Stringer

by Lou Cameron

  “So he says. Even Anglos have been known to fib, you know.”

  “One old man, yes. A whole family I’ve known for years? Not hardly. Those crooks may have figured the old man, being an old Mex, knew more than he let on about the old days. Hell, they must have, or they wouldn’t have kidnapped his granddaughter. But they’ve all been poor as church mice since before I was born and, in any case, it won’t do that gang any good to try and pester an old man, two women, and a boy again. I sent them all out to the M Bar K and if you think I’m mean you ought to see my Uncle Don or even my Crazyauntida when strangers mess with ‘em.”

  The sheriff chuckled and said, “I remember Ida when she was a crazy school gal. I’m glad we don’t have to worry about that poor Mex family, at least. But you stay put till I make sure we’ve seen the last of those rascals.”

  Stringer swore softly and said, “If any of them are dumb enough to still be around they’re hiding smart as hell. I’ve scouted some on my own and I have it on good Miwok authority that all the local campsites are accounted for.”

  The sheriff objected, “We don’t know how dumb they may be. Sacramento can’t tell us what the details of them county records Marlowe stole were. State records only give an overall picture and we both know that one. I’m waiting on an answer to a wire I sent to Stockton. The insurance folk gave me the address of an old-timer who worked on the case, personal, years ago.”

  “How soon do you expect to hear from him, then?”

  “Lord knows. They wasn’t sure he was still alive. But in this business you learn to wait. It can get more like fishing than hunting at times. Mayhaps I’ll know more when I see you around sundown, old son.”

  The sheriff hung up. Gina slid farther across Stringer to put the handset back in its cradle and purred, “Well, as long as I’m up here, anyway. What’s the matter, darling? You look mad as a wet hen.”

  He was. It wouldn’t have been considerate to tell her why, with her in such a sassy position atop him. He smiled up at her and said, “He’s aiming to get back here by sundown.”

  Gina giggled and replied, “Goody. That gives us an excuse to do this some more without having to make up excuses.” Then she leaned way out, like she thought she was a mighty naughty kid on a merry-go-round, to snag the bottle beyond the telephone and add, “Let’s have a party.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  *

  Stringer couldn’t recall falling asleep. But he could see he must have when he noticed the lamp was lit and Gina was getting dressed. He yawned and asked what time it was. She said, “I don’t know. Four or five, I guess. Go back to sleep and save me some of that sweet strength, lover. I just have to slip downstairs and see that my help is on its toes.”

  He’d already noticed she hadn’t bothered with underwear beneath her red velvet. But he repressed another yawn and said, “I’d best go down with you and wait for the sheriff.”

  She said, “Oh, screw the sheriff. Or, better yet, screw you know who when I wake you up again, you horny rascal. That old sheriff can’t need you half as much as I do.”

  He chuckled and said, “I don’t think he’s pretty, either. But we wouldn’t want him looking for me up here, would we?”

  She shrugged her bare shoulders and said, simply, “I’m not at all ashamed of my personal habits, and what could he do about it if I was? It’s not as if you were a Chinee, you know.”

  Stringer lay back and muttered, “Tell him I rode off to interview the ghost of Joaquin Murrieta or something then. What were we drinking from that bottle a sweet while ago? It sure packed a punch, next to beer.”

  She said she liked the way he punched, bent to kiss him, not on the mouth, and told him to hold that position until she got back.

  He closed his eyes to see if he could catch a few more winks. He couldn’t. It was one thing to fall into the arms of Morpheus with a beautiful woman hugging him and another thing entire to sleep in a strange room with some sort of hell going on down below.

  He heard hoof beats and wagon wheel rumbles. The miners had to be coming home from Sheep Ranch, and the mine didn’t change shifts as early as any four or five o’clock. He reached out to trim the bedside lamp. He swore and swung his bare feet to the floor when he saw how little daylight was coming through the red drapes over the window. He stood up to gather his duds and the Persian carpet under him tried to take off with him like that magic carpet in the Arabian Nights. He smiled sheepishly and muttered, “I must be getting old. I can handle wild women and I can handle white lightning, but I can’t handle both!”

  He got dressed anyway, strapped on his gun, and went downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.

  Gina met him at the foot of the stairs to tell him, sternly, “You get right back up those stairs and take your loving like a good little boy. I have everything under control down here and I just told them we’re not to be disturbed unless the joint catches fire.”

  He said, “We got all night and the sheriff figures to get here any minute, doll.”

  She said, “They’ve come and gone, honey. I told them you were taking a nap after a hard day in the saddle and the sheriff said there was no need to disturb you. They put the bodies in a buckboard and headed down to San Andreas.”

  He grimaced and said, “I thought I heard wagon wheels. You know what I want now, Gina?”

  “I’m willing to try anything, if it doesn’t hurt.”

  He laughed and said, “It might. I’m hungry enough to eat you and a horse entire. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink on an empty stomach, either. Do you reckon that Chinee can leave your barkeep alone long enough to rustle us up some grub?”

  She laughed and said, “He’d better be on duty in the kitchen. I know for certain she’s behind the bar. Come on, I want to make my growing boy big and strong.”

  They went back to the kitchen. He didn’t see any orientals, but a fat Hispanic gal got right to work on their ham and eggs when Gina yelled at her. The boss lady took Stringer’s arm and said, “We can eat in bed. She’ll bring some coffee up as well. Let’s go.”

  That sounded reasonable as well as tempting, so that’s where he might have had his supper had not his Uncle Don come roaring through the doorway near the bottom of the stairwell about the time Stringer and Gina reached it.

  Uncle Don said, “There you are, laddy buck. Evening, Miss Gina. Where are them infernal friends of our’n, boy?”

  Stringer frowned and asked, “Haven’t the Montezes made it out to your spread yet?”

  Uncle Don replied, “They have not, and your Aunt Ida made tortillas special for ‘em. She made ‘em out of pancake mix, it’s true, but she tried, and now she’s having a fit. Sent me to fetch ‘em. I figured you’d be better at convincing such muleheaded folk they’re welcome.”

  Stringer said, “Old Mamacita promised they’d be there the other side of sundown. She could be having trouble getting the old man up and about. We’d best go build a fire under him.”

  He turned to Gina and told her he’d be back in a little while. She wailed, “What about your ham and eggs?” He patted her, as friendly as he could with his uncle watching, to assure her he’d be back before the grub or anything else he fancied could freeze solid. She still swore at him as he followed his uncle out the door.

  Uncle Don’s mount was tethered in the lot next door, too, so they mounted up and rode for the Montez spread. Stringer noticed his uncle had brought along another saddle gun. When he asked why Uncle Don said, “A man can never have too much hardware. Do you reckon old Hernan is sick?”

  Stringer shrugged and said, “He’s been sick in the head as long as I’ve known him. But he’ll still be safer out at the M Bar K for now. We figure the rascals who kidnapped his granddaughter suspect him of sitting on the secret treasure of Joaquin Murrieta.”

  “Oh, hell, if there’s one thing that poor Mex ain’t ever owned it would be money!”

  “Joaquin Murrieta’s no doubt a pipe dream, too. But the sheriff
figures another crazy old coot doing hard time in prison got at a pipe.”

  He brought his uncle up to date on the sheriff’s suspicions. The older MacKail thought it was a silly notion, too. But by the time they’d agreed they’d made it to the Montez spread.

  The house was dark. As they rode closer a worried young voice called out, “Quien es?”

  Stringer called back, “It’s us, the MacKails, Tomas. What in the hell’s going on out here?”

  Dotty opened the door for them as Tomas stayed put at his loophole with his shotgun. Dotty said, “Inside, poco tiempo! We are not alone out here and I thank God you have come to help!”

  As the MacKails dismounted near the door a shot rang out and a quarter’s worth of ‘dobe exploded near the door-jamb. Uncle Don roared defiance as Stringer dragged him inside. Dotty slammed the door shut and another slug tore through it, sending oak splinters across the room but not hitting anything important.

  Stringer and his uncle took up positions at the spare loops before trying to make sense of the dark interior. Uncle Don yelled out, “Da thaobh Lochiall’s da thaobh Lochaidh!”, whatever that meant, and added, “Whoever you are, out there, be advised you’re at war with Clan MacKail!”

  Another rifle slug spanged into ‘dobe near his loop and. Stringer warned, “Don’t tell ‘em where you are, Uncle Don. Make ‘em guess!”

  He turned to explore the dark interior with his eyes and asked if anyone could please tell him what in thunder was going on.

  Mamacita, huddled in the corner with her senile father, sobbed, “We don’t know. We were not sure, until just now, they were really there!”

  From his stoutly held position young Tomas said, grimly, “I knew they were there. The chickens told me, just as we were trying to drag the old one out the door.”

  Dotty, near the fireplace, said, “I thought my baby brother was getting senile, too, until they opened fire on us just now.”

  Tomas said, smugly, “Chickens never lie. They are out back, too!”

  Uncle Don swore and said, “Lord knows where our ponies went, with all our serious guns. They got us ranged, cuss their hides!”

  Stringer said, “We can hold ‘em off with our pistols if they get brave enough to try the one door. Tomas, I want you to listen tight before you do exactly as I say. I want you to move your head as far out of line as you can. Then I want you to fire that shotgun a lot.”

  Tomas said, “At what? I can’t see anyone out there in this dim light, even looking.”

  Uncle Don said, “Do as he says, muchacho. We ain’t too far from town and shotgun blasts carry for miles in these hills. I see no need to keep a fight private when I’m in the right, do you?”

  Tomas grinned and proceeded to make considerable noise while Stringer and his uncle covered him from the other loops. The wild fusillade drew an unwise response from the dark slope across the way and someone yipped like a kicked dog when both the MacKails threw pistol rounds at his muzzle flash.

  The fusillade seemed to drive old Hernan even crazier and he rolled off his bunk to start tearing at the floor tiles with his bare hands, sobbing, “Is a lie! I have never betrayed the cause!”

  Mamacita tried to make him stop as Stringer called out, “There’s no sense trying to dig our way out, viejo. They have the whole damn place surrounded.”

  But old Hernan had a tile loose, now, and seemed to think he was a gopher, scooping dirt all over him and Mamacita as he sobbed and dug for China. Uncle Don said, “Oh, hell, let him have his fun. At least it keeps him in one place, out of line with the door.”

  Tomas shouted, “Something’s up out there!”

  Stringer and Uncle Don both looked out their loops to see that, sure enough, the Montez mud cart was outlined clearly by the glow of burning brush. Uncle Don swore and said, “They’re fixing to roll a fire cart down at us!”

  Stringer didn’t answer. He was busy reloading every chamber. When he’d done so, he told Dotty to hand over that pepperbox, too, if she still had it.

  She said, “I have it. It is not loaded.”

  He said, “Well, load it and get it over here, for God’s sake!”

  Uncle Don shouted, “Here they come, the sons of bitches!”

  He was right. Stringer searched for a target as the mud cart filled with burning chaparral tore downhill toward them like the devil incarnate was driving it. As it hit the flat in front of the house two men fanned out to either side, barely visible by the light of their own evil-making. Both MacKails and Tomas Montez fired and the boy crowed, “Hot damn! I got one!” as both fell and rolled out of sight, at least one yelling like a woman giving birth.

  Uncle Don said, “That’ll learn you,” as the fire cart slammed against the door.

  The door held, barely, but some flame and a lot of smoke was licking through the cracks. It would have made it easier to see, inside, if their eyes hadn’t started to water so. Uncle Don said, “The surly bastards used some pine knots to get that cart burning good, didn’t they? I sure wish I hadn’t taken that leak on my way in from the M Bar K. Forget what I just said, ladies.”

  Dotty didn’t. She snatched up the coffee pot and threw the contents against the door. If anything, her efforts made the smoke worse. Stringer said, “Good thinking. Poor aim. See if you can find something as wet to pour slower, near the top, Dotty.”

  Mamacita produced a chamber pot and asked if that might help. It seemed to reduce the flames a mite, but the acrid reek of hot piss made them all start crying harder. Dotty rummaged under some sacking and produced a big green bottle. As she moved toward the doorway with it she said, “This tequila ought to help,” but even Tomas yelled at her not to dare.

  As she looked confused, Stringer said, “We want a fire extinguisher, not a bomb, Dotty. There’s only one thing left that might work. Everyone stand clear, near this front wall. Mamacita, get your old father out of that corner and hunker him this way, too.”

  Uncle Don nodded and said, “It may work. But let me try her, laddy buck. I ain’t got as many years to lose.”

  Stringer said, “You’re married. I’m not. Cover me and fire at will even if you can’t see Will.”

  His uncle told him he was a stubborn child and resumed his position as Stringer took a deep breath, made sure everyone else was covered, and opened the door.

  The owlhoots all around had sent the fire cart against it with that very move in mind, of course. But most of their rounds tore into the cart, scattering firebrands in every direction, as Stringer grabbed the tongue and shoved it back just far enough to matter before he lost his hat and a tuft of hair that went with it. He ducked back inside, leaving the door opened flat against fireproof ‘dobe. The cart burned harmlessly, now, a few feet clear. Uncle Don called out, “What are you waiting for, boys? Can’t you see our door is open to visitors? Come on in, if you really stand up to piss, you yellow-livered baby-snatching sons of a one-eyed banker and a clapped-up one-legged whore! Oops, I’m sorry I said that in front of ladies, ladies.”

  Stringer took the shotgun from Tomas and moved as far back as he could to cover the gaping entrance against a rush. He stepped in the hole old Hernan had dug in the floor and cursed him while he was at it. Dotty shoved Tomas aside to prop her pepperbox out his loop as the kid protested, “Hey, let me do that. You’re just a girl!”

  At his own loop, Uncle Don said, “I don’t think they got the guts. I can see pretty far up the far slope now, thanks to them flames. Nothing’s moving.”

  Stringer asked what about the two they’d shot at and Uncle Don replied, “I just told you. They ain’t moving, neither. Between us, I’d say Clan MacKail has whittled that gang down some. They might have had enough and…Oh, shoot, I hear hoofbeats coming, and all this time I was hoping we’d licked ‘em ourselves.”

  Stringer stayed where he was until he saw a gent wearing a tin star rein in out front, yelling dumb questions. Tomas said, “You were right. My shotgun blasts brought help from town!”

  As it turned ou
t, the sheriff and his men had heard the distant but considerable gunfire well on their way down the grade to San Andreas, and that was what had taken them so long to get back.

  Stringer and his uncle joined them out front as one of the lawmen rolled one of the men they’d downed on his back and called out, “I know this poor mortal. He’s the Chinee who works for Miss Gina.”

  Uncle Don opined, “That’ll learn him to stick to washing dishes.”

  Stringer said, “I knew they had to be somewhere when they weren’t raising hell. Miss Gina would know better than us who she might have hired recent as casual help. Old Marlowe was smart enough to have his gang hide out right among the rest of us innocent lambs.”

  The sheriff said, “Never mind about all that. What on earth has been going on here?”

  Stringer saw there was no way to keep them out of the Montez house, so he led the way in and kicked some loose dirt in the hole old Hernan had dug while Dotty innocently lit an oil lamp. Mamacita was holding the old man’s head in her lap in a corner. She said, “I am not sure, but I think he is no longer with us, Señores!”

  The sheriff found that more interesting and knelt to feel for a pulse as Stringer explained, “Uncle Don and me got here just as they came after Dotty again. Do you reckon they could have been white slavers?”

  The sheriff said, “Whatever they was after, I’m writing this up as another murder, whether poor Hernan died natural or not. He was Calaveras County, dammit.”

  He got to his feet to announce, loudly, “All right, boys. Let’s head for Miss Gina’s and see if she can point out any missing help or customers. We can cut for sign once we have a grander notion who we’re looking for!”

  As the sheriff grumped out Stringer told him he and Uncle Don would catch up as soon as they could find their own mounts. The sheriff told his men to haul the extra cadavers along to put in the buckboard they’d left in town.