Felipe threw one terrified glance over his shoulder and curled his whip out over the horses. The canyon widened into a deep, saucer-shaped bowl with sloping sides. If they could get to the other end, they would be in the clear. Felipe whipped the horses again. He made out three specks ahead, and, as they closed the distance, the specks were clearly three Apaches on horseback. Felipe tried reining in the confused horses, but now the Apaches in front were close enough so that one raised his rifle in an almost casual gesture and fired. The shot bruised Felipe and again he tried reining the frightened horses, but a second shot rang out and found its mark. Felipe cried out sharply and went over the side.
As the women screamed, the buckboard slued, the rear wheels bouncing over a boulder. The terrified horses reared up, snapping the lead traces, then burst through the Apaches as the buckboard turned over, spilling its occupants to the ground.
Fallon reined in as Maria rolled beneath him. He lost his seat and went backward over the animal's rump, falling heavily to the ground. He rolled over and over, half stunned, and landed beneath the wrecked buckboard beside Father Tomas's body.
Donna Clara was running for the narrow entrance to the canyon, clutching Juanita in her arms, tripping over her long skirts, her mouth open in a soundless scream. An Apache in an old blue coat with brass buttons galloped behind her, laughing, holding his rifle by the barrel. He swung it in a circle and Fallon could see it curving toward Donna Clara's head. He could do nothing to stop it as the Apache's rifle splintered bone, and Donna Clara pitched forward onto her face. Juanita clutched at her mother's body, screaming, trying to shake her back to life.
Fallon looked about him desperately, but there was no retreat. The sloping sides of the bowl lifted smooth and bare into the sky out of the white sand. Rough hands dragged him from under the buckboard.
The Indians lashed him to the rear of the buckboard, his hands behind him. Maria crawled over to her mistress, weeping, then tried to take Juanita in her arms, but the child would not let go of her mother. Felipe leaned against the rock, clutching a bloody arm. The Apaches were armed with repeating rifles, and two of them had revolvers in their belts. Their faces were painted in vertical stripes of blue and white.
What happened then was like something out of a nightmare. One of the Apaches turned Donna Clara over. She was mercifully dead. He went over to the frightened Maria. She was begging him for mercy but, his face impassive, the Apache lifted his rifle and smashed her head again and again. He picked up little Juanita, who was now kicking and screaming, and when Fallon yelled, "Leave the little girl alone," he lifted Fallon's chin and spat in his face.
Meanwhile, the others had built a fire from pieces of the buckboard. When the fire was going well, they removed one of the wheels, lashed the screaming Felipe to it in the form of a St. Andrew's Cross, and roasted him alive. All because they belonged to Rivera.
As the sun rose, the stench of burning flesh became unbearable. Fallon hung there, waiting for his turn to come, and his head dropped forward on his chest.
A thunder of hooves caused him to look up as Ortiz rode into the bowl followed by a dozen warriors. Ortiz dismounted and walked forward, pushing aside those who crowded around him excitedly. Unlike the others he wore no war paint, but Fallon took in the red flannel shirt and headband, the rawhide boots. It was enough.
He tried to moisten dry lips. "Juan?" he said. "What is this?"
"No more Juan Ortiz," the other said. "You see only Diablo now. You understand me?"
"Diablo?" Fallon croaked.
"That's right," Ortiz said. "Now say it again. I want you to know that Juan Ortiz exists no longer."
"Diablo," Fallon whispered.
"Good," Ortiz said, and he took out his knife and sliced through Fallon's bonds.
Fallon swayed slightly, dazed and stupefied, and they brought a pony and pushed him onto its back. He groped for the halter, and Ortiz put a hand on his arm.
"You will tell Rivera I hold his daughter, old man. For that I will let you live, understand?"
Fallon lashed the pony and galloped away.
Eleven
When Dillinger went out on the balcony, the sun was just beginning to appear over the rim of the mountains. Rose had let him stay the night, but on the couch in her sitting room. He stood there breathing in the freshness of the morning for a while before going downstairs. He had understood love when he was a boy in Indiana because he had loved his dog. But the feeling he had now was different from the feeling he had had toward the many other women. He was happy, yet his heart hurt with the pain of his happiness.
The bar was empty, but there were sounds of movement from the kitchen. He leaned in the doorway. Rose stood at the stove, dressed for riding.
"Whatever it is, it smells good."
She smiled over her shoulder. "I'm short on eggs this morning. You'll have to make do with refried beans. There's coffee in the pot."
He found a cup and helped himself.
"Are you going out to the mine?" she asked.
"If Rojas or Rivera tries to grab me again..."
"I saw you had a gun last night."
"It belonged to Rojas. I'm sure he has another by now. Rose, I want to trust you with something.
"My uncle says never trust a woman."
"I trust you. When I was a kid, I landed in reform school. That's a jail for kids. And then I was transferred to a worse place. I put in nine years, do you know how long that can be? I didn't hurt anybody. I didn't steal much. But I swear to you, I am not spending nine years or nine days in anybody's jail anymore. Rivera knows who I am."
"Better than I do?"
"He knows my identity. Which is why if he and I can't live in the same place, I've got to move on."
"That will be sad for me."
"Unless you decide to come with me." It was out of the bag. He watched her eyes, those beautiful, slightly slanted eyes, larger than any he had ever seen.
"This hotel," Rose said, "is all I have in the world. If I cannot move the hotel, I cannot move. I am like a prisoner, too."
Just then Chavasse came in and placed a large stone pitcher on the table. "I don't know what is happening. There is not one Indian left in the place. I had to milk the cow myself."
Rose turned. "What are you talking about?"
"They've all moved out. Only the mestizos are left and they seem to be frightened out of their wits."
"What have they got to be frightened about?" Dillinger demanded.
Rose frowned. "I thought it was strange when Conchita didn't bring me any eggs this morning."
She put down the pan and went through into the bar. Chavasse and Dillinger followed her. The town seemed strangely still in the early-morning sun. Old Gomez, the crippled railwayman Rivera had imported to work the telegraph, came out of his office and locked the door. He stumped down the street and paused to raise his hat to Rose.
"Where is everyone this morning, Rafael?"
"The good God knows, senorita. I have troubles of my own. The line is down again."
"Are you sure?"
Gomez nodded. "At six each morning I get a signal from Chihuahua, just to check that everything's working. Then I reply. It didn't come through this morning."
"What happens now?" Dillinger asked him. This man must know they're looking for someone driving a white Chevrolet convertible.
Gomez shrugged. "They give me three days to find the break and repair it. If they don't hear from me by then, they send a repair crew from Macozari. That's how it works. In theory. Last time it happened it was ten days before they did anything.
As he went off down the street, a crowd of thirty or forty mestizos emerged from the church and came down the street toward them.
The spokesman was a large fat man with a graying beard. He removed his straw sombrero and said to Rose, "Senorita, in the night the Indians have stolen away with our burros. Why is this?"
"We don't know, Jorge," she said. "Perhaps it is something to do w
ith the disaster at the mine. Perhaps they thought that Don Jose would force them to labor for him in place of those who have died."
Jorge shook his head. "There is more to this, senorita. We are afraid."
"But what is there to fear, Jorge?"
As if in answer there came a whooping yell from many throats. A bullet suddenly splintered the post at the side of the door, and before the echo of the shot could reach them, a second one rang out and shattered one of the windows. As Dillinger swung round, mounted Indians came over the ridge on the far side of the town, howling like a wolf pack as they moved down among the houses.
The people scattered, most of them fleeing in panic to their homes. Dillinger pushed Rose through the door of the hotel, and Chavasse followed.
As Dillinger slammed and barred the front door, Chavasse ran into the kitchen to do the same at the rear. Several Indians thundered along the street, and shots crashed into the building as the Frenchman returned.
"They've gone crazy," Rose said. "This hasn't happened in fifty years."
Dillinger peered out of the window, his face blazing with excitement. "Apaches painted for war. I never thought I'd see anything like that in my life."
Another bullet shattered glass and thudded into the opposite wall. Dillinger drew his Colt automatic. He scrambled across to Rose, who crouched by the window. Her face was very pale, and there was blood on her cheek from a splinter of glass. "Haven't you any weapons in the place at all?" he said.
She seemed slightly dazed and wiped the blood away mechanically. "There's an old revolver in the top drawer of the dresser in my bedroom."
He handed her the Colt. "You know how to use this thing?"
Something clicked in her eyes, and she came back to life again. "Of course I do."
"Okay. Hang on here. I'll be back."
Dillinger went up the stairs on the run, turned along the corridor, and kicked open the door to her room. He found the revolver at once, an old Smith and Wesson.45. It was empty, but there was a box of cartridges. He loaded it quickly, then crossed to the door leading out to the balcony.
As he stepped out, three Apaches rode into the courtyard, one of them carrying a burning brand. Dillinger dropped to one knee, rested the barrel of the Smith and Wesson across the rail, and aimed low. The heavy slug lifted the Apache from the saddle as he started to throw the brand toward the stables. His two companions flattened across their ponies' necks and rode for cover.
Dillinger went back inside, closed and barred the shutters in all the bedrooms, and hurried downstairs. As he dropped to one knee beside Rose, she turned, her face pale. "Ortiz is leading them. I just saw him ride past. He wasn't wearing his cassock. He was all Apache." She shivered.
"Your friend Ortiz has become Diablo again."
He peered over the sill. Most of the mestizos had managed to reach the temporary safety of their homes and had barred the doors. Three or four lay in the street. An Apache was standing over one of them, his rifle butt ready to smash down. Dillinger shot him in the back.
Flames flickered over the dry woodwork of the stables opposite. An Apache galloped past and tossed a great bundle of burning brushwood onto the porch of the hotel.
"Oh, no! Please, not our home," Rose cried.
Flames ran like lightning across the bare boards, flaring up toward the windows so that Dillinger and Rose had to draw back.
More Apaches rode by, firing wildly. Dillinger pushed Rose down to the floor.
Chavasse crawled forward. "We can't stay here."
Flames licked in through the window, cracking the remaining glass, and Rose got to her feet. "We'll be safe on the roof. The rest of the hotel won't burn. The walls are made of stone."
She led the way upstairs. As they passed along the corridor, there was a thunderous crash from below as the roof of the porch collapsed.
At the end of the corridor a wooden ladder in a storeroom gave access to the flat roof through a trapdoor. Chavasse went first and turned to help the others. There was another burst of firing from the street outside.
When Rose had gone up, Dillinger moved to follow. There was a sudden splintering crash outside in the corridor. As he ran to the door, the wooden shutters to the window opposite burst open, and an Apache swung a leg over the sill. Dillinger shot the Indian in the face. The man dropped his rifle and disappeared backward, screaming as he fell.
The rifle was an old Winchester carbine, and Dillinger picked it up, ran back into the storeroom, and scrambled up the ladder. As he came out on the roof, Chavasse pulled the ladder up after him and closed the trap.
The roof was surrounded by a three-foot parapet. Dillinger tossed his revolver to Chavasse and moved across to the side that fronted the street. A heavy pall of smoke drifted across the town as the stables and other buildings burned.
The Chevrolet was parked in the alley at the side of the stables opposite. An Indian turned his pony into the alley, crowding in against the automobile. As he pulled an axe from his belt and raised it to smash the windshield, Dillinger raised the carbine and shot the Apache out of the saddle. The now-riderless pony whirled and galloped away.
The Apaches were now attacking several houses at the same time, directed by Ortiz, conspicuous in his scarlet shirt. Three of his men swung a beam of wood against the door of the general store, which stood next to the stables. Dillinger fired once, picking off the man at the back. The Apache screamed, staggering forward into his companions. They dropped the beam and ran for cover, and Dillinger fired after them. He caught a hurried glimpse of Ortiz pointing toward the roof of the hotel and ducked behind the parapet.
Rose and Chavasse crawled beside him.
"Ortiz has gone mad," Rose said. "He must be stopped."
Chavasse, who knew the Apache better than anyone, said, "Only another Indian can stop him now."
"They will not stay for long," Rose said. "In a little while when the excitement is over, they will realize what they have done and the price that must be paid. They will ride into the sierras as their fathers did before them."
"I'm not so sure," Chavasse said. "Ortiz is like Geronimo back from the grave."
Someone screamed in the street. The Apaches had succeeded in breaking down the door of a house, and one of them was dragging a woman into the street by her hair. Dillinger took careful aim and shot him. He immediately ducked behind the parapet as answering fire thudded into the wall.
Suddenly all the shooting ceased.
In the stillness that followed, the only sound was the screaming of the woman lying in the street. When Dillinger peered cautiously over the parapet, he saw that the Apaches had moved into a group, looking up at the mountains. Dillinger raised his eyes and saw a line of khaki-clad riders come over the ridge and start down the slope in a cloud of dust.
"They look like Mexican cavalry," Chavasse said.
Dillinger nodded. "Could be the bunch looking for Villa." Or for a white convertible, he thought.
Ortiz called out sharply. Those of his men who were on foot mounted, and the whole troop galloped along the street into the smoke.
Dillinger opened the trap and let down the ladder.
Consumed by the fierce flames from the burning porch, the front door had fallen from its hinges, and Dillinger kicked the charred remains into the street. As the others moved out to join him, the soldiers came past the church and galloped toward them, Lieutenant Cordona leading.
Cordona flung up his hand and dismounted. There were twelve troopers with him and Sergeant Bonilla, who had a length of rope looped to his right wrist, the other tied around Juan Villa's neck.
The bandit sat on his horse with ease in spite of the fact that his hands were tied in front of him. He grinned at Dillinger. "We meet again, amigo."
Cordona came forward excitedly, his elegant uniform coated with dust. "What has happened here?"
"During the night every Indian in the place moved away," Chavasse said. "Before we had time to find out what it was a
ll about, the Apaches hit us."
"Why should they do this thing?"
"There was a cave-in at the mine yesterday," Rose told him. "About twenty Indians lost their lives. This American wanted to use dynamite to try to get them out, but Don Jose refused, and when Father Tomas pleaded with him, Rivera shot him. Ortiz has sworn vengeance."
Cordona crossed to the store and with his foot turned over the Apache whom Dillinger had shot from the roof. He looked down at the painted face. "How many were there?"
Jack Higgins - Dillinger Page 12
