by Edson, J. T.
‘Not so far’s I know,’ the secret agent answered. ‘Seems like he lit a shuck when he was told he’d be expected to do some of the injecting, but Teodoro’s been letting on’s how he ran ‘cause he wasn’t stopping Javier wanting to sniff down that white stuff copious.’
‘I’ll find him when I’m through here!’ Smith asserted, but the words seemed more to himself than his companion.
‘And we’ll do all we can to help you,’ Beech promised. ‘But we’ve got to stop these bastards first. If they get that damned disease going all through Texas, their cruddy liber-rad friends in the U.S. of A are going to spread word that it was brought in deliberate’ by cattle from Mexico and figure there’ll be such a public outcry that Congress’ll have to take what’s called “punitive action” to quieten it down. Which’ll give us a war and those bastards hope to be able to get control both here and below the border while it’s going on.’
‘I can’t see those hired guns being willing to chance being around anything so dangerous as anthrax,’ the Texan pointed out.
‘None of them know anything about i—!’ the secret agent commenced.
‘Hold the talk down, amigo!’ Smith hissed urgently, looking over his companion’s shoulder. ‘That greaser who rubs up to Fuentes’s coming.’
‘Mean looking critter, isn’t he?’ Beech asked.
‘I’ve seen pleasanter.’
‘Strange thing is, he’s got five kids and they’re all as cute as a speckled pup. ‘Course, his wife’s real pretty and I reckon it was a case of the fascination of the horrible that made her take to him.’
‘I get the feeling you know him.’
‘You could say that. His real name’s Ruiz Cervantes and he’s sure done a good job of apple-polishing to Fuentes. It was him who learned what was doing by listening through the wall with a drinking glass, while it was being talked over with the soft shells’ s owns the hacienda and some more of their stinking breed.’
‘I always heard you spies was real sneaky jaspers,’ Smith claimed, but there was a suggestion of admiration in his voice.
‘Aw shucks, we hoped’s folks wouldn’t notice that,’ Beech answered, then swung his gaze to the Mexican. ‘How’s things, Paco?’
‘Bueno, amigo,’ Cervantes replied and, gesturing with the bundle he was carrying, he continued in accent free English, ‘When I touch some of these off, it’ll stir things up more than a little hereabouts, I’d guess.’
~*~
‘I’m responsible for my brother!’ Teodoro Fuentes informed the owner of the hacienda in a cold fashion. Never one to take kindly to having his actions questioned, his manner was less polite than might have been expected of a guest and fellow conspirator in a scheme intended to lead to his kind being able to overthrow and replace the present Government of Mexico. However, he felt no concern over having left his gunbelt in his room. He was armed with a weapon he preferred to use should the need arise. ‘And I’ll make good and sure that he doesn’t cause any more problems!’
‘It’s a damned pity that he was allowed to cause the first one in Texas,’ replied the haciendero, a burly “man of the people” who took delight in letting it be obvious his origins were lower on the social scale than those of the brothers and the majority of their compatriots. ‘I still say you should have left him sniffing that damned white powder in Mexico Ci—!’
The rift between the two leaders of the conspirators was not allowed to develop further!
There was the boom of an explosion some distance away, followed by the bellowing of startled cattle and drumming of their hooves as they began to take flight!
‘What in God’s name ?’ Javier Fuentes croaked,
having been standing and glowering at their seated host, who had started the dispute by speaking most disparagingly about him having caused the death of the Dumb Ox.
‘The herd’s been stampeded!’ the haciendero bellowed, bounding to his feet with a violence which sent his chair skidding across the dining-room. Without explaining further, he raced into the entrance hall. With the brothers following on his heels, he threw open the front door. Going out, he saw men in various states of dress pouring from the bunkhouse. ‘Get your horses, every one of you. We’ve got to help the night herders. Move it, damn you. Unless they’re stopped, you’ll all be riding the hell away from here in the morning without being paid.’
Like Smith, all the gunslingers had been hired because they possessed a working knowledge of handling cattle. While they would not have obeyed under normal conditions, having elected for a less arduous means of earning a living, they realized a failure to respond would see the end of their current lucrative employment. With that in mind, they sprinted to where—as they had been instructed by the haciendero in anticipation of such a need—each had a saddled horse tethered along the posts of the corral ready for immediate use.
‘Are you coming?’ the owner asked, his manner indicating he did not believe anything of use would result from an answer in the affirmative.
‘Of course I am!’ Teodoro replied, the question having been directed at him. Although he had no desire to run the risks of helping to try to halt the stampede, he was goaded into agreeing by the attitude of his fellow conspirator. ‘Tell somebody to have horses saddled for Javier and me.’
‘Trust you not to be ready!’ the haciendero grunted and set off to where his own mount was waiting.
‘Go and fetch our hats!’ the older brother commanded his sibling, more after the fashion of addressing a servant, without noticing their host had not given the instructions he requested before swinging into the saddle and setting out for the herd. ‘I’ll make sure there’s nothing lying around to show what we’re up to.’
While Javier was hurrying upstairs, looking annoyed but knowing him too well to argue when such a tone came into his voice, Teodoro went into the owner’s office. He knew everything incriminating was locked in the massive safe, but wanted to be able to claim he considered the precaution justifiable when questioned by his host about the delay in his arrival at the stampede. Waiting until hearing the footsteps of his brother descending and the drumming of many hooves fading rapidly away, he strolled into the hall. As he was taking the sombrero he was offered, he saw one of the gun-slingers coming through the front door.
‘Have you saddled horses for us?’ Teodoro demanded, wondering why ‘Matt McCabe’ was carrying what appeared to be some kind of Winchester repeater by its fore grip in his right hand.
‘No,’ Waxahachie Smith denied, his gaze running from Javier to the older brother. ‘Do you remember Ransome and Don Jose Cordoba?’
‘What if I do?’
Dropping the sombrero while speaking, Teodoro put his hands behind his back in a casual seeming fashion. Then, deciding that not wearing a gunbelt might prove advantageous as it would convey the impression he was unarmed, he started to liberate the knife from its sheath up his left sleeve.
‘How about this?’ the Texan inquired.
Staring at the left hand raised by the bearded man, Teodoro first realized it and its mate were no longer covered by the gloves which had not been removed previously in his sight. Then a chilling appreciation struck home. He realized what it was that looked different.
The forefinger had been removed!
‘You!’ Teodoro gasped in his native tongue, having believed until the understanding struck home that he was confronted by an ordinary gunslinger who the friends or relations of the Cordobas had hired to take revenge for their murder as there was no legal way by which this could be brought about.
‘Me!’ Smith confirmed, also speaking Spanish.
‘Get him!’ Teodoro close to shrieked and, hoping to divert at least some of the Texan’s attention towards his sibling— despite being convinced his secret weapon would prove as unexpected and efficacious as it had in the past—he forced motion into his numb body.
Long addiction to first marijuana, then cocaine and its ‘harmless’ substitute, heroin, had rendered Javier’s neve
r over active mentality even slower. Having been subjected to adverse criticism over the incident at the livery barn in Ascension, his pleasure at ‘McCabe’s’ intervention avenging his humiliation at the hands of the Dumb Ox hand changed to hatred. Now, while he was uncertain of exactly what was arousing Teodoro’s hostile response—being too dull witted to notice, much less appreciate the significance of the mutilated hand—he was more eager to oblige than was usual when receiving an order. Letting out a hiss of rage, he sent his hands towards the butts of his guns.
As the knife was brought around preparatory to being thrown, its owner discovered its presence was not unexpected and there were indications that it might fail to prove efficacious on this occasion!
On hearing of how Teodoro had killed one of the men who assisted Javier in the ill-advised ambush, Smith had remembering something he had been told in Flamingo. According to Sheriff Tobin, Moses ‘Cousin Cyrus’ Claybone had died as the result of a knife wound in the throat received prior to the mutilations performed on the body. He had realized he could not recollect seeing Fuentes wearing such a weapon. Nevertheless, he had not discounted the possibility of one being carried in concealment and he suspected it was hoped he would be lulled into a sense of false security by the absence of a gunbelt so it could be produced with the anticipated surprise effect.
Even as the older brother spoke, the Texan went into action. Tilting the Colt New Lightning rifle forward with his right hand, the left flashed over to meet it. Closing the three fingers and thumb around the small fore grip, grateful for having been granted sufficient time to gain proficiency with the new type of action, he thrust it back and forward to set the firing sequence into action. Aimed at waist level and by instinctive alignment, the weapon crashed in response to his movements.
With a sensation of shock, Teodoro realized his ploy had gone terribly wrong. Not only had his concealed knife failed to achieve the surprise he had envisaged, his attempt to cause Javier to be selected as the greater danger was also coming to nothing. Seeming to be drawn by some magnetic force, the octagonal barrel of the ‘Winchester’ lifted until it was pointing directly at the centre of his chest. Then, before the knife was far enough around to be released in the hope of preventing the shot, it was too late. Flame and white powder-smoke erupted from the rifle’s muzzle. Something smashed into his torso and he felt himself being pitched backwards with his weapon leaving his fingers. He had hardly time to realize it would not go near its intended target before his body struck the floor. However, he remained alive just long enough to have the satisfaction of seeing he would not die alone.
Gobbling similar incoherent sounds to those he had made during the ambush outside Flamingo, except this time they were inspired by terror, Javier tried to bring out his fancy handled Colts. He had never troubled to take the time required to handle them properly, so fumbled the attempt. Although he managed to get the right side gun clear of leather while the attention of the Texan was being given to Teodoro, that did not save him. Swinging his way even before his sibling’s body arrived on the floor, the rifle spoke again.
And again!
And again!
Operating the trombone slide action of the Lightning with deft skill, Smith caused it to fire at a speed which even a Winchester in skilled hands could barely equal. Empty cases flew through the ejection slot, to be replaced by loaded cartridges from the tubular magazine. Because of the changes made to accommodate Smith’s mutilated hands, there was no slight pause spent depressing the trigger far enough to liberate the sear. Instead, almost as soon as the replacement round arrived in the chamber, it was discharged.
Although the first bullet sent at Javier missed, due to the rifle being turned in a horizontal arc while they were being dispatched, the next two and three of the four following them in very rapid succession all found the intended target. Sent reeling against the wall, he was prevented from falling as the flat-nosed .44 caliber bullets—a precaution against an accidental jolt upon the priming cap of the preceding round in the magazine causing a premature explosion—continued to strike his body and tear apart the internal organs.
‘There’s some might say you’ve got him!’
Hearing the words brought Smith to a realization of what he was doing. Letting out a long sigh and watching the body of his second victim crumpling from the wall now bespattered by blood and shattered fragments of bone, he lowered the rifle with the slide in the forward position. His gaze went to where Donald Garfew Beech was coming into the hall carrying a bundle under his left arm and a can of kerosene in each hand.
‘I reckon you might say I have,’ the Texan agreed. ‘What’s it like out there?’
‘The fellers riding to the herd won’t have heard you,’ the agent replied, the removal of the black eye-patch proving it was unnecessary as the eye was not in any away affected. ‘There’s only the womenfolk and a couple of peons left. I told ‘em to keep clear of the main house here until I’d found out who was doing the shooting.’
‘Let’s hope they do,’ Smith declared, then prepared to help with the plan devised by Beech and Ruiz ‘Paco’ Cervantes. The latter had created the diversion he required to achieve his revenge, while also ensuring there would be at least a delay before any herds could be sent to Texas. Now, using more of the dynamite found by his companion, the white agent was going to blow open the safe containing the blood from the infected cattle. However, it was not intended to rely solely upon this to remove the menace. ‘Leave me spread the kerosene and make ready for the fire. You go fix up the explosion.’
Chapter Seventeen – Look at These Hands!
Sitting at a table in the Red Dog Saloon, Doctor Otto Grantz was so engrossed in a game of poker that he was unaware of the baleful gaze to which he was being subjected from beyond the other players!
Almost two months had passed since Grantz had read in a newspaper of the fate which had befallen his former associates!
Following the flight from Bonham County, the doctor had found there was a deterioration in his relationship with the older of the brothers in particular. Despite insisting his medical services were required for the new conspiracy that was planned, Teodoro had clearly been growing increasingly disenchanted by his failure to cure the drug addiction of Javier. To make matters worse, the younger brother had started to blackmail him, demanding a regular free supply of cocaine in return for remaining silent with regards to how the ambush had been carried out at his instigation. Nor was his problems with them his only concern. On learning what would be expected of him in the latest scheme, he had been all too aware whoever was injecting the blood from the cattle which had died of anthrax into the animals intended to be sent to Texas would face the possibility of contracting the highly contagious disease. lvii Therefore, he had decided the time had come for him to part company with such a potentially dangerous alliance.
On learning how the brothers met their end, although Grantz had realized he was likely to be another target for revenge by the man whose hands he had mutilated, he felt sure he had covered his tracks sufficiently well since leaving Mexico to avoid being located. He had come to the bustling mining town of Wilson in Colorado by a circuitous route and established a lucrative medical practice in an assumed name.
What the doctor did not realize was that he had made a serious mistake!
Serving as medical attendant to Javier Fuentes and a willing adjunct to schemes upon which Teodoro was engaged had been lucrative for Grantz. Aware from the beginning that he might need to escape the consequences of his actions, whether as a participant in ‘liberal’ political schemes or through selling Javier cocaine while pretending to be seeking a cure with ‘harmless’ heroin, he had taken the precaution of ensuring he would have sufficient money to make this possible. With the future in mind, taking advantage of being sent to Flamingo—where one of his earliest tasks had been to pretend Teodoro was wounded in the first ‘raid by cow thieves’—he had placed the considerable sum which had accrued in the bank. Needing the m
oney to start a new life, also realizing that he dare not return to Bonham County to collect it, he had telegraphed for his deposit to be transferred to a bank in Taos, New Mexico. On receiving it, he had continued his travels.
However, being unaware of the influential support which the man he feared was receiving, the doctor had failed to envisage how serious an error he had committed and believed the possession of the money would ensure his continued safety!
The state of self deception was about to end!
‘God damn it!’ Grantz growled, watching the winner of yet another pot raking away his money. While speaking, he scowled in a sullen manner at the other five losers—who formed a cross-section of the local population’s occupations—in the hope of receiving sympathy, but gave no attention to the rest of the saloon’s occupants. ‘I’ve never had such bad hands!’
‘Happen you reckon yours are bad, look at these hands!’
Although he had established a reputation as being a bad loser, Grantz’s position as a medical practitioner offered protection against more than occasional verbal recriminations from those with whom he was playing. However, on this occasion, the comment which was made did not come from any of his six opponents.
Never one to accept criticism, or the expression of opinions different from his own, the doctor swung his gaze to the speaker. However, it halted on taking in the sight of the two hands—their skin white as if rarely being exposed to the elements—which were extended by a man who had arrived unnoticed by him to stand between a lean professional gambler and a bulky cavalry soldier at the opposite side of the table. For a moment, he was unable to decide what had caused the comment and the reason for the hands being displayed in such a fashion. Then he stared at the place where the forefingers should have been. It was obvious their removal had been performed with considerable skill.
Then realization struck home!
Grantz recognized the work as being his own!
