by E. R. Slade
“I guess so. Let’s hunt them up.”
It took only an hour, and then they began trying to hurry the animals along towards Oak Creek, suddenly feeling hungry. The burros were not hungry. They had had their fill of water and all they wished to do was roll in the mud and lie in the shade. Felipe coaxed them sweetly, intermingled with cries of “¡Arre!” Clint began to think Felipe might have had a good idea after all in skinning them alive.
Towards noon, following the well-worn trail along the creek, they rode into Oak Creek. It was a pleasant, shady little village, a mining town but with the rowdy bloom off, leaving mostly solid citizens and prosperous big mines, which were up a stony face of mountain west of town and looming above it. Mine shaft headings dotted it like tiny dormers, with flimsy threads of chutes down which ore poured to the bottom of the cliff. It gave the town a background roar something like the sound of a bunch of waterfalls.
They left their burros with a disdainful liveryman who was surprised to find that men who rode burros could afford to pay cash money for livery.
With the burros off their hands, and the Mescaleros left behind somewhere in the desert, Clint felt a great relief. They hunted up two separate eating establishments, since they couldn’t find one that served food hot enough to please Felipe while also offering anything that Clint could think of as edible. Clint gave Felipe enough to pay for his meal and they parted, agreeing to meet afterwards in the square where the town’s two major roads crossed.
Clint stoked his furnaces in leisurely fashion, managing to get down some of about everything on the menu and astonishing the round-faced woman who served him.
“This town is full of big-eating miners,” she said, shaking her head, “but I never seen nothing like you before.”
Clint grinned and asked for more pie.
He left so full he could hardly bend over, and when he found a bench in the square to sit on, he was careful how he sat, stretching his legs out straight and sitting forward on the seat so he could lean back.
It felt damned good to be doing nothing but sit in the shade, knowing he was perfectly safe from Indians, burros, and the odd notions in Felipe’s head.
He sat there for quite a while, eyes closed, letting time go by, listening to the cries of teamsters and the distant rumbling roar of ore spewing down the rock face. He daydreamed that Felipe was trying to catch the burros and that they were shying away from him to eat grass, and for all his trying Felipe Fats could never catch them, and was cursing roundly in Spanish ...
He opened his eyes.
The shadows were getting long under the shade trees. The wind had shifted, coming cool now, down from the mountains. Where the devil was Felipe?
After some consideration, Clint remembered Felipe’s strong love of tequila. Could Felipe have spent his eating money on firewater? Maybe he was sitting in some crummy Mexican-style saloon full of smoke and chili fumes with a jug of tequila or pulque or whatever?
Clint couldn’t imagine what else could have happened to Felipe. Though it did seem different that a man who’d been this long without food would buy drink. Particularly since Felipe hadn’t shown any sign of being a drunk deprived of his bottle during the days of hardship. But maybe a Mexican was different.
Clint went wandering around town keeping his eyes peeled. He saw a fair number of Mexicans, but not Felipe. After a couple of hours of searching, Clint got worried. Now he was wondering if Felipe had deserted.
He went to the livery, half expecting the burros to be gone, but they were still there, perking their long ears at him when he came in. Clint went back into the street at a loss as to what to do, and was still thinking about it when from around a corner came Felipe, eyes roaming around, apparently looking for him.
“Where the hell were you, Fats?” Clint demanded.
“Have patience, Cleent. I have been trying to find the señor Blake Dixon. He is the man you wish to see, no?”
“Did you find him?” Clint had been so concerned with finding Felipe he had not been thinking about looking for Dixon. Now the cold determination to take it out of Dixon was returning.
“Sí! He is in the mountains. It is not far. Un jornado only. A day’s ride.”
“Well, let’s go then. I’ll buy some horses. You buy a couple of days’ grub. But not all chili, maize and tequila.”
“Sí, Cleent, I will do this,” Felipe agreed, taking the money Clint handed him.
They rode out not more than three hours before dusk, but Clint was determined to get there just as soon as they could. He felt himself again now, with a real horse under him, and a saddle, and hot on Dixon’s trail. All the business of putting up with Felipe and the Indians and the burros had been worth it after all.
They slept on lush grass under a spreading oak tree and awoke fresh and rested. The trail led up a labyrinth of valleys and gullies under towering walls of rock, lush with greenery. It was relatively cool and comfortable after the desert, and there was always water within a stone’s throw.
“So what does Dixon do? Mine?”
“Sí, Cleent,” Felipe said. “He is miner.”
“Just a dirt grubber or does he have a real operation?”
“It has been said he is panning for gold, you know? It is said he comes to town every month to buy supplies.”
“By himself?”
“Oh, sí. He is alone. You wish to have business with him, Cleent?”
“Guess you could call it that.”
“You wish to shoot him, no?”
Clint looked at Felipe. Felipe’s eyebrows were raised slightly, and he was grinning.
“Felipe, do you love your wife and children?”
“Adelita and los hijos? They are a great burden and a great joy to me, Cleent.”
“Well, I had a wife. I’d just brought her to my ranch in Colorado. Dixon took her screaming from the house. I followed and found her naked and battered to death in the woods.”
“I understand now why you wish to find the señor Dixon,” Felipe said. “It is revenge. I would do the same, Cleent. It would be a duty. I would never rest. I would cut him apart a small piece at a time, no? It would be very painful for him. He would pay for his sins with great terrible pain.”
Bloodthirsty words, but Clint felt just that way about it himself, even after five years.
It was late afternoon when they came up a long slope through a grove of aspen and entered a dense stand of fir. The branches were so thick that the trail was only dimly lighted.
Like apparitions, sombreroed Mexicans emerged from the thickets and blocked the trail, crossed shoulder belts of ammunition and rifles gleaming dully.
Clint tugged his horse to a stop, hand hovering near his Colt. He was in no mood to tiptoe around a bunch of Mexican thieves. Determination made his good sense and caution take a back seat.
“You got something to say, say it,” he said to them. “Otherwise, get out of the way.”
Another Mexican stepped into the trail in front of the others. He was dressed all in white, and wore a brace of well-oiled pearl-handled revolvers. He had a flamboyant mustache waxed on the ends, and a thin hard face.
“Hola, Felipe,” he said. “This is the señor Clint Evans?”
“Sí,” Felipe said. “Watch his gun. He is very fast. And he has the hot head sometimes. He might not be sensible.”
Chapter Eight
Clint swung on Felipe. “You mean to tell me I’ve rode burros and killed Indians and gone thirsty and hungry all so you could ambush me? What the hell’s the point, you double-crossing fat tortilla?”
“Cleent, do not be upset. Have patience.” Felipe spread his hands. To the white-suited Mexican he said, “The señor Cleent Evans he has a letter for you.”
“So that’s it. Then this is Valenzuela?”
“Sí, señor. I am Garcia Valenzuela. Please, do not be alarmed. I have no wish to harm you. It is merely the letter you have so kindly come all this way to deliver.”
Clint looked from Val
enzuela to Felipe and back again, trying to understand what this was really all about. He had the strong feeling that there was something missing. Something was wrong with this, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was just now.
“The letter, señor?” Valenzuela asked pleasantly, flashing white teeth, but Clint also noticed the flinty hardness of Valenzuela’s eyes.
Clint debated, then decided under the circumstances he could part with the letter. Perhaps, if he watched and listened carefully, he might learn something more about Dixon. Evidently Dixon wasn’t here, but perhaps Valenzuela would know where to find him. Perhaps the letter would even make him angry enough to give aid in Dixon’s destruction.
Clint handed over the letter. “Maybe Felipe here has told you. I’m looking for Dixon.”
Valenzuela didn’t respond. He read the letter, face completely expressionless. Then he pocketed it.
Then he smiled not quite warmly at Clint and said, “Please, Señor Evans, you are welcome. Stay as long as you wish. I have good wine and there are many pretty women to dance with.”
Clint knew there was no way he was going to find out anything if he just rode off. He might be letting himself in for something staying around, but if Valenzuela didn’t plan to let him go for some reason, he had plenty of power to carry out his desire in any case.
“Sure, why not,” Clint said to Valenzuela expansively. “Perhaps we can talk about Dixon.”
Valenzuela didn’t acknowledge the last suggestion, but he bowed and begged them to follow him. Horses were led out of the thickets, beautiful animals, worth a lot of money, Clint guessed. Valenzuela’s banditry was paying off handsomely, it appeared.
Three hundred yards along the trail, Valenzuela swung off on a side track which soon led into a narrow, high-walled cut in a massive cliff. The horses’ hooves kicked loose rocks making an eerie ringing echo. The cut was about a hundred yards long, and then it opened out into a bowl-shaped area walled solidly with rock and containing an impressive stone building that had a fortress look about it, mostly on account of the long low length with small high windows.
They had passed guards, well armed, at the entrance to the cut, and now passed more guards at the point where it opened into the bowl. Clint guessed that these were not all the guards, but that the tops of the cliffs between which the cut went were fairly alive with gun-toting Mexicans. Clint was heartily glad he had not accepted the job of trying to rescue Griego’s daughter from here. It would have been a lot more fight than he wanted.
Valenzuela led the way to a large archway in the middle of the building’s front wall and dismounted. On a sharp command from him, men came to take the reins of all the riders’ horses.
“Come, señores,” Valenzuela said. “Your horses will be taken care of.”
Clint, with Felipe at his heels, went through the arch. The inside of the building was in typical Spanish style, with a zaguán through which one went into the pórtico, passing through an iron grillwork gate. The pórtico went around all four sides of the patio, separated from the patio by a row of stone posts supporting arches. The patio was filled with flowers and cages of singing birds. There was the heavy smell of jasmine flowing around. Several women were sitting on the ledge of the central stone fountain, which was not running. Perhaps it was only for style and without a water source.
Clint and Felipe were shown to rooms on the far side of the patio. These rooms, like all the others, had their doors on the pórtico. The rooms were side by side, and Clint noticed armed guards followed them into the patio and sat down with the women on the fountain ledge.
“I should be much in your debt if you would leave your guns with Pablo,” Valenzuela said politely, as an old man came up. “He will take good care of them.”
“I never let my guns out of my reach,” Clint said flatly.
Valenzuela bowed, hands behind his back. “A very commendable attitude, Señor Evans, especially in this country. But you are quite safe. I give you my word, señor. Nothing will harm you while you are here. You have seen for yourself how difficult it would be to attack this place, and I have many excellent men. Please, your gun, señor. It is the rule of the house. It frightens the women.”
“I give you my word I will not frighten the women,” Clint said dryly. “But if you want my gun, you’ll have to kill me to get it.”
Valenzuela gesticulated with his thin ring-flashing hands. “Please, señor, let us not have bad feelings! There is no need, señor. You have done me a great favor in bringing me this letter. Am I not grateful? You will have no need of your gun while you are here. Have I not given you my word that you are safe?”
Clint headed for the iron grillwork door leading out of the pórtico.
“You wish to leave, señor?”
“That’s what I plan on,” Clint said. He figured it was time to see how the ground lay. He kept walking.
“I am sorry, señor,” Valenzuela said. “I was looking forward to intelligent conversation and the sharing of a bottle of wine. But if you must go, then goodbye, señor. May God go with you.”
Clint was given his horse and once again bid goodbye with seemingly genuine sorrow. Clint rode out, half expecting to be ambushed at any minute, but he rode for two miles without seeing or hearing anyone.
He stopped, swung his horse around and studied his back trail, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
It was plain that he was fresh out of leads without Felipe or any information Valenzuela might give him. All he could do was hunt some job to keep himself going. Perhaps it really was true that Valenzuela meant no harm to him—why should he? If taking the risk of giving up his weapons meant a shot at a lead to Dixon, then it was worth it. After all, one pistol or even a Winchester didn’t stand much chance against a whole armed camp.
Clint set his spurs and rode back towards the stronghold. He hadn’t gone but a few hundred yards when out of the deepening dusk rode a sombrero on horseback.
Clint was startled into going for his gun. But it was only Felipe.
“Fats, I’m surprised at you. Not going to take advantage of all that tequila and all those pretty women?”
“Señor, I could not let you go. I wish to make explanations, and to tell you that Valenzuela will not harm you. As you have seen, you may leave at any time. He wished only to offer his hospitality.”
“I’m going back. But I want you to tell me straight: do you know where Dixon is?”
“Sí. But it was my duty to bring the letter here.”
“Yeah, I know. Cousins. I’ll tell you what I think, Felipe Fats. I think you knew the letter would be worth money to Valenzuela, and since you knew I wouldn’t just hand it over to you, you led me a wild goose chase up here so that Valenzuela could take it away from me. I don’t think you have any more notion where Dixon is than I do.”
“Señor Cleent,” Felipe protested in an aggrieved voice. “You do me much wrong. I have misled you in a small way, it is true. For this I am very sorry. The letter Pedro gave his word to deliver. Pedro is my cousin, and Señor Valenzuela también. It is for me to deliver this letter. You are right that I fooled you in a small way, but ...”
“Small way? Listen, Fats, we nearly got killed. On the way back, those Mescaleros could get us yet.”
“But Señor Cleent, I will take you to Señor Dixon. You must have patience. We should trust each other, Cleent. I will not forget that you saved my life.”
Clint could see no point in arguing, and so shut up. They rode on, and with no trouble at all passed the guards and reentered the natural fortress where Valenzuela had his stronghold.
Chapter Nine
Valenzuela treated them to quite a party. The tequila flowed freely, the four guitarists and the three singers raised a powerful river of music, and the girls seemed to dance faster and faster and look prettier and prettier. Clint did not recall the last time he’d had a high old time. Not since well before marrying Margaret.
He had not planned to drink much, in order to keep his w
its sharp. But there was no getting Valenzuela to talk about Dixon. Every time Clint brought up the name, Valenzuela acted as though he hadn’t heard. He was polite and seemed anxious that Clint have a good time. Finally, after one or two heady sips of tequila, and a dance with a pretty señorita, Clint gave up and enjoyed the party.
The party seemed to get better and better until it was just a pleasant heady whirl. Clint danced with nearly every girl there, only vaguely wondering if one of them might be Pepita Griego. At some point the party spun away into nothing.
He woke up looking at a high white ceiling. For a moment, everything seemed very fine and peaceful. He did not quite recall where he was or what he had been doing recently. He remembered burros like a bad dream and inwardly smiled. Then he thought of Felipe wanting to skin them alive and actually did smile ...
And that was his last pleasant thought of the morning. The slight effort required to move his face muscles set off a chain reaction like touching off dynamite inside his head. He groaned, now clearly recalling the tequila and the beautiful señoritas and the guitar music and the sad Mexican songs. He tried to sit up and his head exploded over and over again, with every heartbeat. He tried to keep it down by holding his head in his hands, but the remedy wasn’t particularly effective.
After sitting for some minutes to allow the pain to subside, he made a very careful attempt to stand up. This set off more fireworks, and he wished he’d had the sense not to let the party get the better of him.
It took him twenty minutes to get dressed. Then he stepped out into the pórtico and winced at the brightness of the noonday sun on the stone floor of the patio.
“Ah, Señor Evans!” Valenzuela said warmly, coming briskly from somewhere, dressed immaculately, as always, smiling. “You have had a good rest, I trust?”
“You have to shout at me?”
“Ah! The tequila! Ho-ho, señor, you will have to watch out now. The señoritas are all talking about you!”
