Jornado (An E.R. Slade Western

by E. R. Slade

  “You’re a bastard, Felipe, you know that?”

  “But then you are too, are you not?”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “It is the way the world passes, señor, no? Yours is not the only revenge.”

  “I told you to shut your mouth,” Clint said curtly, and led the way out of the trees into the heat on the bare rock.

  The sun was as bad here as out in the desert. The reflected glare of light and heat made his eyes water. They didn’t even have the distance from the reflecting surface that riding a horse gave you.

  The others a quarter mile away were also moving cautiously along the side of the steep slope of rock, picking their way from crevice to ledge. As each side drew nearer the mine shaft head frame, the progress grew slower, since everybody other than Pepita was busy holding a pistol in his hand, in case the other side should try something. Clint could see the determinedly superior look on Pepita’s face as she made her way along.

  Clint glanced down and assured himself that the two small armies still stayed put in their cover.

  When they reached the shack, Clint and Felipe waited outside in full view for the others to come up.

  “Hola, señores,” Valenzuela said, as though he were in his own stronghold welcoming friends. He was dressed immaculately, and Clint was amazed that the man had climbed all the way up here without getting dirt or dust on his clothes, and had only the slightest dew of sweat on his brow. His companion, an inscrutable Mexican in the Indian grab of his country, was sweating heavily. Pepita, wearing a dress and jewelry, was even more a source of amazement. She was cool and in command and as dignified as a queen. Clint mopped sweat from his brow and looked at Valenzuela.

  “Pepita, as you see, is very much alive and well,” Valenzuela said, watching them carefully. “It surprises me that you bring along as your man the filth who lied to you about her death.”

  “It’s hot out here,” Clint said. “Let’s go inside.”

  There was a little maneuvering to get inside without anybody becoming vulnerable. Then they all sat around on empty dynamite cases, with another box in the middle to serve as a table, though it was quite small.

  “Pepita,” Clint asked, “do you wish to marry this man?”

  “No,” she spat out, as though the word was coffee unexpectedly loaded with salt instead of sugar.

  Clint looked at Valenzuela, who was disconcerted not one bit.

  “Seems the lady doesn’t agree with your version of the story.”

  Valenzuela smiled. “Señor Evans, I know of you. You are a man who understands the way of the world, are you not? You are aware of what this is all about, are you not?”

  “A gold mine. But I can tell you, Valenzuela, you will never get it from Griego.”

  “He will believe you, will he not?”

  “I think so.”

  “You might tell him that Pepita wishes to marry me, and he would agree to give his blessing, would he not?”

  “It is possible. But people from Griego’s family, and probably the old man himself, would wish to be at the wedding, and if Pepita does not desire the marriage, then she would not be long in letting this be known.”

  “You must allow me to concern myself with that problem, señor. It is not impossible to overcome. But we are here to negotiate, are we not? It is a question of what might convince you to tell Señor Griego of Pepita’s true wish to marry me.”

  “Ah,” said Clint. He noticed Felipe’s fingers were itchy and hoped he wouldn’t try something foolish before the agreed upon maneuver.

  “You are not, I am sure, concerned with such elusive apparitions as the emotions of a woman,” Valenzuela said. “You are similar to myself. You deal in real terms. You perhaps have a desire for wealth?”

  “Please continue.”

  “I am not a poor man, señor. I could make you quite rich.”

  “There is one thing I want,” Clint said. “Dixon.”

  “Perhaps one thousand dollars would recompense you for your efforts with Señor Griego?” Valenzuela said as though he had not heard Clint.

  “Dixon.”

  “It is possible I could go as high as two thousand.”

  “Dixon.”

  “It is not wise to push me too far, Señor Evans. Do not imagine that I fear a few paltry loads of dynamite and a motley assortment of Griego’s vaqueros. But I will go to three thousand. That is my final offer.”

  “It isn’t wise to push me too far, either, Valenzuela. But,” Clint added, grinning, “four thousand would be just about right.”

  “This would have to buy your silence forever. I have many ears, and much determination and many guns.”

  “I can’t see why you’d care about that once you get your hands on the mine, but I don’t talk much.”

  “It is best not to upset Señor Griego.”

  “Pepita will talk in any case.”

  Valenzuela smiled thinly, looking at Pepita, who had sat completely aloof through this conversation, not even blinking. “It is astonishing how many women die giving birth.”

  Clint felt a knot forming in his stomach on account of this conversation. But it was over now. He stood up, holstered his gun, and held out his hand to Valenzuela.

  Valenzuela also stood up and looked a moment at the hand as though hesitant about taking it, and then smiled in a self-satisfied kind of way, holstered his own weapon, and reached to shake hands.

  Clint, smiling, yanked Valenzuela suddenly off his feet, tripping him over the box. At the same moment, Felipe slid his knife into Manual’s belly and twisted it. The man opened his mouth to scream and Felipe slit his throat. The man slumped with a gargling sound. Pepita had leaped to her feet and backed off towards the door. Now she was about to go out.

  Clint meanwhile had rolled Valenzuela onto his back on the floor and pinned him, tossing aside Valenzuela’s gun. Catching sight of Pepita at the door he said sharply, “Stay in here, or you could get us all killed.”

  She hesitated and Felipe had a moment to pull her from the door and sit her down. Then, as Valenzuela twisted unexpectedly and started to get away, Felipe jumped over and squatted to put his pistol against Valenzuela’s temple.

  “It is time,” Felipe said, “for you to stay quiet, my filthy cowardly friend.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Clint got off Valenzuela and went to Pepita.

  “It’ll be all right now,” he said comfortingly. “Soon you will be with your father again. But right now we must wait for darkness in order to escape. Otherwise a war will begin and it will be very dangerous to try to get away.”

  “I understand,” Pepita said, calmly and collectedly. “What are you going to do with this filth here?”

  “Señor Valenzuela is going to get much practice screaming,” Felipe said, showing his yellow teeth.

  “It is nothing more than he deserves,” Pepita spat out.

  “Señor Valenzuela,” Clint said, taking a seat near where Felipe had the bandit covered on the floor. “It is not my wish to hurt you. As you know, I am interested in one thing only. The location of Dixon’s place of hiding. If you will tell me that, I desire nothing else from you.”

  Valenzuela was sweating now. For the first time he looked as though he had climbed the hot face of the rock.

  “Please, señor,” he said. “I will tell you.”

  “See?” Pepita said. “The man is a coward. He has no honor at all.”

  Felipe had his knife out now, and holding it at Valenzuela’s throat, which glistened with sweat, he said, “I think I will begin with your eyes. I will cut them out like two fat plum pits, eh?”

  “Back off, Felipe,” Clint said sharply. “The man says he’ll talk. Go ahead, Valenzuela. Tell me where I can find Dixon.”

  “You will promise to let me go?”

  Clint paused, looking at Felipe. The fat Mexican’s eyes were burning.

  “What you did to Felipe’s family was inexcusable. As you see, Felipe wants to make you die slowl
y and painfully. If you talk, I will see that you die quickly.”

  Felipe looked at Clint, and Clint looked back. They said nothing. Clint could not tell what Felipe thought about this statement. Clint was not sure himself whether he meant what he said.

  “I must be allowed to live,” Valenzuela said. “I do not wish to die.”

  “I’m afraid your time has come,” Clint said. “It is only a matter of dying slowly and painfully or quickly and with less pain.”

  Valenzuela squeezed his eyes tightly together and either sweat or tear water ran from the corners.

  “I beg you,” Valenzuela said. “Have compassion.”

  “I am,” Clint said. This business sure did taste sour. He was sweating plenty—it kept running into his eyes—and he was wishing he hadn’t come. Damn but didn’t he hate Mexicans. He ought to let them all torture each other to death, if that was what they wanted.

  Felipe moved his knife slowly towards Valenzuela’s frightened eyes, which stared fixedly at the point of it.

  “I will tell you,” Valenzuela said shakily. “But take this torturing killer away from me.”

  “Back off, Felipe,” Clint said, and Felipe did so only with great reluctance. He kept Valenzuela covered with his pistol.

  “Señor Dixon has a hidden stronghold in the mountains west of here. I will draw you a map. But I beg you, do not kill me.”

  “Ha!” Pepita said with disgust. “Here is a man who is big enough to kidnap helpless women, but he cannot even die with dignity.” She spat on him, and Clint could see Valenzuela’s neck turn a deep shade of red and his eyebrows lower. Pepita had probably hurt him more with that statement than could anything even Felipe might do to him.

  Clint had brought the quill pen and some ink, and they used the back of one of Valenzuela’s messages. Valenzuela sketched for a while, and Clint looked it over carefully.

  “It is about a three day journey,” Valenzuela said. “But Dixon is not there at all times. He travels much, and has very many men to watch out for him. You will not be able to harm him, Señor Evans.”

  Clint pocketed the paper. “We’ll see,” he said.

  Felipe moved closer to Valenzuela, grinning. “Now we cut off some pieces and see if he is telling the truth, eh?”

  Clint said nothing. He had to make up his mind and jump one way or the other.

  Felipe, still holding the pistol in one hand, brought out the saw with the other. It was a small backsaw, such as a cabinet-maker might use, with fine teeth.

  “Señor!” Valenzuela said desperately. “Please, señor, you gave your word!” He was begging Clint.

  “You cannot hold the gun and use the saw at the same time,” Pepita said to Felipe. “Let me hold it.” Felipe paused a moment and then gave the pistol to her. She held it out in both hands, sighting it on Valenzuela’s chest.

  “Oh, señor,” Valenzuela moaned. “I have told you the truth. If I am to die, what difference will it make to me what becomes of Dixon?”

  “Felipe,” Clint said, “I believe him. I have promised you revenge for the death of your family. You can either cut his throat clean and quick or fight him a fair fight, armed with knives or fists, or boxes or whatever you choose that will not make noise and set off a battle below.”

  “I will have my revenge in my own way,” Felipe said quietly. “I have told you many times how I will do it. Just as you will have your revenge in your own way upon Dixon.”

  “I’m telling you what your choices are.”

  “It will happen as I wish, señor,” Felipe said menacingly, and the knife flashed in the sun coming through the musty window as it turned to point at Clint.

  “If I have to kill you, you won’t get any revenge at all,” Clint said. His hand strayed near the hilt of his own knife.

  “Keep him covered,” Felipe directed Pepita, indicating Clint, “so that I may remove small pieces of Valenzuela without disturbance.”

  “You’re going to let a woman protect your ass for you?” Clint asked.

  Felipe leaped at Clint flailing the knife.

  Valenzuela at that moment made a dash for the door. Clint was just becoming aware of it as he dodged Felipe, when Pepita set off Felipe’s pistol, which was deafening inside the small tool shed. Valenzuela cried out and lurched to the side, bounced against the doorpost shaking the little rattly wooden structure, and then crashed solidly through the door and was running away outside.

  Pepita fired again and again and again, but didn’t seem to hit anything. Felipe took the gun away from her and went out the door after him. Clint, gun in hand, followed.

  Below, a shout went up and then shooting started hotly. Clint spared a quick glance down, saw smoke drifting off into the woods, and then quit thinking about that battle for the moment. There was the question of what to do now about Felipe and Valenzuela.

  Common sense told him that it was time for him to get out. Valenzuela was running faster than Felipe, being more agile. But Felipe had a gun and Valenzuela didn’t. That evened up the odds. Clint figured he had what he wanted; what was the point of chasing after them? From here on, none of this was his business.

  He stopped running and turned to look back at the shack. Pepita was standing outside it watching him.

  He returned to her.

  “Time for me to take you home,” he said. “We’ll have to be mighty careful how we move, but with some luck we can clear this passel of Mexican hotheads and get clean away.”

  She looked at him blankly, and he realized he’d been talking English, and that she didn’t understand what he was saying. He repeated the essence in polite Spanish, and she looked as though she wanted to refuse for a moment, and then she nodded.

  “My father will be very worried,” she said gravely.

  “Then come on,” Clint said, and took her by the hand and started along south across the rock face.

  He kept glancing down to see if the smoke had cleared enough for the men below to see what was happening up here, but they were at it hot and heavy, shouting and screaming and shooting. A lot of steam was being let off. Clint decided he wanted nothing more than to get as far from it all as he could as soon as he could.

  They reached the scrub growth and Clint helped Pepita down the steep and tricky slope. Gun smoke drifted up from the fight and lazied through the trees like mist rising from a mountain pond in the early morning. The further they went, the worse it got, and the louder grew the sound of shooting.

  Pepita’s eyes were watering from the sting of the smoke. Clint led her rapidly through the brush to the place some distance from the shooting where the horses had been left. Several men were supposed to be guarding the animals, but evidently the lure of the fight had been too strong, and they had abandoned their posts.

  Clint got Pepita up onto one of the best of the Mexicans’ horses, and she hitched up her skirt and rode astraddle like a man, since the saddle wasn’t made for side usage and there wasn’t time to fool around being dainty anyway. Clint swung onto his own horse—a very fine animal given him by Griego—and then sought out a couple of burros loaded with victuals and other traveling supplies.

  As they moved quickly away through the trees towards the trail, smoke and noise surrounding them and filling their eyes and noses and ears, over the din of shooting there came the deep rumble and boom of a huge explosion.

  Pepita started around.

  “Some dynamite,” Clint told her. “Guess they decided that as long as there were going to be festivities they might as well go whole hog.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They had been riding for a couple of hours when Clint happened to glance over at Pepita and was startled to see tears pouring freely down her cheeks. This time it was not from gun smoke, since they’d left it far behind.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked her, in Spanish.

  She looked at him quickly, and then away. She suddenly looked very young and very vulnerable. She was no longer the regal, fearless, proud Señorita Pepita Griego
who had uncompromising distain for those who had captured her. She was just another girl who’d been terrified half to death and who was so relieved she was safe she was crying.

  Clint didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t say anything either.

  They rode into town about nightfall, but Clint decided it might be safer to find some place out of the way to spend the night, in case any of Valenzuela’s men were still around.

  He found a little hidden hollow back of town with a spring and only two ways in or out. Clint cooked some beans, leaving out the spices, and got a shot at a rabbit, and they feasted. Apparently Pepita’s taste wasn’t so far gone she couldn’t appreciate regular food, at least when she had starved herself for a while. He wondered if it was possible that she’d gone without food ever since being kidnapped. It seemed too long for anyone to possibly live without food. But she surely was hungry. She ate everything he didn’t, and didn’t seem full. He asked her if she wanted some more, and she said yes, with great dignity.

  He wondered if feeding her too much all at once would be good for her. But she showed no illness yet, had kept everything down. He cooked up some more beans and a tortilla or two for her, and asked how long it had been since she’d eaten.

  “I have eaten nothing for a week. Before that, I ate some of the time, but not all of the time. I wished to show Valenzuela that it was within my power to starve myself if I wished.”

  “You really wanted to see him tortured?”

  She looked at him with large steady dark eyes.

  “He is an evil man. He deserves it.”

  “Seems to me torture makes a man just as low as the one he’s torturing.”

  She dropped her eyes to look into the fire, and they were deep and unfathomable. “The church says one should turn the other cheek,” she said. “But I do not see the good of this. It only allows the evil man to do more evil.”

  “I’m for putting men like Valenzuela out of action,” Clint said. “But I don’t see any reason to torture them.”

  “You do not wish to torture Dixon? You have said yourself that he has done horrible things to your wife.”