All in all, sitting in an armchair Mexican saddle on a pinto with braided reins, Romero cut a fancy figure as he rode slowly down Main, and passersby paused to turn and look after him.
It wasn’t often that they saw Mexicans wearing their fancy rancho outfits this far north of the Rio. Down on the border they might be a common sight, but up here they were objects of curiosity ... and maybe ridicule, depending on the man.
And if that man was Lang Brodie, it was a safe bet that that fancy-garbed Mexican would get into trouble not long after hitting town.
As it happened, trouble hit Luis Romero within an hour of his hitting Tyler’s Landing, but while it was with Lang Brodie, it wasn’t really because of Romero’s flashy appearance. Brodie merely used them as an excuse to prod the Mexican into a fight.
At the start, Brodie was in Nathan Cross’ office and Cross was angry.
“Damn it, Lang! You sure haven’t come up with much after three days!”
Brodie shrugged his shoulders. “Ain’t much to come up with, Nate. The girl seems to be stayin’ in the ranch house while Bannerman and Cato are up in the hills. They’re searching, I reckon, but all I can do is watch what they do. They sure ain’t come up with anything yet, just done a lot of ridin’, up and down the hills and along the river.”
Cross frowned and tapped his fingernails irritably against the desk-top. “All right. Guess all we can do is watch, for now. You left a man out there?”
“Sure. Reardon. He’s a good man and he knows how to handle a gun if he has to.” His face tightened. “But I’ve told him Bannerman’s mine. I aim to finish that hombre in my own way.”
“You do it only after we’ve got our hands on that treasure cache,” Cross growled. “He’s the governor’s man, remember, and we don’t want trouble with Dukes. I don’t even like the way Dukes has been prowlin’ around town and nosing into some of my land deals since he’s been here. There’s more than the state of the local cattle business interestin’ him, if you ask me.” He frowned. “But I’m damned if I can figure what can be so important as to bring the governor himself up here to look into my business!”
Brodie laughed shortly. “You got a guilty conscience, Nate! He’s likely here for the reason he’s given, waitin’ for that riverboat that got into all that trouble down in San Augustine.”
“I don’t find it funny, Lang!” Cross snapped. “Now get out, and next time you come in here have somethin’ worthwhile to report!”
Brodie stood up languidly and stretched out the kinks in his massive arms and shoulders. He nodded casually and strolled towards the office door, plainly showing his disdain for Cross’ authority. He paused at the doorway and looked back.
“Sure, Nate. I’ll bring you somethin’ worthwhile. If they’ve done anything worth reportin’. Otherwise, you’ll just have to take whatever I give you. And like it.”
Cross flushed at being spoken to like this and he stood up, fists clenched, pressed onto the desk-edge.
“I don’t need you, Lang! I can get along without you if I have to! A few bucks’ll buy someone to take your place and maybe this time I’ll find someone who’s good with a gun as well as his fists.”
Brodie’s eyes narrowed. “Mebbe that’d suit me fine!”
“You want your time, then?” Cross snapped. “You want to call it quits?”
Brodie stared hard at him for a moment, then shook his head. He knew he couldn’t hope for another job that paid as well as this and he was smart enough to realize that Cross was angry because they still didn’t have anything definite on the treasure.
So he closed the door quietly and went out across the main office, noticing how the clerks stared at him. That made him angrier than the clash with Cross, to think they had heard it, realized he had backed down. He slammed the street door so hard it shook the front office wall as he stormed out and strode directly to the saloon.
When he approached the bar, shoving men roughly aside, he saw the barkeep, O’Malley, facing a fancily-dressed Mexican across the counter top. Brodie had noticed the horse with the ornate border saddle outside at the hitch rail and he figured this lean hombre in the leather pants, vest and hat with the buscadero gun rig must own that horse. He breasted the bar and impatiently drummed his thick fingers on the zinc edge.
“We don’t serve tequila,” O’Malley was saying to Luis Romero.
The slim Mexican shrugged his shoulders. “I forgot I am so far north of the Rio, señor ... I will have some of your whisky.”
As the barkeep made to lift a bottle from under the counter, Brodie growled, “Since when you been servin’ greasers before Americans, O’Malley?”
The noise in the room gradually stilled and the barkeep shot a swift glance towards Romero. The slim Mexican kept his face blank, but his dark eyes were glittering as he looked at Brodie. Then he slowly turned his gaze to the barkeep and his teeth flashed in a smile.
“I don’t mind waiting, señor,” he said lightly. He leaned casually against the bar, but his eyes were watching Brodie.
O’Malley shrugged and grabbed a bottle of redeye and a glass. He spun the bottle to Brodie, who growled, “Gutless damn greasers!”
O’Malley leaned closer. “He was askin’ the way to the Summers ranch. Cagey as hell about why he wants to go there, but figured you might be interested.”
Brodie tossed down the drink then turned his hard eyes on Romero. “That so?” he said, and poured another drink. As he raised it, he called out, “Hey, amigo!”
Romero looked about him then, arching his eyebrows, said, “You speak to me, señor?”
“Course I’m speaking to you!” Brodie snarled, tossing down his redeye.
“But I am not your amigo, señor. I am most decidedly not your amigo! So why would you address me as such?”
“Don’t get sassy with me, greaser!” growled Brodie, hitching at his pants’ belt and edging slowly along the bar. Men fell back out of his way while others began to gather closer in to get a better look at what they figured was the start of a fight. Brodie poked a thick finger against Romero’s chest, pushing the man back against the bar. “You keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to a white man in these parts, savvy? I dunno what you might get away with down on the Rio, but this here’s the Sabine River and you walk nice and quiet, if you aim to keep walkin’ at all. You get me?”
Romero met and held his gaze but said nothing. His face was blank, controlled, but the fires burning deep in his eyes should have warned Brodie not to push too far. But Brodie was feeling the two drinks burning through him and his mood was ugly. “You run out of words, greaser?” he prodded.
“Señor,” Romero began, very quietly, “I think maybe I have more and better words than you, but the thing I wish right now is for you to stop calling me ‘greaser’. I am Mexican, of Spanish and Aztec descent. I am proud of my heritage, even as you are of yours. I do not call you ‘gringo’ and I ask that you do not call me ‘greaser’.”
“Well you go ahead and ask ... greaser! That don’t mean it’s gonna do you one bit of good, but you got the right to ask.”
Romero’s slim body was tensed now and he knew there was no way he was going to dodge trouble with this big, mean-looking American. He was not afraid, but he did not want to tangle with the big man if it could be avoided. In fact, he did not want trouble of any kind to dog him in this Texas town. He knew that the very fact that he was Mexican would place all the sympathy on Brodie’s side right from the start: he had had experience with these things in other towns ...
Brodie, grinning crookedly, turned to the silent crowd and asked, “Ain’t that so, gents? Ain’t the greaser got every right to ask?”
There was a chorus of rough agreement and the men grinned expectantly. They had seen Brodie in action and were eager to urge him on now. Brodie spread his hands out from his sides.
“See, greaser? Everyone here’s bending over backwards to be nice to you.”
“Everyone except you, it would seem, señ
or,” Romero said.
Brodie looked innocently surprised. “Me? Hell, I ain’t doin’ anythin’ but makin’ sure you have your say, get what’s comin’ to you.” He winked at O’Malley and laughed briefly. “Yeah, man, that’s all I’m doin’ ... But there’s just one thing. How come you want to know about the Summers place, huh? What’s your interest in it?”
“That, señor, is my business,” the Mexican said flatly.
Brodie’s grin widened. “Well, now I reckon I might argue with that, greaser. I’m kinda interested in the Summers place myself and I’d sure like to know why you’re goin’ there ... In them pretty clothes, too.”
Romero said nothing, straightened, and nodded curtly to the barkeep. “I have changed my mind. I do not wish any whisky or to drink in this saloon ... Buenos dias.”
Brodie stepped right into his path, one big hand spread against the Mexican’s chest. His broken yellow teeth showed as he peeled back his thick lips. “Now you’re askin’ for real trouble walkin’ out on us like this, greaser! You’re sayin’ we ain’t good enough for you to drink with and that’s insultin’ to a man, real insultin’!”
Luis Romero looked steadily into Brodie’s eyes.
“I thought it might be,” he told the bully calmly. “But then, gringo ...” and he paused to emphasize the word, seeing the tightening of Brodie’s smile ... “I thought that it would not much matter what I say, that you would choose to consider it insulting anyway.”
Brodie’s eyes were slits and there was no longer a smile on his thick lips. “You could be right, greaser,” he breathed, fists bunching at his sides. “You could be right.”
Romero snapped abruptly, “Gringo! Either step aside and let me pass or ...”
“Or what?” Brodie snarled.
“I will have to move around you. Or perhaps over you or through you, but move I will, out those doors.”
“Why, you high-ridin’, smooth-talkin’ son of a bitch, don’t you threaten me!” Brodie’s face was congested and he swung up his right fist in a murderous blow.
But it never landed. Luis Romero, nimble as an antelope on its home ground, stepped back and weaved to one side so that the big fist skimmed past his ear. Brodie stumbled a little, off balance, but righted himself promptly, bringing up his left fist from the other side. Romero side-stepped and Brodie missed once more. The Mexican grabbed Brodie’s arm at elbow and wrist, wrenched so that pressure was on the elbow, threatening to break the arm if the man resisted, and heaved. Brodie went crashing head first into the zinc-lined bar edge, staggered and dropped to his knees. He shook his bullet head violently and there was a dead silence in the room now as he lifted his hot glare to the Mexican’s impassive face. Then, with a roar like a wounded bull, Brodie lunged upright, his massive arms going up and out, aiming to encircle the slim Mexican and snap him in two.
Romero lashed out with his left boot and the blow caught Brodie over the right eye. The man staggered, blood oozing from the cut in the flesh, but he still came on, maddened now more than ever. He changed his tactics and abruptly spun towards the bar, sweeping an armful of bottles and glasses into the Mexican. Romero covered his face and head with his forearms and stumbled back as the glass rained down on him. Brodie went after him fast, rammed a shoulder into his face, spinning him against the bar. He used his superior weight to crush the slim man’s back on the zinc edge and Romero bared his teeth in a grimace of pain. Brodie kept hold of the bar edge, one hand either side of the man, and jumped forward, driving his head into Romero’s chest, almost snapping the man’s back on the edge of the counter.
Romero groaned and began to slide forward, his knees buckling. Brodie bared his teeth in a savage grin and prepared to repeat his tactics. As he crouched, tensing his legs to drive himself forward, Romero snapped upright like a steel spring and his boot flashed out, took Brodie right on the point of the jaw. The big man’s head twisted on his neck and he blinked and shook his head, but his eyes were glazing and beginning to roll around to show the whites. Romero lashed out left and right, knocking Brodie’s arms off the counter edge. Brodie spilled forward and Romero brought up his knee into the middle of the man’s face. Brodie groaned and rolled to his knees, hands clawing to his bloodied nose and mouth. Romero made to step away from the bar but Brodie wrapped his arms around Romero’s legs, bringing the man down. Brodie heaved the Mexican away from him and Romero skidded along the floor to crack his head hard against the brass foot-rail. Brodie staggered to his feet, grabbed a whisky bottle from the counter top and smashed it against the edge. He advanced on the Mexican with the jagged remains of the bottle held out in front of him, eyes murderous.
Romero twisted, rolled, bounded to his feet and on the way up a fast eye might have seen his right hand brush the top of his boot on that leg. When he straightened, he held a slim, glittering knife-blade and he faced Brodie, tensed, crouched, the blade weaving slowly in his hand. Brodie stopped, startled, to find himself facing a knife, then he cursed and lunged in with the broken bottle, slashing viciously. Romero weaved to one side, seeing light dance along the points of the jagged shards of glass as they whipped past his face. He stepped in and out once, so fast it was difficult to be sure he had moved in at all. But Brodie screamed and the broken bottle fell from his hand as he grabbed his forearm with his left hand. The right forearm had been laid open with a single thrust of Romero’s knife and blood spurted all over the bar. Brodie’s face was gray with pain.
Luis Romero backed away from the bar, the knife still gleaming in his hand, the crowd scattering as he made a couple of tentative slashes. Brodie was over his first shock and now leaned against the bar, hand clamped over his wounded arm, but his face twisted up with hate.
“You gonna let that damn greaser walk out of here?” he yelled. “After what he done to me? Damn greasers and their lousy knives! Comin’ up here where they don’t belong and carvin’ up Americans! Some of you stop him, damn it! Stomp him into the floor, you yeller varmints!”
Romero saw the crowd’s mood changing at Brodie’s words and some of them came towards him, beginning to close in. He spun abruptly, let out a wild yell and slashed back and forth with the knife. Men yelled and fell over each other in their haste to get out of the way and Romero took advantage of the momentary panic, leapt forward, put his shoulder against the batwings and burst out onto the boardwalk. He stumbled to keep balance, slid the blade back into the boot sheath and then vaulted into the deep saddle on his horse and wrenched the pinto’s head around.
He was halfway along the block before men burst out of the saloon and began shooting after him. He crouched low over his mount’s neck and urged it on down the street, hoping he could find his way out to the Summers place now that the sun was sinking towards the distant peaks in the west.
Chapter Seven – New Information
Yancey Bannerman opened his eyes and lay perfectly still on his bunk. The room was dark and the wind outside sounded like rain as it blew beneath the eaves. He held his breath, senses tuned finely, keeping perfectly still, listening. From a long way off he heard the roar of a mountain lion. That certainly hadn’t awakened him. There was the call of a night bird and nothing else except the sighing of the wind.
Long used to sleeping lightly, Yancey knew some sound had disturbed him and he slowly slid his right hand under the pillow and wrapped his fingers around the butt of the Peacemaker. As he did so, he heard a sound again. But it wasn’t outside as he had figured! It was at his door.
His thumb silently notched back the hammer of the Colt to full cock beneath the pillow. He was facing away from the door and he watched the wall and saw the slowly lightening area as the door eased open: it was only a slight lessening of the grayness but it was sufficient to show him the progress of the opening door. When he figured it was wide enough to allow a man to slip through, or to stand there in the opening and take careful sight at his figure on the bunk, Yancey moved with the speed of a striking rattler.
He rolled off the bunk, get
ting it between himself and the door, hitting the floor on his knees, resting his forearm across the bunk, gripping his right fist with his left hand, steadying the gun on the open door and the vague shape he could see standing there. He started to lift his thumb and felt the first slight move of the hammer spur as it began to slip out from under his flesh.
“Hold it, Yance!” Cato whispered urgently from the doorway and Yancey swore, clamped his thumb tightly on the hammer, stood up and lowered the hammer gently down.
“What the hell, Johnny!” he exclaimed. “I damn near blew your fool head off!”
Cato slipped right into the room. “Heard a noise. Thought it sounded like it came from outside your room.”
Yancey tensed. “I heard something, too. What was it?”
“Jingle of harness or spurs, I reckon,” Cato said. “I was awake. Kinda hungry, matter of fact, and was thinking I might slip out to the kitchen and have the rest of that apple pie Julie baked for supper ... I figured to come in here and check it out with the Manstopper.”
He was still talking in a low voice as he held up the bulbous twin-barreled gun. It was his own design, held eight .45 cartridges and a 12-gauge shot shell in a central cylinder and which was fired through the larger barrel by a special hammer toggle. Next to a sawn-off shotgun, it was likely the deadliest weapon then in existence in the West ...
Yancey had turned away to the window, flattening himself against the wall, gun at the ready. He used the muzzle to ease aside the drape and he glanced out into the yard. It was flooded with pale moonlight and he couldn’t see anything moving at first. Then he saw a slight movement in the shadows along the wall where it angled away from his window.
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