He and Colter had no sooner kicked out chairs and slacked into them than two pretty young putas appeared out of nowhere to drop into their laps, laughing and kicking their feet, which were bare beneath the short, colorful Mexican dresses they wore.
“There you are,” said the little coquette who’d dropped, light as a feathery little angel, into Lou’s lap to wrap her arms around his neck and brush her pert brown nose against his. “We’ve been waiting all evening for you two! Americanos, no? We’re so glad to have you here. Now the party can really begin!”
Prophet laughed. “Darlin’, I’d swear you don’t know me from Adam’s off ox!”
He doubted she’d understood the reference, but she laughed just the same. So did her friend writhing around on Colter’s lap. She was a little plumper but even prettier than Lou’s new friend. Colter’s puta frowned at his cheek and placed her index finger on the S that so tragically marred it. “Oh no!” she cried, as though the assault had just occurred. “What a rotten thing to have happened to you, mi amor! Does it hurt terribly?”
Colter glanced at Lou, grinning. He laughed and turned back to the flirty little puta and said, “It did until just now.”
“See why these two right here are the second reason I come to Mexico, Red?” Prophet called across the table.
“These two right here are the first reason I come to Mexico, Proph!”
The girl on Prophet’s lap was wasting no time. She was well trained. “What do you say we get a bottle of the good stuff and go upstairs—eh, amigo?” She brushed her nose against his again, then pulled her head back, smiling, showing that one of her front teeth was chipped. “I can take all the soreness out of your tired bones, amigo. I can make you feel very, very good! Huh? What do you say?”
Colter’s puta appeared to be proposing a similar endeavor. Colter looked over at Prophet, one brow arched in question. They’d been on the trail a long time and, unlike Lou, the young redhead hadn’t had his ashes hauled.
Prophet turned his head to look behind him at the rurales. None was looking his and Colter’s way. They were playing poker. One appeared vaguely familiar to Prophet’s eyes, but it was hard to tell, as their table was partly in shadow and badly obscured by a thick cloud of tobacco smoke webbing over it, in the weak yellow light of a low-hanging lamp.
It might be just as well the two trail partners depart to the whores’ cribs. Besides, in the privacy of the girls’ rooms, they might learn something about the man they were hunting, who had no doubt passed through this oasis in the desert mountains from time to time.
Hell, who wouldn’t?
Of course, there were other reasons to vacate the premises with the pretty doxies, but for the time being, Lou preferred to keep his mind on business.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” Prophet said, laughing and climbing to his feet with the half-naked girl in his arms.
Chapter 21
Colter and his girl rose, as well. Prophet’s girl wriggled out of his arms, grabbed his hand, and she and Colter’s puta led both men over to the bar. They turned to their respective jakes and held out their hands, palms up, smiling up at them shyly, like sweet little street urchins selling roses.
Prophet laughed. “How much you need, darlin’s?”
“Ten American dollars apiece,” said Prophet’s puta, her innocent smile in place. She shook her long, coal black hair back from her plump cheeks. “For Roselle an’ me and a bottle.”
“What’s your name, darlin’?”
“Pilar.”
“Ten dollars apiece?” Colter said in hang-jawed awe.
His puta playfully slapped his belly with the back of her hand. “Believe me, amigo—Pilar and I are worth every centavo!”
Prophet laughed again as he dug into his denim’s pocket. “Pony up, Red.”
When the girls had handed two gold eagles to the bartender in exchange for two bottles of likely cheap busthead he brewed in a barn out back, they took their jakes’ hands again and led them around to the stairs flanking the bar. As Prophet and Colter climbed the stairs behind the girls, Colter leaned toward Lou and said, “Losing that eagle lightened my load considerable. I didn’t come down here a rich man.”
“Me, neither,” Prophet said. “But in Mexico, it sometimes costs a feller to hear a rumor or two. If anyone knows about Ciaran Yeats in these parts, it’ll be the putas. So, while you’re enjoying yourself, don’t forget to do some business, too, Red.”
“For ten bucks, I sure as hell won’t!” Colter exclaimed just before his doxie opened a door on the right side of the second-floor hall and pulled him into her room.
She hadn’t closed the door before Lou’s puta, Pilar, pulled Prophet into a room two doors farther down the hall, on the hall’s left side. It was a small, cluttered crib with a brass-framed bed. There was no window, and the room smelled ripe. Several candles burned here and there around the room, offering a dim, intimate light.
Pilar turned to Prophet, smiling and raising the bottle. “Would you like a drink before or after?”
Her English was nearly perfect, telling the bounty hunter she’d had encounters with more than a few americanos. He hoped she’d encountered Ciaran Yeats or one or two of Yeats’s men.
“How ’bout before?”
“¡Sí!”
Ever the coquette, she wheeled, letting her hair fly, and pulled two goblets off a cluttered shelf above an even more cluttered dresser. As she popped the bottle’s cork and splashed tequila—or something akin to it—into the goblets, Prophet looked around for a place to sit. There were no chairs in the tiny room, only the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed, removing his hat and setting it down beside him. He leaned back and hooked one leg beneath the other one.
Pilar turned to him, giving a smoky smile. Her eyes were nearly black. They and her hair and the deep brown of her face told Lou she probably had more than a little Indio blood, as did most folks in Baja. She knew her trade well, striding slowly over to the bed, chin down, a graceful little scamp making sure she was jiggling in all the right places.
Prophet felt the old male pull, which he tried to suppress.
“Drink?” she said, offering him one of the glasses.
Prophet accepted the clear liquid, whatever it was. “Gracias.”
“Mezcal,” Pilar said. “Drink up. It is very good. Señor Anaya has it freighted in from Mulegé.” She took a sip, swallowed, and smiled.
“Later.” Prophet wanted to keep his head clear for the time being. Sometimes Baja busthead could hit a man of even his formidable tolerance extra hard. “I have a question for you.”
“Question?”
“Sí. Pregunta.”
“I know what question means,” she admonished, giggling, teasing.
“Of course you do. I’m just unduly prideful of my limited Spanish. You speak better English than I do.”
The puta shrugged. “We get quite a few americanos down here. In the winter, mostly. They dig for gold”—she smiled—“or just enjoy the señoritas. There aren’t too many watering holes in this part of the mountains, so Señor Anaya tries to make it special for the men who visit here.” Again, she smiled. “So that they will return.”
Again, she sipped her drink, keeping her seductive gaze on Prophet.
“Smart businessman. But regarding my question—”
“Sí, sí, regarding your question. But first, you must drink.” Pilar held her own goblet up to her lips. “I want you to enjoy this wonderful mezcal.”
“Oh, all right.” Prophet sipped. “Damn!” he exclaimed, genuinely surprised at its rich flavor but also at its smoothness. Definitely not the rotgut variety he was more accustomed to in back-trail Mexico. “That is good stuff.” He threw back the rest of the shot. “Damn good.”
“More?”
Prophet shook his head. “No, no.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Now—regarding my question . . .”
Pilar gave a tolerant roll of her eyes. “Sí, regar
ding your pregunta.”
“Has an americano by the name of Ciaran Yeats ever passed through here? Some call him the Mad Major.”
Pilar stared at him, expressionless, her lips ever so slightly parted.
“Big man, I think I was told,” Prophet continued. “Thick mop of curly red hair, curly beard, blue . . . eyes . . .”
He let his voice trail off because the girl’s eyes had widened and glinted with emotion, her mouth opening until it formed nearly a perfect, wide circle. “Shhh!” She grabbed Prophet’s arm to silence him and looked around as though certain she’d see someone eavesdropping, maybe poking his snooping head out from under the bed.
“Shhh!” she hissed again, turning to Prophet and pressing two fingers to her plump lips. “Don’t you know that no one mentions that name around here? Not if they don’t want their tongue cut out!”
Prophet’s pulse quickened hopefully. “So, you have seen him.”
Again, she squeezed his arm, as though it were his arm that was uttering the forbidden words. “Shhh!”
Keeping his voice down, Prophet said, “I’m pretty sure we’re alone in here, Pilar.” He glanced around the little, cluttered room. Every article of clothing in the girl’s wardrobe appeared to be either on the floor or hanging from something. “If we’re not alone, whoever’s in here is pretty small. I bet I could squash him like a bug.”
He’d meant to douse the girl’s fear with humor, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“Please, señor,” she said, shaking her head slowly, awfully. “I urge you not to mention el Mayor Loco’s name down here. Not anywhere around here. He has spies everywhere. They will kill you in the most horrible ways.”
“Please, Pilar,” Prophet urged the girl, taking her hand gently in his. “I have to find him. He has taken another man’s daughter. An innocent girl. Like yourself.”
Pilar just stared at him with those round, fearful, dark eyes of hers and shook her head. “Don’t be a fool. There is no finding . . . that man. If he gets wind you are looking for him, he will look for you. And he will find you.”
Holding Prophet’s gaze with a terrified one of her own, she slipped her hand back from his and made a slashing motion across her throat.
Again, he took her small, soft hand in his. “I won’t mention his name again if you just tell me where he is.”
Pilar looked around the room once more, her paranoia obviously acute. She looked at the door, stared at it for several seconds, pricking her ears as though certain someone was standing out in the hall, listening through the panel.
“No one’s out there,” Lou assured her. “We’re alone. I won’t tell anyone you told me. Just tell me where I can find him, and that’ll be the last we speak of him.”
She turned to Lou with a hard, shallow chuff of disgust. Keeping her voice just above a whisper, she said, “I don’t know. How would I? But I do hear things.”
“What have you heard?”
She drew a deep calming breath. So quietly that Prophet could barely hear, she said, “Baluarte Santiago.”
Prophet frowned. “Can you . . .”
He stopped and lifted his head, listening.
He’d been so intent on the girl’s words that he hadn’t realized that the steady hum of conversation in the main drinking hall had fallen silent. So, too, had the strumming of the mandolin, which had been a steady accompaniment to his and the girl’s conversation until . . .
When?
Just a few minutes ago?
He wasn’t sure when the rest of the building had fallen silent, but it was silent, all right. Silent as church mice with the preacher on a holy tear.
The girl must have just then noticed it, too. She slapped a hand to her mouth in shock, her eyes wider and more terrified than before. Of course she was thinking that their little discussion of Ciaran Yeats had caused it.
For a second or two, even Prophet thought so. But, no. There was no way anyone else in the building could have overheard his and the puta’s conversation.
His pulse quickening, he turned to the girl and pressed two fingers to his lips. Quietly, he rose from the bed and went to the door. He opened it a few inches, peering cautiously through the crack. Not seeing anyone outside the door, he drew it open farther, stuck his head out, and peered both ways along the hall.
Nothing.
Apprehension hung heavy on him. The cantina had gotten too quiet too quickly. It was so quiet he could hear his own heart beating.
He motioned for Pilar to stay where she was. She sat on the bed staring up at him with trepidation.
Prophet stepped into the hall and drew the door quietly closed behind him, wincing when the bolt slipped into place with a click that echoed in the silence. One hand on the horn handles of his .45, he moved up the hall in the direction of the stairs, the top of which he could barely see in the dim light. More light filtered up from the first floor, giving a watery glow. Under the circumstances it was an eerie sight—light sliding up from the forbidding silence below, like a poisonous fog.
Prophet stepped to his left and very lightly tapped on the door through which Roselle had pulled Colter. He could hear the murmurings of intimate conversation on the other side of the door. He didn’t bother knocking. He turned the knob and poked his head into the room.
“Red . . .”
He stopped, staring into the room lit by three flickering candles. Colter was sprawled belly down on the bed, beside the brown-skinned puta. She lay on her back, head propped on two pillows. Colter was cradling her feet and chuckling as he counted off her little, brown toes. The girl was laughing and writhing as the redhead tickled her. They were both as naked as jaybirds.
Colter looked up at Prophet, scowling, instantly flushing with embarrassment. “Lou, what the—?”
Prophet pressed two fingers to his lips. “Trouble!” he whispered.
“Huh?”
“Listen.”
Colter raised his eyes to the ceiling, pricking his ears. “I don’t hear nothin’.”
“Yeah. I don’t like the sound of it one bit.” Prophet glanced toward the stairs again then turned back to Colter. “Get dressed. We’re pullin’ foot. Fast!”
Colter scrambled off the bed as Lou pulled his head back into the hall and drew the door shut. He stood staring toward the stairs, keeping watch, listening, not hearing a thing. The silence was so heavy he should have been able to hear something down there on the main floor, but there wasn’t even the sound of a man clearing his throat.
Prophet didn’t mind silence. At least, most places he didn’t mind it. Enjoyed it, in fact. Here, it meant trouble.
He remembered the rurales he’d seen when he and Colter had first entered La Princesa, and his heart gave a little hiccup and increased its pace.
Keeping his hand on the holstered .45, he stepped backward and to his right, moving lightly on the balls of his feet. He opened Pilar’s door. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, the girl gasped with a start and clamped a hand over her mouth.
Prophet held up a placating hand. She stared at him from over the little brown hand she held over her mouth, a slight relief showing in her eyes.
“Is there a back door, honey?”
“Downstairs only,” she whispered.
Prophet looked toward the window at the end of the hall, considering how far the drop to the yard would be. He didn’t have time to think about it for more than a couple of seconds, because just then a creak came from the direction of the stairs.
Chapter 22
“Stay put,” Lou told Pilar, though he doubted she needed the admonition.
He pulled her door closed again and, turning toward the stairs, slid his Peacemaker from its holster.
Another creak came from the stairs. It was followed by the very faint groan of a strained riser. He slowly clicked the Colt’s hammer back. From behind Colter’s door, Lou had been hearing the light thumps of the redhead stumbling around, hastily dressing. Now that door latch clicked.
&nbs
p; As Colter began to draw the door open, a head slid into view at the top of the stairs. Prophet saw the red-trimmed gray collar of a rurale uniform and part of a sombrero dangling down the man’s back by a neck thong. The rurale’s eyes focused on Prophet, and widened, and as he bolted up onto the second-floor hall, raising a pistol, Lou yelled, “Down, Red!”
The Peacemaker roared.
The bullet flew wide of the first rurale as a second rurale leaped onto the second-floor hall, inadvertently nudging the first man to one side. The first man fired, and then the second man fired, and then Prophet returned fire, and that bullet took the second man through the chest. Meanwhile, Colter had hurled himself onto the floor of the hall in front of Prophet, triggering his Remington and punching the first rurale straight back against the wall behind him.
The rurale cursed, dropped to his knees, and fell sideways down the stairs.
Yet another rurale leaped over the falling man and into the hall, extending two revolvers toward Prophet and Colter, who both fired at the same time, punching lead through the man’s upper torso. He was thrown back against the wall, as well, triggering both pistols into the ceiling before falling sideways down the stairs, his body’s heavy thumps joining those of the other man plunging toward the first-floor drinking hall.
“Let’s go, Red!” Prophet ran forward, clicking his Colt’s hammer back again.
“We gonna have to shoot our way out of here, you think?” Colter asked, scrambling to his feet and then running beside Prophet as they both made for the stairs.
“There’s no door up here and the windows are a craps toss with the house rigged against us, so . . .”
“I reckon we’ll be shootin’ our way out of here!”
“No problem,” Prophet raked out as they gained the top of the stairs. “There’s only three left. At the most, four!”
He thought he’d counted around a half-dozen rurales gambling at the table near the saloon’s front wall.
The Cost of Dying Page 16
