Jornado (An E.R. Slade Western

by E. R. Slade

  “That a fact,” Clint mumbled, holding his head and blinking at the fierce glare of the sun. Funny how it seemed twice as bad here as in the desert.

  “Sí, señor, it is a fact. You have made quite a reputation among the señoritas. You dance very well.”

  This was blatant flattery. Clint knew he couldn’t dance much better than a hog could, but he let it pass. If it pleased this little potentate of a bandit to flatter him, then that was his privilege. Clint was likewise doubtful that the señoritas were much interested in him either, but then you never could tell with señoritas, and he wasn’t sure he remembered everything about last night. For instance, he didn’t recall undressing and going to bed.

  “Looky, Mr. Valenzuela,” Clint said. “You keep ignoring it when I ask you about Blake Dixon. You seem to know the man, and I am trying to find him. I’m going to ask you once more: would you care to tell me what you can about him?”

  Valenzuela eyed Clint, still smiling, speculatively. “Señor I would be honored if you would eat almuerzo with me. Perhaps we can have this discussion you wish so much. I am going to eat now. Come if you are hungry.”

  Clint was in too much pain to be hungry, even after eating very little the previous night. He suspected the food would not be very edible anyway; but if Valenzuela was going to work his jaw about Dixon, Clint wasn’t going to pass it up.

  The table was massive, carved intricately of some dark and well-oiled wood. A lace tablecloth lay over it delicate as a spider web, probably silk by the look of it. Two places were set, but Valenzuela had the fat old lady who was getting ready to serve set another.

  A moment later, a strikingly beautiful olive-skinned girl came into the solemn, high-ceilinged room with a disdainful look on her face.

  Valenzuela hastened to hold the chair for her. She swept her skirts up and sat down as lightly as a butterfly on a flower.

  “Buenos días, señorita,” Clint said, and she acknowledged with a nod.

  In Spanish, Valenzuela told her that Señor Evans was a very good friend and a very fine dancer, that he had made many señoritas very happy the night before. Again, she nodded, not smiling, acting as though infinitely superior to Valenzuela and the whole of Valenzuela’s operation, and to Clint, whoever or whatever he might be.

  “This is Señorita Pepita Griego,” Valenzuela said. “She is also visiting us for a short while.”

  Clint nodded, not letting on to know more than he was told.

  Lunch, as Clint had feared, was very spicy and almost impossible to eat. However, he made a determined try, as he talked to Valenzuela about Blake Dixon.

  “Who is he?” Clint asked.

  “Señor Dixon is a friend of mine. Is he one of your friends also?”

  “I know him. At least I know about him.”

  “And you are attempting to find him, is this correct?”

  “Now you get the idea.”

  “It is a fine thing we have a mutual friend. It is a way of becoming better friends ourselves, is it not?”

  “I guess if you say so.”

  “Would you like more coffee, señor?”

  “No thanks. You were about to tell me where I can find Dixon.”

  “Ah. He is the hard man to find, no?” Valenzuela’s black eyes glimmered. “He communicates with me upon occasion, but I could not tell you exactly where he is, señor. He does not stay long in one place. When I wish to contact him, I send someone to find him. Sometimes it takes a long time.”

  “Just what is your connection to this hombre anyhow?”

  Something moved in the depths of Valenzuela’s eyes as he said, “We sometimes have business. But we are amigos primarily.”

  Clint tried once or twice more to pry out information, but Valenzuela with unfailing politeness and talk slick as calf slobber neatly sidestepped the questions.

  Pepita Griego, meanwhile, simply sat there, refusing to eat. Now having studied her more carefully, he noticed the pallor and the way her clothes seemed to hang loosely on her. Her eyes were slightly sunken and her cheeks pinched. She was evidently starving herself. She seemed to have enormous distain for Valenzuela and no interest in the visitor,

  Now Valenzuela turned to her. He pulled a sheet of paper from somewhere, spread it on the table in front of her and laid a quill pen and a bottle of ink at her hand. The paper was blank.

  “Are you ready to write to your father?” he asked her pleasantly. “The messenger can be sent immediately.”

  She stared across the ornate room without showing any sign he existed.

  “I do not wish to have to impress upon your mind in coarse fashion the need for this letter,” he said. “It will be so much more pleasant if you will be reasonable.”

  She ignored him.

  He snapped his fingers sharply, and a man, heavily armed, appeared from somewhere.

  “Prepare the captive,” Valenzuela ordered in clipped Spanish. Then to Pepita he said, “You will come with me, please.” He got up and held her chair. He looked at Clint. “This might perhaps be of interest to you, señor.”

  They went into the patio, and then out through the iron grillwork and left the building. There was a stout post driven into the ground near the wall of rock that surrounded them. From a small stone building separate from the main house-fortress, a man with his hands bound behind him was being led towards the post. He was a Mexican, but beyond that Clint could tell nothing. The man was bound back-to the stake and the two men who’d done it stepped off a few paces and began checking the actions of their guns.

  “This man,” Valenzuela said to Pepita, “do you know him?”

  Pepita stopped several feet away from the man at the stake and stood proudly, but her face wanted to contort into protest.

  “Pepita,” the man at the stake said calmly in Spanish, “don’t do it.”

  “He is not by chance your brother Miguel?” Valenzuela asked.

  “Miguel ...” Pepita began. “I cannot let you die.”

  “It is better that I die than the honor of our family die,” Miguel returned firmly.

  “It is possible,” Valenzuela suggested, “that Miguel will not have to die. In five minutes he could be on his way to your father with your letter.”

  “Do not do it,” Miguel said flatly. “I could not return in disgrace. I would not deliver such a letter, Pepita.”

  “Miguel,” she said, and tears glistened in her eyes. Clint wondered what the hell this was supposed to have to do with him.

  “Don’t do it, Pepita,” Miguel repeated.

  “I will,” she said, breaking down. “I will not let you die.”

  “I tell you, Pepita, I will not deliver the letter. It would be dishonorable.”

  “Miguel ...” She put her face in her hands. Clint felt for her, but realized that, not knowing what it was all about, it was an emotion to be suspicious of. It was hard to tell who was deserving of what. The thing he wanted was to get shut of these Mexicans and their feud and go hunt for Dixon.

  Valenzuela had provided a small writing table and paper and pen, right there in the open, and Pepita sat down tearfully and began writing hurriedly in Spanish. Clint couldn’t make it out from where he stood, and didn’t know if he might upset Valenzuela and be next at the post if he tried to move around so he could read it. He figured useless curiosity wasn’t enough reason to make any moves he wasn’t sure of around here.

  When she finished, Valenzuela picked up the paper and read it over, smiling, and then carefully folded it up, put it in an envelope, and sealed it.

  Then he said to the guards, “Shoot him,” and without hesitation they did.

  Chapter Ten

  Pepita, kicking, screaming and struggling, was carried off to the house. Clint had a sour taste in his mouth. Against his better judgment he was thinking about the money he’d taken from Felipe, who’d taken it from Griego’s man, and he was thinking maybe he’d like to earn it after all.

  He was still toying with the emotion, knowing it was plain
foolhardy but yet having a powerfully strong urge to see Valenzuela in his grave, when his hand automatically went to his pocket to check for the money—and found it wasn’t there.

  “Señor Evans,” Valenzuela was saying smoothly, dabbing at sweat with a silk handkerchief. “It is very unfortunate what happens to those associated with Griego, is it not?”

  “Not much of a sport, are you?” Clint remarked, returning Valenzuela’s cold hard gaze.

  “It is an example of what may happen to those who desire to oppose me,” Valenzuela said.

  “I get your drift, Valenzuela,” Clint said dryly. “You’re warning me off. You’d have done better to do nothing, as far as I am concerned. I don’t cotton to threats much. I never had any notion of working for Griego when I found out what he wanted me to do. I’ve got only one interest, and that is to find Blake Dixon and see he pays for what he did to my wife. I don’t want anything to do with any feud you have going with Griego, or anything else. But killing men that way is the way yellowbellies do it. You wanted to impress me, you’d have fought the man a fair fight.”

  Valenzuela smiled. “You are a fine man, Señor Evans. I am very sorry for this little scene. You must forgive me. I did not know of what material you are made. As for Miguel, it was necessary to kill him. It is a thing you know little about. Do not worry, señor, when I have a man to fight, for whom I have respect, I always fight honorably. But dogs and those who are no better than dogs do not deserve such respect.”

  Clint decided he’d better change the subject, or he’d lose his temper.

  “Where’s Felipe?” he asked.

  “I expect he will be up by now. He had much tequila last night!”

  Clint went into the house and found Felipe in his room. Clint went in and closed the door.

  “Where is it?” Clint demanded.

  “Where is what, señor?” Felipe was just getting out of bed, bleary-eyed and evidently with the same kind of headache Clint had had on getting up. Clint’s headache was returning.

  “The money. Now I know why you wanted me to come back. For the party, to get me drunk. And that’s another reason you brought me here in the first place. Now where is it?” Clint began searching the pockets of Felipe’s pants, which were slung over a chair. He found nothing.

  “Señor,” Felipe said softly, holding his head in his hands. “Oh, señor, do not shout. My head it is the fireworks.”

  Clint was in a bad mood. He leaned over and said loudly into Felipe’s ear, “Where did you put it?”

  Felipe moaned and fell sideways onto the bedclothes, pulling the pillow over his head.

  Clint yanked the pillow away and shook Felipe hard. “Come on, Fats, show me where you put it. I’ve about had it with you and your damned cousins and your lying ways.”

  Felipe looked sorrowfully up at Clint. “Cleent, I do not have it. Why should I steal your money when you have saved my life? It would be so ungrateful. I am a very grateful man, Cleent. I would not do this to you.”

  “Well, somebody took it. Either you or one of your cousins. You get it. I want it.”

  “But Cleent, Señor Valenzuela would not steal from you. He has much already.”

  “The way I hear tell, he has it because he stole it.” The more Clint thought about it, the more he realized the possibility of Valenzuela or one of his men having taken it. It could even have been one of the señoritas he had danced with. How could he ever expect to get it back? He couldn’t, unless he could find it in Felipe’s possession.

  He began searching again. But as far as he could tell, in wasn’t in the room. Felipe might have stashed it somewhere else, knowing Clint would suspect him and come looking. But if that was the case, it made searching for it here a futile effort. The only thing to do would be wait until Felipe left the stronghold and then tackle him.

  “You plan on hanging your hat here long?” Clint asked.

  “But it is up to you, señor.”

  “Then we are leaving now. You’re going to take me to Dixon. This time, no more doing favors for cousins along the way, got that?”

  “Oh, sí, Cleent. There is nothing more.”

  Clint was relieved to leave the bandit’s stronghold behind. For some distance he and Felipe didn’t talk at all. Clint figured he’d wait until they were a good long way from Felipe’s cousin or whatever Valenzuela was to Felipe before he tried to find out what Felipe had on him.

  It wasn’t that Clint figured he had any more right to the money than Felipe had, but that he figured he had no less right to it. If Griego hadn’t been a Mexican in the middle of a feud, Clint would almost certainly have returned the money to him. But under the circumstances, it seemed a good bet that Dixon was in Valenzuela’s camp somehow, in spite of the nasty letter, and Clint figured he’d earn whatever it used up of the money to get rid of him, even if it didn’t accomplish Griego’s purpose. If there was money left afterward he could return that and call it even.

  This was how Clint rationalized it, anyway.

  They pulled into Oak Creek towards sundown.

  “Well,” Clint said, “I haven’t got a cent. You want to eat, or sleep someplace besides on the ground, you better fish out that clink of coin you took off me.”

  “Cleent, I have told you. I have nothing. But we do not have to go hungry.”

  “Oh no?”

  “Not at all, Señor Cleent. You can shoot, no?”

  “You plan to hold up somebody?”

  “Oh no, Cleent!”

  “Say, didn’t you get paid for delivering that letter?”

  “No,” Felipe said sadly. “I have nothing, señor. But listen. Can you act drunk?”

  Clint, suddenly realizing what Felipe might have in mind, grinned. “You are an ingenious fellow, Felipe Fats.”

  Ten minutes later, Clint having found a few empty whiskey bottles and piled them in a haphazard group next to an alley wall in sight of the street, sat down amongst them, loosened his shirt and crumpled his hat. Then he waited.

  It was not a long wait. He presently heard Felipe’s voice raised in an argument with somebody, bragging. “My partner, he can shoot the legs off a fly blindfolded. You will see. He is much better than you. You will see.”

  “You been drinkin’ too much tequila,” an amused voice said calmly. “Where’d you say your pard was? Fetch him out, vaquero. I’m tired of hearing you talk.”

  “You wait, señor. Wait right here. I will find him. He is probably at the livery. I will find him and then we will see.”

  By the sound of the voices, it appeared there were people gathering, waiting to find out if there was going to be something to watch. Clint got up and, with a whiskey bottle in one hand, staggered out of the alley, drunkenly looked one way, then the other, let out a slobbery giggle, and sat down against the corner post of the building nearest him as though to watch.

  Felipe was waddling quickly down the street, looking all around. He went clear to the far end of town, and Clint figured Felipe was leaving him plenty of acting room, so he made use of it.

  “Hey, friend,” he called to the nearest of the crowd that was gathering. “Wathsh goin’ on?”

  “Goin’ to be a shootin’ contest,” the man said. “Some Mexican thinks his partner can shoot real good. Wants to put him up against Barnham here.”

  “Hooss Burrum?”

  “You ain’t never heard tell of Blur Barnham? Well, he’s just about the most fine gun handler in these parts ...”

  But the fellow’s friend, a little quick-eyed short fellow, nudged him and said, almost too soft for Clint to make out, “Shut up, Jake. Suppose he wants to put down some money?”

  “Course,” the fellow went on talking loudly, “we don’t know who this Mexican’s friend is. Maybe he’s the best in the county, or the whole state. Care to put money on somebody?”

  “I can sh-shoot ... maybe you want to put mon-money on me?”

  The two men and the others standing around thought that was pretty funny, and got a good big
laugh out of it. Clint saw Felipe coming back along the street and decided it was time for him to get off the scene.

  He went along the alley and behind a few buildings and then, acting a little unsteady on his feet, but just in control, wandered out into the street not twenty paces in front of Felipe.

  “Oh, Cleent, I have been looking for you,” Felipe said in a loud voice. “There is a man who believes he can shoot better than you. But I tell him and the others that it is not true. I tell him that there is nobody better than you. I tell him you can shoot the legs off the fly from twenty paces.”

  Clint, with exaggerated sobriety, turned to look at the group of people. He said, “Hoosh this man?”

  Felipe led the way along to the group of men. They were jostling each other and smiles were everywhere.

  “Who says that Barnham can shoot better than Cleent?” Felipe demanded. “Put your money down, señores!”

  There was a lively session while bets were being placed. There was a lot of talk and many grinning faces. Clint was amazed at the amount of money that piled up on Barnham. Felipe reached into his pocket and a look of horror crossed his face.

  He turned to Clint. “Cleent, you have the money to cover these bets?”

  Clint barked out a loud laugh, and then was quiet.

  “Señores,” Felipe said earnestly, “I have burros. Three burros. They are very fine animals. I also have two horses, with fine saddles. They are also very good animals. I will put them against the money you have bet. Is this acceptable, señores? These animals, they are worth much money.”

  The men consulted with each other. Then they wanted to see the animals. Felipe led the way to the livery, where the burros were still being looked after, their keep having been paid in advance through one more night. The horses were tied up to the public rail in front of the nearest saloon. Those that had bet against Felipe finally agreed among themselves that the horses and burros would do, and everybody proceeded to the town limits on foot, since it was not far. Clint walked with great care, making a project of stepping over horse dung in the street. There was much surreptitious winking and nudging amongst the men over this.