City of Bad Men Page 14

  “If they didn’t leave you,” said Caldwell, “where are they?”

  Collins stared at Caldwell and Dawson. Without trying to answer Caldwell’s question, he said, “Who the hell are you plug-uglies?”

  “I’m Marshal Dawson . . . This is Deputy Caldwell,” Dawson replied.

  “Marshal . . . ? Deputy . . . ?” Collins said. He almost smiled, but then he realized what a mistake that would be, given the condition of his face. “You fellows must’ve made a wrong turn in El Paso. Don’t you know where you are?”

  “We know where we are,” Caldwell said.

  “Boys, this is Mejico,” Collins chuckled in spite of the pain. “You shoulda carried a map.” He looked at the priest and said, “Ain’t that right, preacher?”

  Staring at Collins, Father Timido clenched his fists and said to the two lawmen, “The other side of his face is not injured. I want to punch this one in the face so badly.”

  “Take it easy, Padre,” said Dawson. “We need to talk to him some.”

  “Hey, I know who you are, Marshal,” Buck said to Dawson. “You’re the ol’ boy from Somos Santos, where I grew up.”

  “That’s right, Wayne. I am,” said Dawson.

  “Well, hell’s fire, then, Marshal, you’ve got to let me go! Nobody from Somos Santos ever did harm to one of their own.”

  “We’re not letting you go,” Dawson said flatly.

  “Well, you sure as hell can’t take me back,” said Collins. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

  “We’re not taking you back either,” Caldwell said in the same flat tone.

  Collins looked back and forth between the two and swallowed hard as understanding set in. “Holy Joe and Edna,” he said, “you’re the two lawmen everybody’s been talking about, the ones working with the Mexican government cleaning up the border?”

  “We are,” said Caldwell. “Where’s Mingus Santana? When are you supposed to meet him?”

  Collins took a close look at Caldwell, noting his fingerless black gloves, his derby hat. “You must be the one they call The Undertaker.”

  “Answer him,” Dawson said.

  “And you,” said Collins, “I remember now about you.” He raised a finger toward Dawson. “You’re the man who was bedding his best friend’s wife while the fellow was off building himself a reputation with a six-gun—”

  “That’s enough,” Dawson said, hoping to shut him up.

  But Collins didn’t stop.

  “She got killed, didn’t she?” Collins said with a sly, knowing grin. “Some gunmen came around looking for her husband and ended up killing—”

  His words were cut short by a powerful left jab to the good side of his face. He flew sidelong from his chair. Caldwell caught him. Both lawmen looked stunned, seeing Father Timido in his fighting stance, his left fist still clenched. “The marshal told you that was enough!” the angry priest said, glaring at Collins.

  Dazed by the punch, Collins slumped in the chair, his wet cloth hanging from his hand.

  The priest settled himself instantly. He took the cloth and held it back gently to Collins’ red face. “You must learn to listen when people are trying to tell you something,” he said.

  While the lawmen and Father Timido stood over Buck Collins, the cantina owner walked about the floor among broken bottles, damaged chairs, discarded cigar butts and other bracken from the night before.

  “Look at my cantina,” he said sadly, noting the empty shelves where fresh bottles of wine, whiskey and tequila had stood before the gunmen swooped down on the place.

  He walked to the blanket in the corner and looked down. Beside the blanket lay a small pair of trousers, their pockets overflowing with money, both paper and coin. Holding the trousers, he flipped the blanket aside and gasped, “Rafael!”

  The dwarf bartender lay naked, entwined among the sprawled arms and legs of the two young whores and the accordion player. But at the sound of the owner’s voice, he awakened with a start and jumped to his tiny feet, looking all around, bleary-eyed.

  “Oh, my God,” he said, seeing the priest at the table with the two lawmen and the seated gunman. He made a grab for his trousers. “Give me those!” he said.

  “No, I better keep them,” said the owner, jerking the trousers out of Rafael’s reach.

  “They are my britches! Give them to me!” the dwarf demanded.

  “They may be your trousers, but it is my money in them,” said the owner.

  “That’s not your money,” Rafael lied. “It’s money I have been saving for a long time!”

  “Then where is my whiskey, my wine, my—”

  Before the owner could finish, the dwarf snatched the trousers from him and ran naked toward the rear door, money spilling in his wake.

  The lawmen looked at the naked dwarf, then at the priest in surprise. But the priest did not turn an eye toward the incident. Instead, he pretended not to see a thing, even as the naked whores and accordion player began rising to their feet.

  “If I do not see and hear such things, I am not called upon to judge such things,” the priest said with a shrug. “I have learned this during my short time in this land of living perdition.”

  Dawson only nodded in understanding. He turned back to Collins as if no remark had been made regarding the fact that he had slept with Lawrence Shaw’s deceased wife. He was certain Caldwell knew it; he was positive Shaw knew it. But it had not been openly mentioned or admitted to. It never would be, he told himself.

  “Where’s Santana, Wayne?” he asked forcefully, pushing all other matters out of mind.

  “I told you my name is Buck!” he said.

  “Where’s Santana, Buck?” asked Caldwell.

  “You can suck wind for it,” said Collins, the wet cloth back against his red and glowing cheek. “I never be-tray my pals-a,” he said in a mocking voice, a grin spreading across his face, even though the slightest movement nearly blinded him with pain.

  The priest stepped forward, his left fist cocked.

  “Whoa, now, let’s hold on a minute, preacher!” said Collins. “Where do you get the right to hit an injured man like me? Is that what the Bible teaches you?”

  “Where is Santana?” the priest asked, expressing no remorse for his action. “Tell them what they ask of you.”

  “All right, damn it,” said Collins. “I’ve got the law and the church both down my shirt. All of Santana’s regular men are wondering what’s took him so long. We were waiting here for him. They say he usually sends one of his top men to get everybody gathered up.”

  Collins wasn’t about to mention that he’d killed James “the Fist” Long. But he didn’t have to.

  “But you and the group you were riding with killed the Fist and left him off the side of the trail, along with Tucker Cady,” said Dawson. “You thought it was us trailing you.”

  Collins looked stunned for a moment, then turned dead serious. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “We were right behind you, Collins. We found their bodies,” said Caldwell.

  “Jesus . . . what a mama-kicking mess,” said Collins. He shook his head slightly against the wet cloth. “I never should have hooked up with that idiot Loonie.”

  “Carlos Loonie . . . ,” said Caldwell.

  “Yeah, who else?” said Collins. “All right, here it is. Nobody knows for sure, but Carlos told his cousin, who ended up telling me that there’s a big job about to get done. That’s why Santana is taking in so many new men.”

  “How big are we talking?” Dawson asked.

  Collins shrugged. “Beats me. But it must be awfully big. He’s got men coming from all over to get in on it.”

  “Was it Santana who came here last night and got everybody to slip out of town?” Caldwell asked.

  “I don’t know. I was blind-down drunk, remember?” he said.

  Dawson studied Collins’ face for a moment, wondering what to do with him. The priest stepped forward from behind him, as if having
read his thoughts.

  “Leave this one here with me, Marshal,” he said. “I will keep him until his face is well enough for him to ride.”

  “Hold on now,” said Collins. “My face is well enough right now. I’ve broken no law and nobody has a right to hold me against my will. That’s the law.”

  “You left the law at the border, Collins,” said Caldwell. “Trust us, staying here is the best thing you can do. We’re taking down Santana and his Cut-Jaws. We don’t take prisoners. Do you understand what I mean by that?” He stared into Collins’ eyes intently.

  Collins looked up at the priest. “I hope you’re a good cook.”

  “Yes, I am,” said the priest. “I will bring you food three times a day.”

  “Bring me food . . .?” Collins looked suspicious.

  “Yes,” said the priest. “There is a nice stone room beneath the church. It has a steel door on it, so you will not be disturbed.” He offered a short smile. “I will teach you the most serious art of fisticuffs.”

  Chapter 16

  Inside the office of the newly acquired Readling Mining and Excavation Enterprises, Howard Readling leafed through some papers given to him by a young French diplomat, Franc Labre. The diplomat had seen to it that everything was in order to make a smooth transition. He had greeted Readling and his party when they’d arrived the day before.

  As soon as he’d seen the Mexican troops escorting Readling, Labre had immediately prepared to dispatch the remaining French soldiers to Mexico City. Now the troops were packed and ready for the trail. It appeared they couldn’t leave quick enough.

  “I trust everything meets with your approval, Monsieur Readling?” Labre said, his English nearly as good as his native tongue.

  “Yes,” Readling said, rising from behind a large but well-worn desk, “you have seen to everything. Thank you, sir.”

  “Good,” said the Frenchman with a courteous nod and a smile of satisfaction. “If there is nothing more you require of me, I will be leaving with the soldiers this very day. They are assembled and ready to ride.”

  “That will be fine, sir,” said Readling. “You and your government have been most cooperative . . . .”

  Outside, on the front porch of a long barrack-style building, Captain Fuente arose from a cane-back chair, removed the thick black cigar from his mouth and watched his two trail scouts ride into sight past a guard shack overlooking the main trail. The two scouts looked all around at the French soldiers mounted and ready to depart from the hill country.

  When the trail scouts stopped their dusty, sweat-streaked horses at the porch, they stepped down from their saddles and saluted the captain.

  “Well, what did you find out in la Ciudad de Hombres Malos?” the captain asked both men, returning their salutes.

  “Santana’s men are there,” said the oldest of the two soldiers.

  “You are certain of this?” the captain asked, narrowing his brow.

  “Yes, of this much we are certain,” said the first soldier, “but we did not see Santana himself. We cannot say he is there with his men.”

  “I see,” said the captain. He looked a little perplexed. “I wonder where he is.” He stared off as if considering something of great importance. Where are you, Santana . . . ? he thought to himself.

  “There is something else, mi Capitan,” said the soldier.

  “Oh . . . ? What is that?” the captain asked impatiently, sticking his cigar back between his teeth.

  “At dawn, we looked back from atop the high trail and saw Santana’s men crossing a valley,” the scout said. “They are riding in this direction, even now.”

  “Are they indeed?” Something seemed to resolve itself in the captain’s mind. He drew on the cigar and exhaled a long stream of smoke.

  The younger scout put in without thinking, “Perhaps it would not be wise for the French soldiers to leave right now, Capitan?”

  The captain looked at the young scout and stiffened in rage. “You are not yet a fully trained scout, and you think it is appropriate to give me advice?”

  The older scout cut in quickly. “Capitan, if I may,” he said. “This man is a young fool.” He reached up and slapped the young soldier in the back of his head. The young man’s hat fell to the dirt. “But he is learning. Let me take him away and have him beaten until he cannot walk straight. He will not offer his opinion again.”

  “Yes, you do that,” said the captain, no longer interested in the young scout. He turned his eyes away and gazed off across the rugged hill terrain.

  As the two scouts led their horses away toward a water trough, the older one scolded his younger partner, “What is wrong with you?” He started to smack him again in the back of his head, but he caught himself. “Don’t you know better than to talk out of turn to a superior, especially a capitan like Fuente?”

  “I spoke ahead of myself,” the younger soldier replied. “It will not happen again.” They walked on as the French diplomat emerged from the office shack and stepped into a waiting buggy.

  On the porch, the captain stood with his cigar in hand. He nodded cordially as the column of French soldiers turned and rode past him, out beyond the guard shack and onto the main trail. Good riddance . . . . He smiled privately, and stood watching until the entire column disappeared, leaving a rise of fine trail dust looming in the still hot air.

  Inside the office shack, Willis Dorphin stepped through the rear door and closed it behind him. He stopped in front of Readling’s desk and stood with his hat in one hand, his rifle in the other.

  “Did you get it unloaded?” Readling asked in a lowered tone, even though there was no one else in the office.

  “I did,” said Dorphin. “We paid the miners for the week and sent them away for the weekend—told them that as new owners, we need to get settled in here. I had one of them stay behind. He helped me carry the crates down deep inside hole number three. He said they haven’t worked the mine for two years, so nobody will be snooping around down there.”

  “What about him?” Readling asked pointedly.

  Dorphin said without expression, “We don’t have to worry about him. I left him lying down there too, once it was all hidden.”

  Readling breathed in relief. “Good work, Big T,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been on edge ever since we started this trip. I’ve never known gold to be such a burden.”

  “It’s not all gold, sir,” Dorphin reminded him.

  “I realize there’s more cash than gold,” said Readling, “but the gold has been the problem, not the cash. I can explain having a few hundred thousand dollars on hand.” He smiled. “Big business requires big dollars. Gold is different, especially gold with a U.S. Gold Depository stamp on it.”

  “Well, you can relax now . . . for a while anyway,” said Dorphin.

  “No,” said Readling, “the Golden Circle appointed me to deliver and watch over their bank. I won’t rest until I’ve been relieved of my appointment.”

  “The Golden Circle is a powerful bunch from all I’ve heard,” Dorphin said.

  “Oh . . . ?” said Readling. “What exactly is it that you’ve heard about us?”

  Us . . . ? Dorphin weighed his words carefully before he replied. Then he said, “Back before the war, the Golden Circle was a group of powerful men dedicated to breaking away from the United States and forming their own nation. I’ve heard the Golden Circle and its ideas once swept all the way from Florida, across Texas, deep into Mexico and South America.”

  Readling looked impressed. “Bravo, Big T,” he said. “I respect a man who keeps up on history as well as current events.”

  But Dorphin didn’t stop there. “Had the war gone differently, the Circle might well have been running both Washington and Mexico City right now,” he said.

  “Yes, you’re correct,” said Readling. He raised a glass of whiskey sitting on his desk, offering a toast to the idea. “Just imagine,” he said, “these two nations, the United States of America and Mex
ico, walking hand in hand into the future.”

  “Yes, sir, I can see that,” Dorphin said, trying not to appear critical.

  But Readling suddenly realized he was speaking with a man of lesser vision than himself. “At any rate,” he said, pulling back a bit, “the finds of the Golden Circle now rest in my hands.”

  “I—I like to think that you’ll have a place for me in all this, sir,” Dorphin said humbly.

  “You keep up the good work,” Readling said, “I’ll always have a place for you. I’ll always need muscle to clear my path as I climb upward.”

  Muscle ... ? Dorphin thought.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I was really thinking more along the line of—”

  A heavy knock on the office door cut him off. Following the knock, a strong voice called out, “It is I, Captain Fuente. I must speak to you.”

  A nod from Readling sent Dorphin to the door. Dorphin opened it and stood to the side as the big Mexican captain walked in and across the floor, a short, stout sergeant right behind him. The sergeant veered away and stood by the wall at attention.

  “What can I do for you, Captain Fuente?” Readling asked.

  “My two trail scouts have returned from riding the higher trails,” said the captain. “They spotted Mingus Santana and his Cut-Jaws Gang in la Ciudad de Hombres Malos,” he lied.

  “That’s certainly good news. My compliments to your men, Captain,” Readling replied.

  “I must lead my men there right away,” the captain said.

  “Oh, really?” Readling raised his eyes slightly. “And why is that, Captain?”

  “My orders from Mexico City are clear,” said the captain. “Killing Santana and his men are my first and foremost priority.”

  Readling thought about the gold and cash hidden down inside the mine. “What about everyone here, Captain?”

  “I saw your miners drew their pay, so there is no large amount of cash here,” the captain said. “Santana will not be foolish enough to rob a payroll when it has already been distributed.”