Jornado (An E.R. Slade Western

by E. R. Slade

  They rode along without talking for quite a while, winding through the lush canyons and gullies, on the trail towards Valenzuela’s stronghold.

  “There’s a lot of places you could go,” Lang said tentatively. “You have a hankerin’ for high places or the valleys?”

  Clint eyed him and decided now was as good a time as any to make the next move.

  “Mr. Lang, I’m going to ask you man to man. Can I trust you?”

  Lang’s face started into a fox-like smile that flashed off immediately.

  “I reckon so,” he said.

  “We aren’t after bighorn sheep.”

  “That so,” Lang said noncommittally.

  “Fact is, we aren’t hunting.”

  “That right?” Lang responded. He was concentrating on rolling a cigarette.

  “You know Valenzuela?”

  The man started slightly, but covered by acting as though he had an itch.

  “I heard of him.”

  “Know where his hideout is up here?”

  Lang tucked the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and looked at them. Clint realized he’d made it hard for the man, since Lang didn’t know if he should admit to knowing or not.

  “Looky, Mr. Lang,” Clint went on. “My friend here and I are not alone. We have a force of a hundred and forty men, with plenty of guns and the lead to push through them. Camped down on the flats by the creek southeast of town. We’re here to take Valenzuela’s stronghold. We’ll pay you another hundred dollars to show us the lay of the land all around that place. And keep quiet about it.”

  Lang puffed on his cigarette. “I can show you,” he said.

  “Good.”

  Lang led them for two days around the steep rocky trails that skirted the massive chunk of rock which held the hollow wherein Valenzuela had established his headquarters. Clint became worried about how to set up an attack on this place that would seem a real threat to Valenzuela. Simply storming it would be nearly impossible. The rock was like an oversized boulder sitting on the mountainside. There was only one crack which gave access to the hollow inside. The outside of the boulder was otherwise straight-sided and sheer, about a hundred and fifty to two hundred feet high. Once in a while they caught glimpses of men patrolling way up there; anybody trying to climb up could be picked off with the greatest ease at the leisure of the men on top, who could take it in casual turns, the off watch drinking tequila or pulque or whatever and holding a fiesta.

  Once they had been all the way around the rock and Clint had asked all the right questions of Lang, they rode back to town. Clint paid the guide his additional hundred and then he and Felipe rode for camp.

  Four days went by. The men were growing restless and there were continual rumors among them that the attack would begin any hour now. Clint and Felipe answered no questions from them on the subject and listened endlessly to the reports of the men who were sent off to keep watch on the area from various vantage points.

  “Perhaps we have misjudged Señor Lang,” Felipe said. “Perhaps we must begin again.”

  “Let’s give it one more day,” Clint said.

  They didn’t need another day. That night, during the first watch, there was a sudden cry of pain and some grunting, and then two of the men brought another Mexican between them to Clint.

  “Where did you find him?” Clint asked in Spanish.

  “We caught him snooping around the edges of the camp like a mongrel dog.”

  “Who are you?” Clint demanded of the Mexican, whose face he couldn’t make out very well by starlight.

  “Señor, I am not an enemy. I am a messenger. I have a message for you from Señor Valenzuela.”

  The mention of the hated name made the two men holding the messenger take firmer hold and shake him fiercely.

  “Ah,” one of them said. “From Valenzuela. I think, Señor Evans, it would be a fine thing to make of this man an example of what happens to the pups of this filthy dog Valenzuela. I think we should disembowel him, and let his screams warn the other pups of Valenzuela what is in store for them.”

  “Cool off, friend,” Clint said, realizing how close to the boiling point these men were. What would they try to do when they finally understood they were not to get a chance to torture all of Valenzuela’s men to death?

  Of the messenger, Clint asked, “What is the message?”

  The man took an envelope from his pocket and passed it silently to Clint.

  Clint risked lighting a candle to read it by, aware he could be making a target of himself, if this was a trick of some kind. He saw the dimly lighted faces of the rows of men in the Mexican force, all watching with fierce interest, and the worried face of Valenzuela’s man.

  The letter was short. It demanded to know who the force of men belonged to, and what they were doing here. Clint used a quill to reply right on the same sheet of paper.

  He wrote, in Spanish, that he was from Griego, and that since Felipe had come with the news that Pepita had been killed out of spite, Griego now wished to smite the filth Valenzuela and totally destroy him. He said that a way had been found to nullify the defenses and that in a short while Valenzuela would lie begging at the feet of his captors. After a moment of mental debate, Clint added that there would be no mercy shown, and that Valenzuela would be treated with the same consideration with which he had treated Miguel and Pepita.

  Clint folded the sheet of paper back up and sealed the envelope with drippings from the candle. Then he handed it back to the messenger.

  “See Valenzuela gets this as soon as possible,” he directed.

  “Sí, I will do this.”

  But the two men would not let go of him. They were becoming angry.

  “Why should we let this cowardly yellow dog go?” one of the men demanded. “It is time to have an example, no? He turned to the others, and got a rousing chorus of agreement.

  “Let him go,” Clint instructed tersely.

  “Señor Evans, this man is one who deserves to die, does he not? All the pups of the dog Valenzuela deserve to die, do they not? Why should we not begin when we may? It will strike the fear of God into the other pups of Valenzuela. The taste of the blood of this pup will be a good taste for we who starve for the blood of these filthy cowardly dogs!”

  This brought another rousing chorus of agreement. The messenger was growing pale, and he looked all around desperately at the fierce faces glowing redly brown in the candlelight.

  “I think it would be a good thing for the men,” said Felipe, who had been awakened by all this. He sounded eager. “It would satisfy their thirst, Cleent.”

  The toothpick in Clint’s mouth tipped up.

  “Somebody has to take the message to Valenzuela. If this man is dead, one of you will have to go. Which of you will it be? You?” he said sharply, looking at the man who had been doing the talking. “Or you?” he asked, looking at the other man holding the messenger.

  For a moment Clint stared first one, then the other in the eye, unblinking, determined.

  There was only the sound of the wind rustling in the trees overhead.

  “Then let him go,” Clint said, and they did.

  The man didn’t waste time. He was gone inside of thirty seconds, and probably praying that he never had to act as messenger again.

  There was resentful jostling among Griego’s men. Clint realized he might have won this battle, but in the end he could lose the war, and the men cut loose and start letting blood run freely in the dirt.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Just before dark two days later, the messenger came back again, looking terrified and wary. Everybody watched him hungrily. Clint thought if anyone looked like dogs it was Griego’s men—starving dogs drooling over the sight of fresh meat.

  Clint took the message and read it leaning against an oak tree.

  It read, in Spanish, “Querido Señor Evans, Señor Griego would have done better not to trust the scoundrel Felipe. He lies. I have not harmed Señorita Pepita in any w
ay. I still wish to marry her, and she me. But I must have Señor Griego’s blessing. Please return to Señor Griego my respect and inform him of this fact. Please tell him that I have never wished him evil and even now wish him no evil. I will not marry Señorita Pepita without the father’s blessing, and she will not marry me, though she has promised me her hand as soon as Señor Griego’s blessing is forthcoming. Quedo de usted su afmo. y S.S., Garcia Valenzuela.”

  Clint looked at Felipe and nodded.

  “What does he say, Cleent?” Felipe asked.

  “What we wanted him to. Hand me the quill.”

  Clint wrote: “I have my orders, Valenzuela. We will attack as planned. We do not believe you, quite frankly. However, if it is true, then you and she and one man alone should meet with me and one man in the empty tool shack near the heading of the closed Jewel Mine. Your men and ours can watch from below that only the five of us enter the shack. It is too far to shoot accurately, so none of us will be in any danger. We will approach from the south, you from the north. Climb under the flume, if you wish cover until you get high enough. We will climb through the woods. I will give orders that my men are not to attack yours, unless there are too many men climbing up, and I suggest you do the same, or there will be a futile bloodbath. If Pepita is alive, Señor Griego has no desire for such a bloodbath, but only to negotiate her release. This is what we will do in the tool shed. If you are not there at noon on next Sunday, we will assume you lie and we will attack. Do not underestimate our ability to destroy you, Señor Valenzuela. Señor Griego’s men are thirsty for your blood.”

  Clint sent the messenger off, and the men were silent, watching. The messenger disappeared along the winding trail under the trees. The camp began to be full of muttering and grumbling. One man finally came forward.

  “Señor Evans,” he said, “the men wish to know when we attack.”

  “Certainly I will tell you when it is time for you to know,” Clint repeated the words he’d repeated many times before.

  But this time, instead of the man wandering off disappointed, he remained standing in front of Clint belligerently.

  “We demand to know, señor,” he said bluntly. “You have told us this so many times already that it wearies our ears to hear it. We demand to know now.”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “How can I tell you? It depends on the outcome of these messages, and if the wind blows right. But if it is something to do you want, do not worry. Tomorrow there will be plenty to do.”

  “We will make preparations?” the man said hopefully.

  “Yes. There will be dynamite to load and wagons to drive.”

  The man’s eyes lit up at the prospect of dynamite. Clint was wondering if this part of the plan was so smart after all, given the eagerness of Griego’s men. But he couldn’t think of a better way to worry Valenzuela and keep the pressure on than to make a show of buying a lot of dynamite and wagons and burros and carrying it slowly and carefully towards the stronghold. It was bound to make Valenzuela question even his impenetrable defenses. As long as it didn’t also make Valenzuela think he ought to stay home and mind the store at any cost, things might work out all right.

  The camp spent a restless night, as word spread quickly that the next day would see them handling dynamite. Clint imagined there would be a lot of dreaming about exploding Valenzuela pups.

  In the morning, bright and early, they packed up and rode into town. Clint, using money supplied by Griego, bought five wagons and enough dynamite to fill them. It was an impressive lot of fireworks, and it wasn’t long before the whole town was abuzz with the rumor that this small army was about to attack Valenzuela. Clint even heard of some money being placed on the event, and noticed men riding off towards the stronghold, perhaps some Valenzuela spies, or possibly Dixon men, but most probably hunting a good place to watch the excitement from.

  It took all day to get the dynamite loaded into the wagons, and driven about halfway to the stronghold. They made camp in a spot above the trail, from which they could watch it in both directions. The spot was chosen also for cover and as being an easy place to defend, should Valenzuela decide to attack.

  As he got into his roll that night, Clint thought about all that dynamite. He wondered if he would be able to stall for the three days until Sunday without making his men impatient.

  The next two days they spent moving the dynamite up over the crags just outside of the stronghold, straining and sweating and swearing at the burros, which now carried the load of fireworks. Clint’s idea was to take it around the back side of the big rock where the woods grew thickly at its base, and the wall of rock overhung them, and set the men to work with star drills.

  “Is not the wall very thick?” one of the men asked doubtfully.

  “It is much thinner here than anywhere else,” Clint said, having no idea this was so. He’d picked this place for its cover and for the time it would take to get here .

  The third day saw the men working at the rock, sledging the star drills in an endless ringing din. Clint had men keeping watch in all directions, especially on the rim above, in case Valenzuela got nervous and tried to attack. But the day passed uneventfully, and Clint was happy to see that the men were plumb tuckered out by all the heavy labor they’d been doing, and he hoped this would temper their desire to attack Valenzuela’s men the next day.

  Clint spent a fairly sleepless night, thinking all the time he heard either Valenzuela’s men coming or Griego’s men going. But it was only night animals and the wind.

  Sunday morning, the camp was full of talk about how long it might take to plant enough charges to blow a hole into Valenzuela’s camp, or to reach China, whichever came first, and there were quite a few men who thought they’d come out in Shanghai, or so they said. Clint was tempted not to let the men in on what was to happen today at all, but allow them to go on working while he and Felipe slipped quietly off to have their chance at Valenzuela. But if something went wrong, it would not be wise to have his backup force planting dynamite charges miles away from where they would be needed. And if Valenzuela had any wits at all, he’d be mighty careful in his checking to see just what he was walking into. There had to be an army in place for him to see.

  Clint told the men to pack up, but hide the dynamite. They looked at each other at first in puzzlement, and then significantly. Clint did not inform them of anything but that they were going for a ride, and not too long after, they rode.

  It took, as Clint expected, until about eleven o’clock or thereabouts to get to the abandoned Jewel Mine, which was sunk in the rock face miles from any presently active mine. He had the men take up positions in a thicket and a large pile of slag. Then he sent out scouts to check the area under the old broken down flume that came down the rock face a quarter mile away. He warned them to be careful and watch their backs.

  Half an hour later, they returned excited with the news that there was a whole pack of Valenzuela’s dogs under cover in some rocks over across.

  “Well, Felipe,” Clint said, “this is it. Let’s go.” To the men he said, “I want you to watch that shack way up there by the shaft heading. We are going to try to rescue Pepita, so that she will not be in danger when we attack. Felipe and I are going in from one side, and Valenzuela and one man to side him plus the girl from the other. If anybody else shows his nose, or starts up under the flume, attack those men over in the rocks. You can’t hit the shack from this far away, but you can hit the men in the rocks and keep anybody else from going up. His men should have orders to remain below, and you are not to follow us. We will be back when we are finished. It may be some time.”

  The men were puzzled, but willing, and Clint didn’t tell them any more. He hoped they wouldn’t think he was selling out, and on their own attack Valenzuela’s force, if this took a while.

  The climb was long and hot. Clint found his wounds paining him, even though they were mostly all just scars now.

  “Do you have your weapons, Cleent?” Felipe
asked when they were partway up.

  “I didn’t check more’n a dozen times before we started.”

  “What do you think Valenzuela will have?”

  “Hard to say. He won’t come unprepared. He may not come at all. This is a big risk for him. I’m surprised he’s here.”

  “He wants the mine, señor.”

  “I guess Pepita must have refused him if he didn’t get her father’s blessing, or else Valenzuela doesn’t know that Griego will feel obligated to keep his word to give her the mine whoever she marries.”

  “Thees plan is working, Señor Cleent. We are going to get the cowardly dog, and it will be a great pleasure to cut out his eyes and his tongue and pull his fingernails one by one. I have thee pliers for this, Cleent, and I have a small saw to cut off his fingers one at a time.”

  Clint felt soured enough about Felipe’s plans without hearing the fat Mexican talk about it. “Save it, Felipe,” he said.

  “But I take great pleasure in the anticipation,” Felipe said, as they kept on climbing through the scrawny growth of fir. “It is something I have been waiting for a long time, señor. I wish to savor it, you know?”

  “Then do it quietly.”

  “Sí, Cleent, if you wish. But you feel the same desire for the blood of Dixon that I have for the blood of Valenzuela. There is much pleasure in revenge, is there not? It is a fine thing, like much tequila or a pretty señorita with dark eyes and much desire.”

  Clint was silent. Doggoned if he didn’t hate Mexicans.

  They arrived at a point even with the shack and the mine heading. A quarter mile away, he could see three small figures slowly moving up the rock face under the wooden flume. It was too far to be sure if one was a woman or not.

  “Now listen, Felipe,” Clint said. “We’re going to be polite and not hurt anybody right away. We’ll talk first and then disarm them. It may be Valenzuela will crumple when he sees we have the upper hand.”

  “But it will be pleasant to torture Valenzuela to make him talk,” Felipe said eagerly. “However, it will not matter to me, for sooner or later I will torture him until he dies screaming.”