“About that,” Luis agreed.
In my mind I saw the Wagner motorcycle leaving Moralos, the thin rooster tails of dust kicked up from its tires, the way its lanky rider had leaned forward over the handlebars as he guided the bike through a thorny forest of ocotillo and prickly pear. Dragging the leather string with its grisly catch out of the way, I went through the rest of Felix’s illicit cache, but couldn’t find any kind of identification, other than an inscription inside the lid of one of the pocket watches: To my Darling Husband, and below that, at the bottom, Your Loving Sarah.
“Makes me wish we’d taken time to root that hog out of the brush,” Luis said. “For this I would have gladly killed him.”
“Fate will catch up with Felix Perez soon enough,” I predicted. I said that figuring a wounded man alone in that country didn’t stand much of a chance, unless Davenport sent someone back to look for him, and I couldn’t fathom the old man having that much compassion.
Luis picked up the string of ears and threw them over the edge of the mountain. Then he scooped up the other items—the pocket watches and rings and all the rest—and tossed them after the ears. I can still see those photos caught in an updraft, swirling above our heads for several seconds before the wind finally scattered them.
We moved out again at dusk, and reached Sabana shortly after midnight. I led through the town’s winding streets until we were within a couple of blocks of the former garrison, then turned into an empty lot behind an abandoned tinsmith’s shop. There was a small corral set back in the shadows that didn’t looked like it had been used since Castillo’s Army of Liberation had taken over the town, and we hitched our horses to the railing.
“We should have kept the pinto’s saddle for this one,” Luis lamented as he guided the bay mare into the corral with a hand on her jaw.
“I didn’t think she’d follow us this far,” I confessed.
“She is loyal,” Luis replied, patting the mare’s neck affectionately, “but I think she is also too tired to make another hard run. We will need a fresh mount for the woman.” He looked at me. “If we can get her out.”
“We’ll need to be ready if we do,” I agreed.
We walked back to the street, staring toward the central plaza. The garrison was to the south of the plaza and above it by twenty-five or thirty feet—I think I’ve already mentioned that the town was built on a series of benches rising above the river. Only the church sat higher, a towering adobe structure whose bell used to toll with irritating regularly at midnight and noon.
“What do you think?” Luis asked, nodding toward a still-open cantina on the far side of the plaza where several horses were standing patiently, swatting listlessly at flies.
“I reckon if they catch us, they’ll put us in front of a firing squad no matter what we do. Might as well be shot for stealing a horse as trying to break out a prisoner.” I gave Luis’ arm a gentle poke. “Pick a good one,” I said, then walked back to where our own mounts waited and began examining the riggings as best I could in the dark. With luck we’d be able to slip inside the garrison, then back out again with the woman and child, without disturbing a soul, but we’d need to be ready, too. Just in case hell started to pop.
It took Luis only a couple of minutes to return with a sturdy-looking dun, a heavy vaquero’s saddle cinched to its back. Grinning self-consciously, he said, “If I had known stealing horses was so easy, I might have taken it up years ago.”
“Looks like you’ve got an eye for it,” I replied, running my hand over the dun’s shoulder and down its forearm, admiring its strength and the sleekness of its hide. It was a good horse that had been well taken care of. Someone was going to be almighty ticked off when they discovered it missing.
I loosened the Smith & Wesson in its holster but left the Marlin behind, figuring a couple of men walking up the street too heavily armed might draw unwanted attention, but I felt peculiar without it. Like I’d left the house without my pants on. A handgun, if you’ll pardon the pun, is handy to have around, but I’d always preferred a rifle, being a better shot with a long gun than a revolver.
We went to the plaza, then turned south toward the garrison. It was uphill all the way, and I was sweating heavily before we were halfway there, although I suspect it was as much from nerves as it was the climb. We took our time, just a couple of amigos heading home late from a night on the town. Luis had the side closest to the street, where his sombrero would help mask my lighter colored Stetson and gringo features. At the next block we stopped catty-corner from the garrison and rolled a couple of cigarettes, studying the bandit stronghold from the corners of our eyes.
The former Federale garrison was a sprawling complex surrounded by thick adobe walls eight feet high. The main entrance was set in the middle of the lower wall, double gates of solid oak planks that could be swung back wide enough to allow a good-size supply wagon to be driven inside. Or a company of Mexican cavalry. On that night there was a heavyset man standing loosely at attention to one side of the entrance. A lantern hanging from an iron spike driven into the wall above his head illuminated a good portion of the street in front of him.
“Have you ever been inside?” Luis asked, thumbing a match into flame.
I shook my head as I accepted the light. My credentials as a trader, even this far south, were tarnished by my refusal to buy a license or pay an import or export fee, but I guess Guille had been inside numerous times, and had explained the layout to Luis in some detail.
“Let’s go around back,” Luis said.
We moved on, drawing on our cigarettes and conversing quietly, in the manner of men-about-town everywhere. The guard at the front gate graced us with barely a glance, and I told Luis that, if we had to, we could probably force our way past him.
“It will be better in back,” Luis assured me.
It was, too. The rear of the post appeared even more vulnerable than the front. The entry was smaller, for one thing, more like a large door than a gate, and the single guard leaning against the rough mud wall looked as if he had been fighting sleep for quite some time. There was a lantern there, as well, but it was sitting on the ground instead of hanging from a peg, and its glass was nearly black with soot. The guard’s carbine, one of those stubby single-shot Remingtons that were so popular in Mexico during those turbulent years, was propped against the wall at his side.
We halted behind what I at first thought was a buckboard with its front wheels chocked against the grade, parked across the side street from the garrison, but a second glance revealed that it was an automobile. More crudely built than others I’d seen, but gasoline-powered nonetheless, and I remember thinking with some surprise, Even here.
Trying to remain unobtrusive, we dropped our half-smoked cigarettes and ground them out under our heels. The guard hadn’t noticed us yet, and I wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
“Did Guille say when they changed sentries?
“No, unfortunately he did not.”
“From the way that hombre’s head is bobbing, I’d say he’s been there a while.”
“Then we should not tarry.”
I chewed thoughtfully at my lower lip, wondering if there was some way we could approach on the sly and not be spotted. Then Luis motioned toward one of the rocks shoved against the front wheel of the automobile.
“Bring that,” he said. “I have an idea.”
I didn’t question him. Kicking the head-size stone free, I tucked it under my arm like a football and we sauntered back down the side street until we were no longer in the guard’s view. Once out of sight, we hurried across the dark street. At the garrison’s wall, Luis said, “If I can get on top, I can follow it around to where the sentry dozes.”
“It’s worth a try,” I agreed.
Lacing my fingers together like a stirrup, I lifted him high enough to scramble on up. Then I hoisted the stone overhea
d, and he plucked it from my fingers. Rising cautiously atop the humped crown of the wall, he flashed me a quick but apprehensive grin, then took off in an almost dainty stride, the heavy rock carried in both hands in front of his stomach, his toes pointed out against the slanted crest.
I followed as far as the garrison corner, then removed my broad-brimmed hat to peer around the edge. I couldn’t see Luis from where I was standing, and the wait seemed to stretch on for so long that I started to get worried. Then a pair of brown hands extended out over the wall, and for a moment I felt a pang of doubt about what we were doing. That rock probably weighed ten pounds or more, and it occurred to me that it could kill the man if it struck him right. Then I thought of Guille, and who knew how many others who had been gunned down by Soto and his hooligans, and brushed my qualms aside. Luis hands parted slightly and the stone plummeted toward the ground. Hearing the melon-like thump of the rock striking the sentry’s head, I quickly darted around the corner.
Luis’ aim had been true. A broad gash above the guard’s brows was pumping blood across his craggy features, and his eyes had rolled back in his head. But he was still alive, and I felt oddly pleased that we hadn’t killed him.
The guard’s leather-brimmed kepi had been knocked off by the stone. I kicked it aside, then hurriedly stripped off his jacket before it became saturated with blood. A hand-forged key hung from the man’s neck by a slim cotton cord, and I took that and a plain Colt revolver in a scarred flap holster, as well. Then I hauled him into a sitting position with his back to the wall, his knees bent up to just under his nose. Grabbing a double handful of collar, I tugged his loose-fitting shirt up in back, then down over his lacerated scalp. Standing back, I studied my work with some satisfaction. From a distance the sentry would look like he was sitting down on the job, but with his head hooked back like it was, it wouldn’t appear as if he were asleep. Or worse, that he was unconscious. And it didn’t hurt, I decided, that the heavy cotton fabric would help staunch the flow of blood.
“J. T.!”
I looked up. Luis was perched on his hands and knees atop the humped wall, staring down anxiously. I held up the key, and he exhaled in obvious relief.
“Open the gate,” he whispered. “I can crawl down that way.”
I inserted the key in the lock, the simple tumbler inside flipping back with a barely audible click, and the gate swung inward. I stopped it where Luis could grab the top, then swing down to catch a cross-support with his toes. From there it was an easy drop to the ground. As soon as he was down, I shut the gate, but didn’t lock it.
Most of the enclosed compounds that I’ve been in had the bulk of their dwellings butted up against the inner walls, but the garrison at Sabana was different. Its outer walls were bare on the inside, without even a walkway along the top to keep watch from. Its buildings were clustered in the center of the enclosure like a bunch of mud blocks. Lamplight burned in a few of the windows, but there were no guards.
“Where’s the woman?” I asked.
Luis’ eyes were darting back and forth, trying to mesh the picture Guille had painted in his mind with the reality of what he saw before him. After a moment’s hesitation, he jutted his chin toward a low building near the west wall. “That one, I think.”
We took off at a swift walk, neither of us wishing to linger outside any longer than was necessary. As we crossed the empty space between the gate and the flat-roofed structure Luis had pointed out, I started handing him the items I’d taken off the guard. He put on the revolver and holster first, then the jacket and the kepi hat, handing me his sombrero to carry. The last thing I gave him was the Remington carbine, with its heavy cartridge belt of 7 x 57 ammunition, the same gun Soto’s men had carried at Dos Puentes.
We paused at the door with the natural reluctance of someone about to blindly stick their hand in a dark hole without knowing what was inside. Neither of us spoke. I think we were so deep into the mire by then that words had become irrelevant. Then Luis tugged resolutely on his jacket’s lapels, and I tripped the latch and stepped back. Our plan was that if there was anyone inside, Luis would try to pass himself off as one of Soto’s latest recruits, but thankfully the door opened on a long, empty hallway, running down the center of the building. We slipped inside and I closed the door. There was a candle burning in a sconce at the far end of the corridor, but otherwise the narrow passage was bare, without even a bench or a runner to break its brittle sterility. Not counting the second exit at the far end of the hall, there were six closed doors before us, three on either side.
“Guille said she would probably be in one of the rooms on our left, but he didn’t know which one,” Luis breathed.
We began inching our way down the corridor. The floor was planed oak, darkly polished and worn nearly smooth as glass by the thousands of boots that had scuffed its length over the years. Coming to the first door, I cautiously pressed down on the latch. It opened easily, and from the darkness within a masculine voice sleepily grumbled, “Who is it?”
“Luis,” Luis replied quietly. “Go back to sleep.”
I pulled the door closed and stepped back, my heart like a wildcat on the end of a short leash. We waited and listened, but when we didn’t hear anything more from inside, we moved on to the next room.
None of the doors had locks, but this one had a long iron stake—the kind trail cooks used to use to suspend their kettles over a fire—braced behind the latch in a way that made it impossible to open from inside. I removed the bar as quietly as possible. I think we both had a fair idea of what we’d find on the other side, but, after our experience at the first door, we went in softly, our fingers wrapped around the grips of our revolvers.
There was a candle burning in here, too. Its flame guttered briefly as I opened the door, then rose back to its full height, revealing a cramped room with a bunk, a table and bench, and a shuttered window in the outside wall.
Despite our efforts at silence, the woman was awake. Perhaps she’d never been asleep, although the hour was late. She sat fully dressed on the edge of the bunk, clutching a small, brown-haired child to her breast. The woman’s eyes were wide with alarm, although she didn’t cry out. The little girl’s face was pressed into her mother’s shoulder as if trying to hide. In English, I said, “Abby Davenport?”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Latham, this is Vega. Your husband sent us to get you out of here.”
“Charles,” she said, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “Have you seen …?”
“He’s with your husband, ma’am. He’s safe.”
Some of the rigidness seemed to go out of her with my words, and her eyes misted over. Luis and I stepped inside, and Luis closed the door. I’d brought the iron bar with us, and quietly set it out of the way.
I’ll admit right here that Abby Davenport wasn’t what I’d envisioned. Considering her husband’s wealth and influential connections, I’d expected someone younger and higher-bosomed, with a golden mane and a flawless peaches-and-cream complexion. Even taking into account her recent ordeal, the woman sitting in front of me would never be considered classically beautiful. She was stoutly built with a plain round face and sandy hair, parted in the middle, then pulled back and coiled in what remained of a once fashionable coiffure. She wore a cornflower blue traveling dress, the sharp-pointed toes of a pair of black shoes peeking out from beneath its grimy hem like the unblinking eyes of a mouse. To be honest, if I hadn’t known better, I would have mistaken her for a handsome but work-worn farm wife, rather than the spouse of a prosperous American merchant.
Moving deeper into the room, Luis said, “Are you all right, señora?”
“Yes, we’re fine.” She was stroking the little girl’s tousled hair. “Hungry and frightened, but unharmed. You … you said Edward is here?”
“No, he didn’t come into Sabana with us,” Luis explained, then, after a moment’s pause, adde
d what wasn’t really a lie, but was still mighty shy of the truth, “He is in the hills north of town with your son.”
Abby looked momentarily perplexed, then shook her head as if to physically dislodge any further questions regarding her husband’s whereabouts. “How do we get out of here?” she asked pragmatically.
“With a little luck, we’ll just walk out,” I replied. “You need to know that we weren’t able to work out a ransom for you and your daughter. We’re going to try to sneak you out the back way, but we’ll have to be quick about it, and quiet.”
“I understand,” she said, then added, “In case … in case something happens and I’m not able to express this later, I want to thank both of you for what you are attempting. I shall always be grateful.”
My throat tightened unexpectedly. It’s amazing what a simple statement of appreciation can do to a person’s morale. “You’d best save your thanks for when we get back to Arizona,” I said huskily. “We’ll have more time then.”
It was a warm moment between the three of us—the four of us, really, for the child, Susan, was staring at us in wonder—but it didn’t last. A door banged open in the hall, and a voice demanded to know who had removed the iron bar from the outer latch. The color seemed to drain from Abby’s face. I suspect it did from mine, as well. Muttering under his breath, Luis headed for the door, while I palmed the Smith & Wesson on my way to the window.
Luis flung the door open and stepped into the hall. “What is all this commotion?” he demanded authoritatively.
An angry curse was his answer, and he ducked inside a second before a gun thundered in the narrow passageway, its bullet raking the wall like a giant fingernail. Luis slammed the door closed and threw me a desperate look. I was pushing at the shutter, but it was nailed shut. “J. T.!” he hissed.
Returning the Smith & Wesson to its holster, I grabbed the bench from beside the table and raised it above my shoulder. I wasn’t even thinking at that point, just reacting. At the bunk, Abby was readying her daughter for flight, wrapping a blanket around her and grabbing the girl’s shoes off the floor. I slammed the bench into the middle of the shutter with everything I had, and it crashed open with a hideous screech as a pair of nails were ripped from the wood. I tossed the bench aside. Luis had propped the iron bar against the door, but we both knew it wouldn’t buy us much time—a couple of minutes, at most. Yanking the now useless kepi from his head, he threw it aside and grabbed his sombrero off the table. I snapped my finger and the woman rushed to my side. No, it wasn’t polite, but she wasn’t complaining. Lifting the girl from her arms, I practically tossed her to Luis.
Leaving Yuma Page 19
