear and mesquite grew thick everywhere. McBride’s eyes followed the course of the creek. Beyond the settlement it took a sharp dogleg to the north, then cut across a quarter mile of sandy brush flat before disappearing into the base of a steep, hog-backed hill.
“Bear, is that the white-painted house you were talking about?”
“Uh-huh, halfway up the hill.”
Unlike the other buildings in Suicide, the sprawling, three-story house was built of timber. It had a couple of high, tower rooms above the first two floors and was adorned with much elaborate gingerbread decoration. Behind and above a shady porch that ran the length of the house, eight wide windows showed to the front. No smoke rose from brick chimneys at each gable end and behind the house, cut into the hillside, were a barn, corral and other outbuildings. The place had a seedy, run-down look, like an ancient and impoverished dowager trying to cling to her last shreds of dignity.
McBride turned in the saddle. “Strange location to find a big house like that.”
“Kind of takes a man by surprise, huh?”
“Who lives there?”
Bear frowned. “Hell, John, you want to keep talking up here, freezing to death, or should we find us a warm berth in the saloon? We can talk all you want then.”
McBride grinned, the devil in him. “Bear, I’m making you suffer for leaving me up on the mountain with the Apaches.”
The old man opened his mouth to speak, seemed to realize that he could well dig himself into a deeper hole and shut it again. After a few moments he said, sighing in resigned exasperation, “The house belongs to a gal called Allison Elliot, and by all accounts she’s a mighty pretty young filly, a beauty they say.”
McBride’s chin pointed the way. “What’s a young woman doing up there in the middle of nowhere?”
“The story is that her pa was a gold miner who struck it rich. He figured everybody in God’s creation would be after his money, so he moved here to get away from folks. He built the house and then sent for Allison. That was ten years ago, when she was only fifteen years old. Well, Allison’s pa died a few years back, shot himself I’m told, and the little gal has lived there ever since.”
Bear irritably wiped sleet from his mustache. “They say there’s half-a-million dollars in gold bars hidden somewhere in the house, and there have been them as wanted it.” The old man pointed. “You’ve got young eyes, John. Look to the right of the place, near where the manzanita grows out of a split rock.”
McBride scanned the hillside, then nodded. “I see it.”
“Now look at the base of the rock. What do you see?”
It took a few moments, but McBride said finally, “I can make out five mounds of dirt.”
“Graves,” Bear said. “At one time or another, five men have tried to take from Allison Elliot what’s rightfully hers. The last of them was Happy Jake Mitchell, an outlaw who ran with Billy Bonney and them over to Lincoln County way. That was just a four-month ago.”
“What happened to those men?”
“Allison keeps a Sharps .50 ranged at a hundred yards. Does that answer your question?”
“She killed them?”
“Her or the old black man who does for her. His name is Moses and he don’t take a step back from nobody.” Bear leaned from his saddle, spat, then knuckled his mustache. “If you ask me, I reckon Allison herself does the shooting and Moses does the burying.” He gave McBride a sidelong glance. “Now, can we get off this rise and into somewhere warm afore my rheumatisms stiffen me like a board?”
McBride nodded. “Sure.” But he stayed where he was, thinking. Finally he said, “Allison Elliot is a woman to avoid, huh?”
“Only if’n you want to keep on living. She don’t cotton to strangers, especially menfolk.”
“Something to remember,” McBride said as he kicked his mustang into motion.
But he knew he badly wanted to meet Allison Elliot, a woman who was as beautiful as she was mysterious.
Chapter 6
John McBride led the way off the rise and into the town of Suicide.
He and Bear rode past some outlying shacks, black smoke lifting from their crooked tin chimneys, then past a blacksmith’s shop and a general store.
McBride paid close attention to the store as he passed. The place had a solid wood door and one small display window and did not seem to be well stocked. A few dusty high-button shoes for women were arranged in front with a hand-lettered sign propped against them that read: SOLD AT COST. Behind those was a zinc bathtub lying on its side, an old McClellan saddle and a rusty pyramid of canned peaches.
The ramshackle store had a forlorn, down-at-heel look and McBride decided his five hundred dollars would remain in his money belt.
A patch of open, weed-grown ground followed, then a yellow adobe building with a narrow, blanket-covered door. Next to that, on the wall, hung a painting of a howling, blue coyote, and around it in passable script were the words: EL COYOTE AZUL.
“That’s the Mex cantina,” Bear said. “The food is passable good but if you’re not used to it, steer clear of the mescal. Blow a man’s head clean off his shoulders.”
The spicy odors from the cantina were tempting and McBride’s stomach grumbled. He rode past a livery stable with a pole corral out back, another adobe building with the hopeful sign HOTEL tacked above the door, and then drew rein when Bear stopped outside the saloon. It was a windowless adobe structure with a sagging pine door and no name. Here and there what looked to be bullet holes pocked the front wall and a skinny, yellow dog lay outside, his muzzle on his outstretched paws, his eyes bleak.
The sleet had stopped, but an icy wind reached out from the Guadalupes and from horizon to horizon the sky looked like a sheet of curled lead. The air held the raw smell of snows to come and though it was still early afternoon, the day was already dark. Gloomy, cold shadows pooled everywhere and the saloon’s rickety door rattled restlessly in the relentless wind.
Bear swung from the saddle and glanced up at McBride. “This here shapes up to be a warm berth.” He looked up and down the muddy street. “Hell, I may winter here.”
“Even Suicide beats a hollow log, anytime.” McBride smiled. He waved a hand. “Well, take care of yourself, Bear Miller.”
“Where you off to, John?”
“I’m not one for saloons, so I guess I’ll head back to the cantina for a meal. After that, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ride on.”
“Maybe you will, but I doubt it. I saw the light in your eyes wh
en I was talking about that little Elliot gal.”
“You may have a point there,” McBride conceded, grinning.
Bear stepped to the door of the saloon and turned. “You be careful now, John. A Sharps big .50 don’t much care who it shoots.”
McBride swung the mustang away from the saloon and raised his hand again. “So long, Bear. I’ll keep in mind what you said.”
The old man called out after him, “You do that, John, and watch your back. Remember what I told you about the shadow of the gun.”
When McBride reached the cantina he glanced toward the saloon. But Bear had already disappeared inside.
The El Coyote Azul was snug and warm. A rough pine bar propped up on a pair of sawhorses ran down the left side of the room, with a barrel of mescal set on a wooden stand at one end. On shelves behind the bar was a variety of bottles and glasses. A few scattered tables and chairs, like the bar made of unplaned timber, completed the furniture. The cantina was lit by smoking oil lamps, and the orange light cast blue shadows in the corners of the room. Opposite McBride another blanket-covered doorway presumably led to the kitchen, judging by the smell of frying beef and onions wafting toward him.
There were no other customers. He took a seat at a table and laid his plug hat on the chair beside him. From behind the curtain he heard women talking in Spanish, then a startled female yelp followed by a burst of laughter.
Someone back there was bottom pinching, McBride guessed.
The kitchen curtain pulled back and a small, plump man stepped into the room, grinning. His glance fell on McBride. “So sorry, senor, I did not hear you come in.”
“I just got here,” McBride said.
The little man bowed. He wore a pencil-thin mustache and his hair was parted in the middle and slicked down on each side of his head, black and shining like patent leather. “My name is Manuel Cortez and I am the keeper of this fine establishment. Can I bring you something? A glass of mescal, perhaps?”
“Just food. I’m some hungry.”
“Ah, then the hungry man has come to the right place. I will bring your meal right away.”
Cortez turned toward the kitchen, but McBride’s voice stopped him. “Shouldn’t you ask what I want first?”
The little man shook his head, smiling. “For you, senor, the specialty of the house. Beef, onions, frijoles and tortillas.” Cortez gave another bobbing bow. “How does that sound?”
“Sounds good,” McBride allowed. “And cold buttermilk if you have any.”
A small disappointment chased its way across the man’s face. “That I do not have, senor.” He brightened. “But I can bring you a bottle of beer.”
McBride nodded. “That will do.”
The food was good and McBride ate with an appetite. He was aware of Cortez standing behind the bar, polishing the same glass over and over again with a red and white checkered cloth, watching him, a benign smile on his face.
After McBride sighed and pushed back from the table, the little Mexican came around the bar and hovered over him. “The food was to your liking?”
“Very good.” He took a swig of beer and swirled it around his mouth. “It had some fire to it, though.”
Cortez shrugged and spread his hands. “It is the hot peppers, senor. We Mexicans believe that without pain there can be no pleasure.”
McBride smiled. “I just experienced both of them all right.”
A silence stretched between the two men; then Cortez asked, “What brings you to Suicide, senor? If you are on the dodge, be assured, there is no law here.”
“I’m not on the dodge, just passing through.”
“With the Apaches out?” The Mexican was shocked, his black eyes rounding in disbelief.
“I didn’t know they were on the warpath until very recently.”
“You were lucky, senor, to make it this far.”
The food and the beer had mellowed McBride and he was prepared to be sociable. “I was helped by a man named Bear Miller. Know him?”
“Si, I know Bear. He is ver’ wise in the ways of the Apache.” Female laughter drifted from the kitchen as the Mexican said, “Where will you go?”
McBride shook his head. He was feeling warm and drowsy. “South I suppose. I’m looking for a store to buy. I thought I might prosper in the hardware business.”
“Ah,” was all Cortez said, but McBride read something unspoken in his eyes.
“Do you know of a hardware store for sale?” he asked quickly, rousing himself.
“Prosperity is good,” the Mexican said, stepping around the question. “A man does not know what stuff he is made of until prosperity and ease try him.” He sighed. “That is what I believe, but soon I must leave all this”—he waved a hand around the cantina—“prosperity and life of ease behind and remain as yet untested.”
McBride slipped back into relaxed lethargy. “Selling the place, huh?”
Cortez nodded. “I have to return to Sonora. My mother, she is very sick and prays that her oldest son will soon be sitting at her bedside.”
Suddenly the Mexican’s face lit up and his teeth flashed in a dazzling white smile. “Providence has brought you here, senor!” he said, his voice pitched higher by excitement. He dropped into the chair opposite McBride. “You want to buy a business and I have one to sell. We meet in the wilderness like long-lost brothers!”
It was McBride’s turn to smile. “Maybe you haven’t noticed, but the El Coyote Azul isn’t a hardware store.”
“Pah, there are no fortunes to be made in tin pots and nails. Look here, this is the business for you. I have two fat ladies in the kitchen and all you’ll have to do is sit back and”—Cortez laid his arms on the table and made a grand, sweeping gesture—“rake in the money.”
Intrigued despite himself, McBride shook off his apathy and leaned forward in his chair, stroking his chin. “You interest me. The two fat ladies do all the work and I rake in the money, huh?”
“Si, senor, you rake in the money and live a life of ease.”
McBride detected a fly in the ointment. “But, except for me, you have no customers.”
“Tuesday is always a slow day,” Cortez said. “Is sad.”
“This is Monday.”
“Another slow day.” The Mexican added quickly, “Three times a week the McAllen Brothers stage stops here to feed its passengers. Six, sometimes eight people eat here and they pay plenty for mescal and frijoles. Then there are the citizens of Suicide. On Saturday nights you can’t get a seat in here.” Cortez warmed his enthusiasm to boiling point. “And during spring roundup all the surrounding ranchers bring their punchers here.” He raised his hands and made in and out motions. “The walls go like that, there are so many hungry and thirsty men in here.”
“And you just sit back and rake in the money, huh?”
“Si, senor, I lie back at my ease and count, count, count.”
“Lie back at your ease…,” McBride repeated, considering, stubbly chin rasping under his rubbing fingers. Suddenly he threw his hands in the air. “Hell, what am I thinking? I can’t afford a place like this.”
“How much do you have, senor?” the Mexican whispered archly, moving closer. His eyes were bland and guileless.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“In gold?”
“In gold.”
Cortez bounced with excitement. He slapped the table with the flat of his hand. “That is the very amount I am asking for the El Coyote Azul! Truly the fates have brought us together this day.”
McBride was surprised. “You’ll let all this go for five hundred?”
“A sacrifice, yes. But with a sick old mother who needs me I must sell cheap.”
A full minute ticked by as McBride considered his good fortune and its effect on his young Chinese wards. The last he’d heard, the girls were thriving, and looking forward to attending school.
His mind made up, he stood and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Cortez, you have a deal.”
The Mexican
shook hands vigorously, grinning from ear to ear. He took off his stained white apron and looped it over McBride’s head. “Behold, the new keeper of El Coyote Azul.”
If anything, McBride’s grin was even wider. He had his store at last and would surely prosper in the food and drink business. Everybody had to eat.
Cortez coughed, smiled and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. McBride said, “Oh yes, I got so excited I forgot.” He unbuttoned his shirt, unbuckled his money belt and passed it to the Mexican. “No need to count it. It’s all there.”
Cortez’s smile thinned and his eyes grew harder, like chunks of polished obsidian. He carefully counted the twenty-five double eagles onto the table, then raked up the coins and shoved them into his pocket.
“As you say, senor, all there. Now I must say a quick good-bye to Maria and Conchita, then saddle my mule and ride fast for Sonora.” He made a little bow. “Now I bid the fortunate new proprietor of this cantina farewell.” He waved a hand. “Vaya con Dios.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later the women started wailing; then their caterwauling slowly faded into snuffling sobs.
McBride would console them later. Right now he was too excited. He took off the apron and suit coat, removed the holstered Smith & Wesson and folded the coat around it. Now that he was a businessman he’d later oil the revolver and put it away for good. The days of the gunfighting Tenderfoot Kid were over.
He tied the apron around himself again, stepped behind the bar, found an empty shelf and placed the coat and gun there. Then he checked the levels of the whiskey and rye bottles.
John McBride, late of the New York Police Department’s Bureau of Detectives, now proud owner of the cantina El Coyote Azul, placed both hands on the rough pine counter…and, smiling in anticipation, waited for his customers to arrive.
Chapter 7
The dismal, sunless day gave way to a murky, moonless evening.
Shadow of the Gun Page 4
