The windows of the second-class coach were crowded with faces, but there was no sound as the troopers pulled carbines from their scabbards and dismounted. They marched the bandits a short distance from the train and lined up the first six at the edge of a small hollow.
Cordonna strolled toward them, paused, and barked an order. The sound of the volley echoed back from the mountains.
Cordonna and Sergeant Bonilla drew their revolvers and moved forward as two of the fallen started to scream. Dillinger glanced at Rivera's impassive face, then looked across at the Indian girl.
Dillinger turned, climbed up into the train, and went along to Rivera's compartment. Villa was sitting on the bunk and Fallon lounged in the doorway, the barrel of his revolver propped across his left forearm.
"I'll take over here," Dillinger said.
"If you think I'm going to get any pleasure from watching that bunch outside, you're mistaken."
"Then go and have a smoke or something. I'd like a word with our friend here."
"Suit yourself," Fallon said, and he went away along the corridor.
Out of the silence, as Villa and Dillinger looked at each other. Cordonna's voice drifted, sharp and clear on the morning air. There was no fear on Villa's face, only strength and a blazing intelligence.
"In case you have failed to discover the fact for yourself, I should inform you that the patron enjoys this sort of thing."
"He called you a murderer."
"Quite true, senor. He had a foreman at his hacienda, and I had a young wife who killed herself. It did not take me long to discover the reason. It seemed to me that I was justified in putting my knife between his ribs. The patron thought otherwise."
"I thought it would be something like that." The silence was broken by another volley. Dillinger moved out into the corridor and opened the door on the other side. He turned to Villa. "You'd better get going. You haven't much time."
"For what, a bullet in the head, senor?"
Dillinger took the remains of his packet of Artistas from his pocket and tossed it across. "You can keep them."
Villa's face split in a wide grin. "Sometimes God looks down through the clouds, senor. It is almost enough to give a man faith again."
He jumped down to the ground and ran for a narrow gully that curved up into the scrub that covered the lower slopes. Dillinger watched him disappear, then broke the revolver and emptied the rounds into his hand. He threw the rounds away and turned as the third volley crashed out.
A moment later Rivera climbed up and immediately frowned at the sight of the open door. "What has happened?"
"I'm afraid Villa got away," Dillinger said.
Cordonna appeared in the doorway at ground level and stood there listening. Rivera said, "Why didn't you shoot him?"
"I tried to." Dillinger took the revolver from his pocket and handed it across. "Unfortunately, the damned thing wasn't loaded."
As Dillinger turned from the rage in Rivera's eyes, Cordonna ran for his horse, calling to his men. Dillinger moved along the coach between the staring people and sat down beside Fallon.
"What's all the excitement?" Fallon asked.
"Villa got away."
As the train moved forward with a sudden jerk, Fallon said, "Johnny, I kind of think you and that fellow you just let get away have a few things in common."
Six
Dillinger had had enough of the train to last him. "I can't wait till they get my Chevy on the ground again," he told Fallon. "I want to pay my first call on what's-her-name-Rose-the lady at the hotel."
"First may be last if Rivera catches you. He doesn't like his people consorting with his enemies."
Dillinger grabbed Fallon by the front of his shirt. "Don't ever refer to me as one of his people. I don't belong to anybody."
"I'm sorry," Fallon said. "Meant no harm."
Dillinger released him. "Let's get one thing straight, Fallon. You're an American and I'm an American and nobody else around here is an American, which gives the two of us some common ground. That's one helluva lot more important than the fact that we are temporarily working for Rivera."
"What do you mean temporarily, Johnny?"
"Do you intend to stay? I don't intend to stay. Your problem is you can't go home and you need some dough to live on this side of the border, right?"
Fallon nodded.
"I intend to solve your problem just as soon as I solve my problem. My problem," Dillinger continued, "is that you blew my cover."
"You know I didn't want to."
"Some people who talk lose the use of their tongues."
"But Rivera knows."
"Well," Dillinger said, "he might just lose something else."
"What might that be?"
"The thing he values most."
"His life?" Fallon asked.
"His gold."
"We're almost there," Fallon said to Dillinger, who was getting more and more restless by the minute.
In the far distance a feather of smoke marked the train's progress, and a faint whistle echoed back eerily. The only signs of man's presence were the telegraph poles that branched from the railway line, marking the rough track which led over the lower slopes of the mountains to Hermosa.
The canyon floor was a waste of gravel and rock, bright in the morning sun, dotted with clumps of mesquite and sage. Already the fierce heat of this dead land was beginning to rise from the ground.
At the station, Rivera took charge of the flurry of activity, getting the luggage off, then supervising the unloading of the convertible.
"Tell them anybody scratches the paint on that car is going to get personal retribution from me," Dillinger told Rivera.
"You better learn some Spanish," Rivera said, "because as soon as we get to the mine, you're going to have to give your own orders."
"Avanca, hurry your ass, vamos, let's go, vete, get out of here, See," Dillinger said, "Fallon's been teaching me real good."
As the Chevy was driven down the ramp and came to rest on the solid but dusty ground, Dillinger patted the hood as if it was the nose of a horse. He drew some water from the station's outside pump, unscrewed the hood ornament and topped off the water in the radiator, then seated himself behind the wheel as if it were a throne.
"He is a child," Rivera said to Fallon.
"I wouldn't let him hear you say anything like that, Senor Rivera," Fallon whispered.
Just then a large buckboard came over the hill, pulled by two horses. Its ironbound wheels rattled over the stones in the dirt road.
The driver was an ox of a man. Under his wide-brimmed straw hat was a coarse and brutal face. A revolver and cartridge belt were strapped to his waist. He jumped to the ground and hurried forward, hat in hands.
"You're late, Rojas," Rivera said. "I've been waiting for at least half an hour."
"There was trouble at the mine, patron," Rojas said in his harsh voice.
"Anything serious?"
"I took care of it." Rojas held up a fist like a rock.
"Good," Rivera said. "You got my wire?"
Rojas nodded and glanced at Dillinger. "Is this the one?"
Rivera said, "Senor Jordan will operate under my direct orders when circumstances require it. You, Rojas, will still control the men."
It was part of Rivera's plan never to let just one man be in charge of disciplining the work in the mine. Rojas would seek his favors as he did in the past. And the gringo would keep Rojas on his toes-as did the gringo before him. Rivera ruled by the oldest precept of all: divide and conquer.
"Hey," Rojas shouted, spotting Fallon, "the old fool has come back." He strutted over to Fallon, only to find Dillinger barring his way.
"The old fool's name is Mr. Fallon. My name is Mr. Jordan. Your name is?"
"Rojas!" Rojas shouted.
"Pleased to meet you, Senor Rojas." Dillinger smiled, extending his hand.
"Enough of this nonsense," Rivera said. "Get the blackboard loaded. We've wasted
enough time."
Dillinger and Fallon stooped to raise one of the packing cases between them. Rojas, to show off, lifted the other easily in his great arms.
"We haven't got all day to waste while you two fool about like a couple of old washerwomen," Rojas shouted.
He pushed Fallon out of the way, grabbed at the packing case, and tried to pull it from Dillinger's grasp. Dillinger held on tight, and with the point of his right boot caught the Mexican on the shin, where a small blow will go a long way. Rojas staggered back with a curse. Dillinger lifted the packing case into the buckboard and turned to face him.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there," he said calmly.
The Mexican took a single step forward, his great hands coming up, and Rivera cried, "Rojas-leave it!"
Rojas reluctantly stepped back, eyes smoldering. "As you say, patron."
"Follow us with the buckboard, Rojas," Rivera said. He got into the rear seat of the convertible as Fallon slipped in beside Dillinger at the wheel. As they went over the brow of the hill above the railway line, Dillinger offered Fallon a cigarette.
The old man said in a low voice, "What are you trying to do-commit suicide?"
"Rojas?" Dillinger shrugged. "He's like a slab of granite. Hit it in the right spot and it splits clean down the middle."
"I hear everything you say," Rivera said from the back seat.
"I intended you to hear it," Dillinger replied, winking at Fallon.
Dillinger knew that few men would survive a real brawl to the finish with Rojas. But that in itself was a challenge, something a man like Fallon would never be able to understand. You don't protect yourself from a bully by kissing his ass.
Dillinger leaned back in the seat, the heat of the day enfolding him, narrowing his eyes. Already the mountains were beginning to shimmer in the haze and lose definition. As they progressed higher into the Sierras, they passed through the tortured land of mesas and buttes, lava beds and twisted forests of stone-a savage, sterile land that, without its gold, was no place, Dillinger thought, for a good, clean-living bank robber.
"I've got six cans of gas in the trunk," Dillinger shouted to Rojas over the roar of the engine, "but they won't last forever. Where do you get gas out here?"
"You get it from me," Rivera said. "There is a tank at the hacienda."
Dillinger made a mental note to get some of that spare gas hidden somewhere. He didn't want the oats for his horse in Rivera's exclusive control.
"We haven't passed another car," Dillinger said.
"You miss the traffic back home?" Fallon said.
"Miss the paved roads is what I miss," Dillinger said, laughing. To Rivera he shouted, "When's this road going to get paved?"
"When hell freezes over," Fallon said low enough so that Rivera couldn't hear, and they both laughed.
"What are you two laughing at?" Rivera asked.
They both shrugged their shoulders at the same time. That made them laugh again, and this only aggravated Rivera more. As far as he was concerned, all Americans were just grownup children.
An hour later they came around the shoulder of a mountain and saw an immense valley, a vast golden plain, so bright with heat it hurt the eyes to look at it. At the side was a great hogback of jagged peaks lifting into the clear air, incredibly beautiful in their savagery.
"The Devil's Spine," Fallon said, "is what they call it."
"Looks more like an impregnable fortress," Dillinger said.
"That's what it was in the old days. They say there's a ruined Aztec or Pueblo city somewhere on top."
Then the shot rang out, its sound dying away quickly. Dillinger instinctively jammed on the brakes. Shading his eyes with both hands, he examined the landscape.
Rivera said, "Probably a hunter."
"Hunter my ass," Fallon whispered.
Two Indians came over the hill riding small wiry ponies. They wore red flannel shirts and breech clouts, almost like a uniform, their long hair held back with bands of red flannel. Both of them carried rifles in the crooks of their arms. One of them held the carcass of a small deer across his blanket saddle.
"I told you it was a hunter," Rivera said.
"Hunting for him," Fallon whispered, indicating Rivera.
The Indians came down the slope. Instead of reining in their ponies, they let the animals crowd the stopped car, as if getting a message across.
Dillinger started to inch the convertible forward. One of the Indians raised the barrel of his rifle slightly.
"We don't want any trouble with these now," Rivera said, but Dillinger noticed in the rearview mirror that Rivera had slid his revolver out of his waistband onto the car seat beside him. Dillinger felt naked without his Colt.
Suddenly a voice called out, high and clear in a language that Dillinger was not familiar with, and a third rider came over the rim of the hill and moved down toward them fast. The first two Indians backed off slightly.
The new arrival reined in beside the Chevrolet and sat looking at Rivera, a fierce Indian with a wedge-shaped face that might have been carved from brown stone. He wore his black hair shoulder length under a shovel hat of the kind affected by some priests. A faded black cassock, pulled up to his knees, revealed untanned hide boots.
There was a silence, dust rising in small whirls as the ponies danced. Rivera had turned quite pale. He sat there staring back at the man, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The Indian returned the gaze calmly, the sunlight slanting across his slate-colored eyes, and then he abruptly turned his pony and went galloping away, followed by his companions, leaving the Chevy in a thin cloud of dust.
"One day I shall kill that animal," Rivera said, as Dillinger shifted gears and resumed speed.
"He didn't look like a man it would be too easy to kill," Dillinger commented.
"Filthy Apache," Rivera said.
"Name's Ortiz-Juan Ortiz," Fallon said. "His people call him Diablo. Ever come across Apaches before?"
Dillinger shook his head. "Only in the movies."
As Dillinger drove, Fallon filled him in.
"I guess you don't know too much about Apaches. Even their name means enemy. In the old days what they really lived for was war- against other tribes, against the settlers, against anybody. The ones in the States have been pretty much tamed. Lot of them shipped off to Florida somewhere. But the ones who came back down here... you don't want to tangle with them. Ortiz was what they call a Broncho Apache, the kind that stick to the old ways. When he broke his back in a riding accident, he ended up in the mission hospital at Nacozari. The Jesuits started educating him."
"Madness," Rivera interjected.
"Now he's a kind of lay brother or something," Fallon went on. "Works with the priest in Hermosa, Father Tomas. I think the old man would like the Indian to take his place when he's gone."
"Over my dead body," Rivera shouted. "Ortiz is a Chiricahua Apache, cruelest savages that ever set foot on God's earth."
"Geronimo was a Chiricahua," Fallon said. "It's only forty-five years since the American cavalry chased him right into these mountains and forced him to surrender."
"They should have been exterminated," Rivera said. "Every last one of them."
"He's doing a pretty good job of that right now up at the mine," Fallon whispered.
Rivera glared at them. "What are you whispering?"
"Don't get suspicious," Dillinger said. "Just two Yankees shooting the breeze." To Fallon he said, "The Indians at the mine are Apaches?"
Fallon nodded. "Mainly Chiricahua with a sprinkling of Mimbrenos."
"Where'd you learn all this?"
"From Chavasse. He's only a kid, mid-twenties, I'd guess, but he knows more about Apaches than any man I know. Came here from Paris to write a book about them and ended up being manager of Rose's place."
"Ah, Rose's place," Dillinger said.
A moment later they topped a rise and saw Hermosa in the valley below. There was a single street of twenty or thirty
flat-roofed adobe houses, with a small whitewashed church with a bell tower at one end. The hotel, clearly visible, was the only two-storied building in the place..
Ragged, barefoot children ran after the Chevrolet, hands outstretched for coins. Rivera tossed some loose change to scatter them as the Chevy pulled up outside the hotel. On the crumbling facade, eroded by the heat of the desert, was a weathered sign board: SHANGHAI ROSE.
Jack Higgins - Dillinger Page 7
