12.
PALOMAR ROJAS
WHEN the girl merely stared up at him sharply, silently, Flagg squeezed her chin between his thumb and index finger. Too many norteamericanos had once lived in Bedlam for her not to have picked up some English. His lips quivered inside his beard as he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low with menace.
“I asked you a question.”
The girl’s eyes darkened, the lids lowering slightly. She hesitated, then, just above a whisper, “Juliana Velasquez.”
Flagg eased his grip on her chin and smiled with self-satisfaction. Behind him rose the clomp of shod hooves. He turned to see Palomar Rojas riding slowly around the fountain. The old bandito sat the saddle stiffly, head tilted to one side, staring apprehensively at the small crowd gathered in the street before the saloon.
Flagg turned back to Juliana Velasquez, smiled his dull smile, released her chin, and took two steps back away from her. He turned to Rojas, who’d halted his mule in the street about twenty yards beyond the saloon, regarding the gringo lawmen darkly. He ran a gnarled, brown finger absently across his mustache, as if reconsidering how badly he needed another drink.
“Ah, Senor Rojas,” Flagg said. “You’ve arrived just in time!”
Rojas said nothing. His dirty cream mule shook its head, dust puffing from its mane.
Again dipping his hands into his vest pockets, Flagg strode slowly toward the one-eyed bandito, who watched him darkly, occasionally casting a skeptical glance at the other lawmen and the other Mexicans forming a loose group in the street.
Flagg stopped just ahead and to the left of Rojas’s mule. “I was just about to inform the good citizens of Bedlam what would happen if I caught them fraternizing with a criminal.”
Rojas stared at Flagg, his lips bunched tightly, shoulders slumped beneath his serape. His scarred, bearded face was shaded by his broad-brimmed sombrero, its crown decorated with a dried hawk’s foot.
The old bandito placed his right hand on his chest and said in Spanish, “Are you talking to me, senor?”
Flagg chuckled and glanced at the other lawmen standing sentinel over the crowd, rifles in their hands.
“Who else would he be talkin’ to?” said Press Miller, standing with his legs spread wide near the horses tied to the hitch rack.
The bandito looked at Flagg. “I am Frederico Alvarez, senor. It is a case of mistaken identity, I think.” He flicked a hand to the villagers still standing tensely before the saloon. “What do you seek with the good people of Bedlam, senor? As you can see, they are all old or very young . . .”
“We seek the man you just visited, you old reprobate. The man you alerted to our presence here.” Flagg walked toward Rojas, one hand on his Remington’s grip. “Now, climb down out of that saddle and take your lickin’ like a man.”
When Flagg was two steps from Rojas, the old bandit jerked to life. He lifted his serape with one hand while the other grabbed the old, .36-caliber Colt from the shoulder holster hanging beneath his left armpit. He’d no more than gotten his finger through the trigger guard, however, before Flagg reached up and closed his left hand over the gun. He gave it a savage wrench.
Rojas yowled a Spanish epithet and tumbled down over his right stirrup, Flagg twisting the pistol free of his hand a quarter second before the bandito hit the ground.
“Bastardo!” Rojas cried, his prunelike face etched with pain, dust puffing around him.
Flagg swung a boot up, slamming the toe under the old man’s chin and throwing him straight back in the dirt. Rojas grunted as his head hit the street.
He snarled and writhed like a trapped animal. Blood trickling out one corner of his mouth, he lifted his head and rose onto his elbow, slitting his lone eye at Flagg.
“All right, lawman. Okay, uh? You have finally caught up to me after all these years.” His lips spread, the sneer showing his bloody teeth. “Pin a medal on your chest.”
Flagg tossed away the man’s pistol and stared down at him, his chest rising and falling sharply, his face like granite. “Get up.”
Breathing hard, the old bandito got his legs under him. His sombrero hanging down his back, blood dribbling down his gray-bristled chin, he stood with a wince, then assumed a fighter’s stance before Flagg. The black patch covered only part of his empty eye socket.
Rojas balled his bony, brown, liver-spotted fists, anger glinting in his washed-out eye. He stepped sideways, and there was a little of the young charro in the old man’s bearing.
Flagg stepped toward him and swung his right fist. Just before the fist could connect with the bandito’s jaw, Rojas ducked. Flagg’s fist whistled in the air over the old man’s head.
As Flagg recovered from the wild punch, Rojas rammed his right fist into Flagg’s belly. Flagg grunted. He grunted again as the old bandito landed a left in the same place.
The jabs had little power behind them, but surprise glittered in Flagg’s flinty eyes. Rojas stepped back, grinning as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and adjusted his eye patch. Behind him, the villagers watched with wary fascination, a couple of the old men looking amused, hopeful.
Flagg returned his gaze to Rojas feinting around before him. The marshal raised his fists higher, moved his left foot forward, swung his right fist at Rojas’s face. As the old bandito feinted, Flagg pulled back his right fist and jabbed with his left.
The old bandito’s slow feint had moved his chin into the path of Flagg’s jab. The fist connected soundly with Rojas’s right cheekbone. The bandito jerked back, nearly falling, throwing his arms out for balance, his eye flickering shock.
Behind him, the other old Mexicans winced, as if they themselves had taken the blow.
Flagg smiled, stepped forward again, his right fist connecting with Rojas’s jaw. The old man gave an indignant curse as he twisted around and fell on his chest. Wasting little time, his eyes pinched with anger, Flagg bent down and pulled the old man up with both hands.
“You’re not finished yet, Palomar,” Flagg muttered. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
When Rojas had his feet under him, Flagg hit him again with his right fist. As Rojas’s head snapped sideways, Flagg hit him with his left.
The old man fell straight back, arms thrown out to both sides.
Flagg moved toward him, stood over him as the cursing bandito turned onto his belly, then shoved up on his hands and knees. Rojas looked up at Flagg, his cheeks and lips torn and bloody. Breathing hard, his hair curling over his forehead and nose, he grinned.
Flagg glanced at Bill Houston standing to the right of the villagers, one elbow propped on a hay cart, his rifle resting on a shoulder as he watched the spectacle with sheepish fascination.
All the other lawmen, except Hound-Dog Tuttle, had turned away and were watching the villagers, rifles extended.
“Bill,” Flagg said, “would you say this man is resisting arrest?”
Houston hiked a shoulder. “ ’Pears that way to me, Marshal. Wouldn’t you agree, Hound-Dog?”
Hound-Dog stared at the old bandito wheezing in the street, and shook his head sadly. “Some just don’t listen to reason.”
Flagg swung his right foot back, then brought it forward, planting the toe in Rojas’s flat belly.
“Uhh!” the Mexican cried as he flew back in the street.
Several of the horses at the hitch rack turned to see what the commotion was about. Press Miller and Hound-Dog Tuttle chuckled.
Flagg stepped toward Rojas, who lay belly down in the street, his back rising and falling sharply.
“Please, stop!”
Flagg looked toward the villagers gathered twenty yards away. The girl had moved out in front of the old crone with the bloody apron. The crone had grabbed her arm and was castigating her loudly in Spanish. The girl stared at Flagg, her eyes bright with beseeching.
The puppy yipped and squirmed in the hands of the old villager with the corncob pipe. The dog suddenly broke free of the old man’s grip. I
t leapt to the ground, ran across the street, and disappeared through a gap between two abandoned shops.
The corners of Flagg’s mouth turned up, and his deep-set eyes softened with satisfaction.
He bunched his lips, swung his right boot back, and rammed it forward, burying the toe in the old man’s rib cage. The air burst from Rojas’s lungs with a loud, “Huh-ah!”
When he’d rolled completely over, sighing and gurgling, Flagg kicked him again, then two more times, hearing the ribs snap.
“B-bastardo . . .” The old man wheezed, blood frothing from his lips.
Finally, the marshal picked him up, steadied him with one hand gripping his serape. Rojas hung like a scarecrow before him, head lolling on his shoulders.
“What’s that, Rojas? You say you haven’t had enough?”
Eyes glistening with savage fury, Flagg glanced at the villagers. Several of the women had turned away. The young boy cried with his face buried in his mother’s skirt. The old men looked grim. The girl stared as before, eyes etched with horror and pleading.
Flagg returned his gaze to Rojas and, bunching his lips, drove a savage haymaker against the old man’s left cheek with a solid smack.
Flagg released the old man’s poncho. Rojas’s knees buckled. He sagged to the street and fell backward, his legs curling beneath him. He lay still, eyelid fluttering, breath whistling through his shattered teeth.
His chest rising and falling, Flagg stared down at the broken bandito. Finally, he walked over to the girl. She stared at Rojas, her eyes shiny with tears.
“You tell the others that if they have any more contact with Hawk . . . if they try to help him in any way . . . the same thing will happen to them.” He grabbed the girl’s chin, tipped her head back to stare into her eyes. “Man, woman, boy, or girl. Understand?”
The girl’s eyes hardened.
Flagg squeezed her chin until she winced. Eyes shifting away from him, she nodded. Flagg dropped his hand. She turned to the crowd and, hanging her head, muttered the warning in Spanish before pushing through the crowd and walking eastward along the street.
The others watched her for a time. Then, casting anxious looks at Flagg and the unconscious Rojas, they slowly dispersed and began shuffling back to their homes. The old crone with the bloody apron crossed herself and set off after the girl.
Flagg turned to the other lawmen, who’d gathered around him, watching the villagers disappearing into the quickly falling night shadows.
Houston said, “What next, Marshal?”
Flagg turned to peer along the trail rising beyond the fountain. “Stable the horses and spread out. Each take a roof top and don’t plan on getting any sleep tonight.”
“You think he’ll come to us?” Miller said, skeptical.
“Now that he knows we’re here, you bet I do. Patience isn’t one of his virtues.”
When the others had drifted off to take up their positions, Flagg continued to stare along the western trail, quickly fading as the night slid down from the ridges and the first stars kindled.
He fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket, bit off an end, stuck it into his mouth, and fired a match.
Puffing smoke, he glanced at Rojas, still lying motionless on his back. The man’s breath sounded like a breeze in dry grass, the blood on his face glistening in the last light.
Flagg turned, mounted the boardwalk, and pushed through the batwings. The saloon was dark and empty. No sign of the barman.
Flagg grabbed his whiskey bottle, then sat at a table in the right rear corner. He set his revolver on the table before him and poured himself a drink.
An hour later, on the dark street, Palomar Rojas opened his eye. Gradually, he straightened his legs, wincing and grunting with the effort and at the pain in his cracked ribs.
Blood had dried on his face, making a gummy crust in the corners of his mouth. His head throbbed wickedly, and he squinted his eye against it.
With great effort, taking pinched breaths to keep his ribs from screaming and sending a red haze before his retina, he turned over onto his belly and heaved up on his hands and knees. He grimaced as pain lanced his battered head and nausea rolled through him.
Through a haze of blurred memories, he remembered Flagg tossing away his .36 Colt. He looked around for it, but the street was too dark—there was only a sickly looking light in the saloon’s front window—and he couldn’t see much of anything but a few nearby horse plops and strewn hay. Behind him loomed the stone fountain.
Again wincing as pain lanced his skull and tore through his ribs, Rojas put one hand and knee in front of the other and crawled toward the saloon.
He arrived at the west end of the saloon’s front stoop after nearly two minutes of painful crabbing through the dry dust and manure. At the near corner, he paused and took as deep a breath as he could endure. Then he grunted as he started out again, moving through the small stones, brush, and scattered trash along the warehouse’s west side.
Goatheads and sharp pebbles poked his hands and knees, but the pricks were mere annoyances compared to the misery in the rest of him.
A breeze gusted, blowing grit in his eye. Somewhere, an unlatched door tapped its frame. Ahead, two tiny copper lights blazed, then slid to the left as the cat bounded off behind a stable.
Breath whistling through his broken teeth, Rojas crawled around behind the saloon, swinging wide of a woodpile and a privy. Just beyond, four log brush-roofed cribs crouched in the brush and scrub oaks—whores’ cribs left over from the boom, when they were occupied every night, with drunk miners lined up in the alley outside, smoking and waiting their turn with Rosa or Maggie or Lorelei or Kate.
The cribs were dark and grown up with weeds. One’s roof had collapsed. Rojas had moved into the one farthest east—Kate’s digs. Oh, the times he’d had there! After the boom, Kate had moved on, and Rojas had heard she’d succumbed to syphilis somewhere up north.
The old bandito crawled slowly toward the crib, spitting flecks of dried blood from his lips, grunting and groaning at the constant misery wracking his old body. At the shack’s plank door, he rose up on his knees, clutching one arm to his battered ribs, and flipped the latch handle.
When the door screeched open, he dropped to all fours again, crawled inside and plucked a spare Colt from a coffee can on the floor beneath the room’s single cot. Holding the pistol in one hand, he cursed and grunted as he pulled himself onto the cot and lay gently down on his back.
“Ay-eee!” he cried softly through his gritted, broken teeth as the cracked ribs shifted.
A crock jug of sangria stood on a small shelf to his left. He grabbed it, uncorked it, lifted his head slightly, and took a long drink. He savored the fruity burn, felt the thick wine instantly begin to cast its spell against his misery.
Squeezing the Colt in one hand, the jug in the other, Rojas lay back against the feed sack he used for a pillow.
He allowed himself a chuckle in spite of the Apache arrows it fired against his ribs. “You should have killed me when you had the chance, you fucking gringo bastard.” He took a long pull from the bottle, ran his thumb across the Colt’s hammer. “You really should have killed old Palomar!”
He chuckled again, sucked a sharp breath, and stretched his lips back from his teeth.
13.
HOUSE OF CARDS
GIDEON Hawk moved slowly down the northern ridge, keeping as much as possible to the shadows of the cabin-sized boulders and scrub thickets. Occasionally, an old prospector’s cabin, abandoned to the winds and the mountain lions, rose up out of the gravel, its brush roof either fallen inside the cabin walls or sprouting tall, brown sod and dried-up flowers.
He was three-quarters of the way down the mountain when the brow of the ridge pulled back, revealing the entire village nestled in the canyon. Hawk hunkered down behind a dilapidated horse stable and cast his gaze down the ridge.
From here he could see mainly rooftops. Here and there on the boulder-strewn slopes flanking the main s
treet and the tiny square, wan lamplight shone in shack windows.
Main Street itself was dark, starlight playing across facades.
Hawk squeezed his Henry rifle in his gloved right hand, ran his left across his jaw. Since Palomar Rojas had informed him of the gringo lawmen’s sudden appearance in Bedlam, dread and frustration had gnawed at his gut. It seemed impossible that anyone could have tracked him here, but if anyone could—if there was anyone so determined—that man was D.W. Flagg.
Nothing like political ambitions to spur a man to action.
Hawk had considered waiting at the hacienda for Flagg and his six deputies to come to him. But then he’d decided that if they came to the hacienda, he’d probably have little choice but to kill them all. He had no desire to kill lawmen. Bringing the fight to them was playing into their hands, but it also gave him more control. This way he might not have to kill them. He might be able to discourage a few, send them lifting dust for home.
And then, of course, there was Juliana. He doubted Flagg would hurt the girl, but the possibility wouldn’t let him go. He had to make sure.
Hefting the rifle, Hawk rose and continued moving down the ridge, tracing a zigzagging path around brush, boulders, abandoned shacks, and old mine pits. He angled left along the slope, heading for the shack of Juliana and her guardian, Carmelita.
Ten minutes later, he crouched behind a piñon bush flanking Carmelita’s small mud-and-brick chicken coop. The chickens had gone to roost, and he could hear them milling and clucking inside. Forty yards away, the tile-roofed shack crouched in the rocky yard, its shutters still open to the cool night air. The brick chimney trickled smoke, tingeing the yard with the spicy smell of chicken stew and tortillas.
Inside, Carmelita spoke in admonishing tones. Hawk knew a good bit of Spanish, but the woman’s voice was muffled by the shack’s thick walls. He was about to rise and leave when the shack’s back door squawked open. Silhouetted by guttering light from a beehive fireplace stood a curvaceous, long-haired figure in a long skirt and serape.
Juliana.
Holding a dishpan in both hands, she strode several paces out from the door, then tossed dishwater onto a spindly ironwood shrub. She began to turn back toward the shack, but stopped. She stood silently, holding the pan in one hand, staring toward the dark mountain rising behind Hawk.
Bullets Over Bedlam Page 10
