Jack Higgins - Dillinger

by Dillinger [lit]

  Rivera looked at each of their faces. Then to Rose he said, "What about you? What do you think?"

  Calmly, Rose said, "In all our years, this is the first time, uncle, you have asked my opin­ion as if you meant it. I think all these younger men believe that Nachita, who led us here, should have a chance to do things his way. As he said at the outset, a good plan is one that works. If his fails, there are always the rifles."

  Dillinger had to restrain himself from actu­ally clapping his hands in applause, just as he did in movie houses when an actor said some­thing he agreed with strongly. He'd never thought he would meet a woman who was more than his equal, and here she was, as brave as a man, and saying the right thing with an elo­quence he never had.

  Suddenly they all heard the sound of trotting horses.

  A moment later the first Apache turned the corner of the bluff and moved into the clearing. Ortiz was almost directly behind him.

  He sat on his horse with an insolent and casual elegance, a supremely dangerous figure in his scarlet shirt and headband. The moment he appeared, Rivera gave a sort of strangled cry, and raised his rifle.

  "Don't do that, you idiot!" Dillinger shouted.

  The shot, badly aimed, caught the pony in the neck, and Ortiz pitched forward into the dust. He rolled over twice, came to his feet with incredible agility, and plunged into the thicket as Rivera fired again.

  His companion was already wheeling his pony to follow him when Chavasse, Dillinger, and Villa all fired at once. The Indian toppled from the saddle, and his pony galloped back along the trail.

  Rivera kept firing into the brush, pumping the lever on his rifle frantically, until Chavasse pulled the weapon from his hands.

  "It's too late, you damned fool. Can't you understand?"

  Rivera stared at him, his face pale, a translu­cent film clouding his eyes. Suddenly, eight rifles blasted at once from the thicket, bullets passing in through the windows and thudding into the plaster on the opposite wall.

  Chavasse pushed Rivera to the floor, and Dillinger and Villa crawled beneath the win­dows, closing the shutters. In each shutter there was only a small loophole, but plenty of light still slanted down from the upper windows. One or two more bullets chipped the outside wall or splintered a shutter. Then there was silence.

  Dillinger peered cautiously through a loop­hole. Ortiz's pony and the dead Apache still lay in the center of the clearing. Everything was still.

  He started to turn away, but from the next window Chavasse asked, "What's that?"

  A branch was being held out into the open, a rag of white clothing dangling from the end. Villa said, "They want to talk terms."

  "That remains to be seen," Dillinger said. "It could be a trap." He turned to Nachita. "What do you think?"

  Nachita shrugged. "There is only one way to find out."

  He unbarred the door and walked outside. For a moment he held his rifle above his head, then he leaned it against the wall and went forward. Ortiz emerged from a thicket to meet him.

  Rivera took a single step forward, and Villa swung his rifle toward him. "I think not, Don Jose."

  For a moment Rivera glared angrily at him, and then something seemed to go out of the man. He turned away, shoulders sagging.

  Nachita and Ortiz were talking in Apache, their voices carrying quite clearly in the stillness. There was a sharpness to their exchange. After a while, Nachita turned and came back, leaving Ortiz standing there, shouting things after him.

  "What is it?" asked Rose, taking old Nachita's hands in her own.

  "Ortiz does not wish to deal with me. He says that because I consort with all of you, I am a traitor to the Apache nation."

  "What does he want?" Dillinger demanded.

  "You," Nachita replied. "He says you of the white car are the leader."

  "No." Rose moved forward. "He can't be trusted now. He might do anything."

  Her concern was plain for everyone to see. Dillinger smiled and put down his submachine gun. "Hell, angel, you take a chance every day of your life."

  Rivera said, "I am the one who should be discussing terms."

  Dillinger looked at him calmly. "Thanks to you I'm not sure we're in shape to do that anymore."

  He stepped into the hot sun and walked across the clearing. Ortiz waited for him, hands on hips.

  Dillinger halted a few feet away, and Ortiz said in English, "So, you came over the moun­tain. I had not thought it possible."

  "You haven't asked me out here to exchange pleasantries," Dillinger said. "What do you want?"

  Ortiz said, "Take a message to Rivera. Tell him that if he gives himself to me, I shall hand over the child. The rest of you can go free."

  "How can we be sure she's still alive?"

  "See for yourself."

  He stepped into the thicket, and Dillinger followed. The two men pushed their way through the brush and emerged into a clearing in the pine trees where the ponies were tethered. An Apache squatted on the ground, the only one in sight. Juanita de Rivera sat on a blanket a few feet away from him playing with her doll.

  She looked pale, the eyes too large in the rounded childish face, and Dillinger dropped to one knee beside her. "Hello, Juanita, remem­ber me?"

  Her velvet suit was torn, bedraggled, and cov­ered with dust. She passed a hand across her eyes and said, "Will I be seeing Mama soon?"

  Dillinger patted her on the shoulder and stood up. "How much water have you got?"

  "Enough," said Ortiz.

  Dillinger shook his head. "You've come fifty miles at least since your last water hole, and you were expecting to find plenty here."

  "Tell Rivera he can have half an hour," Ortiz said. "After that there will be no more talking. I have allowed him to live long enough."

  Dillinger pushed his way through the thicket, aware of the unseen eyes on either side, and crossed the clearing to the chapel. He stepped inside and closed the door.

  Rivera moved forward eagerly. "What does he want?"

  "You!" Dillinger told him bluntly. "If you hand yourself over within half an hour, he'll give us the child and let us go free."

  "You have seen Juanita?" Rose demanded. "How is she?"

  "A little the worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed." He turned to Rivera. "What about it?"

  The Mexican's face was deathly pale and beaded with sweat. He struggled for words and said in a low voice, "Is there no other way?"

  "From the moment you ruined Nachita's plan for us we lost any real advantage we might have had."

  "But what about the well? They must need water badly."

  "They could last for a couple of days," Villa put in.

  Dillinger turned to Nachita. "What would happen if we did turn him over? Would Ortiz keep his word and let us ride out?"

  "I'm not sure," Nachita said. "He is in this thing too deep. He has nothing left to lose. To a man like Victorio, honor was everything. Ortiz is a different breed. Besides, I think he is mad now."

  "What about water?"

  "I would say they have none. I noticed the condition of Ortiz's pony when I went to speak with him."

  Dillinger nodded, a slight frown on his face as he considered the situation. He said slowly, "Do you think he might kill the kid if we turn down the exchange?"

  Nachita shook his head. "If he had intended to kill her without reason, he would have done so. I think he will keep her with him now until what happens happens."

  There was a short silence as they all consid­ered his words. It was finally broken by Villa. "It pains me to admit it, but it would seem that a grand gesture from Don Jose would appease Ortiz only for a moment."

  "I'll test the water one more time," Dillinger said.

  He picked up a canteen, filled it from the well, and went back outside. As he crossed the clearing, Ortiz stepped from the thicket.

  Dillinger stopped a few feet away. "Nachita says you have no honor."

  No anger showed on Ortiz's face. He shrugged and said calmly, "So be it
. What happens now is on your own head."

  Dillinger held out the canteen. "For the child."

  "You would trust a man without honor?" Ortiz said. "How do you know I will not drink this myself?"

  "Only you can prove that you are still a man."

  "Then follow me," Ortiz commanded.

  Once again he led the way into the thicket to where Juanita sat on her blanket. She seemed happy to see Dillinger so soon again. Ortiz knelt and held the canteen for her as she drank. When she finished, the canteen was still more than half full.

  "You can have the rest," Dillinger said.

  Ortiz turned the canteen over and spilled the rest of the water to the ground. "I will drink," Ortiz said, "when Rivera is exchanged for the child."

  He handed the canteen back to Dillinger and said, "Go now! You have fifteen minutes left."

  Dillinger returned to the chapel. The others gathered around him to hear what had hap­pened. Suddenly he stopped talking because he, like the rest, had heard the muted throb­bing of a drum.

  "It is their way of trying to frighten you," Nachita said.

  Then came the sound of an Apache chant, voices rising and falling like waves coming in across a beach.

  "It is the courage chant," Nachita said.

  "If they attack," Chavasse said, "they will drug themselves with mescaline first. They will think they are invulnerable."

  Villa nodded. "You could empty your gun into one of them, and he'll still keep coming."

  "Bullshit," Dillinger said. "I've made up my mind. Rivera will be exchanged for the girl."

  "No," Rivera said from the corner. "I will not do it!"

  Nachita stood facing all of them. To Dillinger he said, "You believe Ortiz because he spilled the rest of the water."

  Dillinger nodded.

  "You think he will act with honor?"

  "It's a chance worth taking."

  "You Yankees," Nachita said, "are naive. You believe what you want to believe."

  Dillinger turned to Villa. "You bring Rivera out. I'll come with you to take the kid. She's just seen me, she'll be less frightened if I pick her up."

  Villa twisted Rivera's arms behind his back and pushed him out the door.

  Outside the chapel Dillinger made himself fully visible so that Ortiz could see he wasn't armed. The chanting stopped. There was a rustling in the thicket across the clearing, and Ortiz appeared. Near him, the thicket opened and a young Apache was visible, carrying Juanita in a blanket.

  "Put her down!" Dillinger barked.

  The young Apache didn't understand him, but Ortiz said something, and the Apache put Juanita at Ortiz's feet. It was at that moment that the child recognized Rivera, who was being held and pushed by Villa from behind. She got up to run to her father, but Ortiz grabbed her hand.

  "Sit!" he commanded. "Not yet."

  Then Ortiz advanced to the center of the clearing. "At last, Rivera," he said. Then to Villa, "I will take him."

  No man in the history of the world could have looked more frightened than Rivera did at that moment, or more pathetic.

  Ortiz said, "Rivera, you died when you shot Father Tomas. You died when you let twenty Apaches die in the mine. Today I merely carry out the sentence."

  Dillinger said, "Let's cut the palaver. Have the kid brought forward."

  Ortiz motioned to the young Apache, who picked up Juanita in her blanket and again moved her to where Ortiz now stood.

  "We will now exchange justice for justice," Ortiz said, "life for life."

  "No you won't," Rivera said, suddenly lung­ing for the child, trying to take her up in his arms. Villa, taken by surprise, made a try at holding Rivera back.

  In one swift movement Ortiz reached into his clothing and pulled out a long-barreled Smith and Wesson. His eyes like a madman's, he aimed at Rivera, pulling the trigger again and again. Rivera dropped the wriggling, scream­ing, frightened child. As Rivera crumpled, Or­tiz raised the Smith and Wesson and emptied it at Villa's chest. Then he swooped up the screaming Juanita and ran with her back into the thicket, leaving her blanket behind.

  Dillinger could see that Ortiz's perfidy had taken the young Apache completely by surprise, for he stood like a statue for a second before dashing after Ortiz into the bushes.

  Dillinger, betrayed, waited for bullets to thud into him from either direction, the thicket or the chapel. He glanced down at the bodies. Rivera was clearly dead. Villa was still breathing, so Dillinger knelt beside the man, whose breath came in bubbles. His eyes said, it is the luck of the game, and he died.

  Chavasse, Rose, Nachita, were all coming across the clearing from the chapel, armed with rifles but not firing into the thicket after Ortiz, for fear of hitting the child.

  Dillinger tried to say something to Rose, but she averted her face.

  Nachita said, "You all go back to the chapel. I will be back soon," and he went off in the direction in which Ortiz had vanished.

  Seventeen

  They buried Rivera and Villa in a shallow grave in the pine trees. When they had finished, Dillinger returned to the chapel.

  He stood at the window and looked out across the desert at the mountain. Strangely enough, he didn't feel tired, but as if he had just awak­ened from a long sleep.

  A small wind blew in through the door, set­ting the lantern creaking on its chain above the altar, carrying with it the scent of pine, and he could almost hear the stillness.

  Chavasse slept peacefully, all strain washed from his face, and Rose lay on a blanket beside the gray ashes of the fire, her head pillowed on one arm. Dillinger stood for a long time looking down at her. Then he filled two canteens at the well, picked up his submachine gun, and went outside.

  Nachita was just emerging from the thicket across the clearing, sweat on his brow.

  Dillinger crossed quickly to meet him. "You are breathing hard," he said.

  "My horse is breathing harder," Nachita said, "and he is far younger than I am." He sat down on a rock.

  "Are you angry because I believed Ortiz might be a man?"

  "Anger is like rust in the heart. It destroys not the enemy but he who is angry. If I come north to your country, I will trust your judg­ment about the people. Here, you must trust mine. I bring good news."

  Dillinger offered him one of the canteens. Nachita unscrewed the cap, then drank his fill. "The news," he said, "is that the others have deserted Ortiz. In his dishonor, he dishonored them."

  "Where have they gone?" Dillinger asked.

  "Where has the wind gone? The Federalistas, if they come, will never find them. It doesn't matter. Ortiz is now alone with the child, on his horse, heading into that part of the desert that is near the great rocks in the direction away from Hermosa. He has no reason to keep Juanita now except as a shield from bullets. Where are you going?"

  Dillinger checked his Colt in its underarm holster and swung the Thompson over his shoul­der by its strap. "It is my fault he got away. This time he won't."

  "Come back," Nachita shouted after him. "You don't know your way about this countryside. Two wrong decisions do not make a right one!"

  But it was too late. The American had rushed downhill too fast to hear his words.

  Inside the chapel, Nachita knelt beside Rose and shook her gently. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened slowly, and she gazed at him. In that brief moment of waking she knew at once that something was wrong.

  "What is it?"

  "He has gone into the desert."

  Her eyes widened. "Alone?"

  Nachita smiled. "Men will do foolish things."

  Her nostrils flared, the face becoming hard and full of purpose.

  "We'll go after him."

  "Good. We'll take the spare horses. We can move faster if we can change mounts along the way." He looked down at Chavasse. "Shall we wake him?"

  Chavasse opened his eyes, blinked. "What is it?"

  "Dillinger has gone after Ortiz on his own."

  Chavasse struggled on to one elbow. "T
he bloody fool. They'll spread him on an anthill and watch him die by inches."

  Nachita said, "They do not exist. The young Apaches have abandoned Ortiz because he lost his honor. Ortiz is alone."

  "And Juanita?" Chavasse asked, getting up. "Jesus, we'd best move fast."

  ...

  Dillinger threw the brush and branches off the camouflaged car like a madman. He was sure he could catch up with Ortiz if only he could get going, but it took twenty minutes before the car was clear enough to be carefully backed out of the cave-like crevice. If it shot back in reverse, he'd have gone over the side.