City of Bad Men Page 15

  “How does Santana know the payroll has been distributed?” Readling asked.

  “He has eyes everywhere,” said the captain. “Believe me, he always knows when there is money on hand and when there is not.”

  “I don’t like this,” Readling said.

  “Let me remind you, senor,” the captain said, “Santana is in the City of Bad Men. My men and I will trap him there and kill him. He is not close enough to the mines to be of any danger to your new business here.” He paused, then said, “I will leave some men here in case anything else comes up. But Santana will not be a problem for you, I can assure you.”

  Readling finally nodded and said, “All right, then. But make sure you understand, everything that goes on here will be discussed in Mexico City when I return there.”

  “Of course,” said the captain. He gave a slight bow at the waist, then turned and walked out of the office, the sergeant following behind him.

  Readling picked up his burning cigar from an ashtray and puffed on it as he leaned back against the edge of his desk in contemplation. “I don’t know if I trust that man,” he said. Then he gave a sly little grin.

  Dorphin put in, “I don’t trust any of these monkeys as far as I can spit, sir, if I may say so.”

  “And you’re right not to,” said Readling. After a moment of thought he added, “But this is Santana’s country, and he’s not going to rob a gold mine that he knows hasn’t been working any big veins for the past year.”

  “No, sir,” said Dorphin, “he wouldn’t do that, I’m sure.”

  The captain was making his way back to the barracks where the soldiers where getting prepared for the trail, when the stout sergeant turned to him and said, “May I ask, Capitan, how much influence does this man have in Mexico City?”

  “Will it matter?” the captain answered, without looking at him.

  The sergeant thought about it. He gave a short smile as they walked on with deliberation. “No,” he said, “it will not matter.”

  “When you pick some men to leave here, Sergeant,” the captain said, “make sure it’s none of my good men.”

  “Sí, Capitan,” said the sergeant. “It only makes sense. We need our very best men to fight Santana’s gang.”

  “Indeed,” said the captain, “we are both thinking the same thing.”

  Shaw awakened slowly and torturously. He’d been dreaming of the old bruja’s weathered hands on his face. He had not been able to see her eyes, only the shadow of her face hidden inside her black hood. But it was her, he had reasoned in his sleep. Past her shrouded shoulder, he had seen the cage made of twigs and reeds.

  Inside the cage, he’d watched the line of sparrows perched in a row, some picking at their feathers, others looking all around as if awaiting her command.

  Oh, yes, it’s her . . . .

  He finally woke up completely, and quickly sat up in the small bed. Too quickly as it turned out. The pain in his head struck him so violently, so intensely, that for a moment the world before his eyes went blank, and he sat staring into a wall of blinding whiteness.

  “Senor! Are you all right?” the young man seated in a wooden chair beside the bed asked.

  Shaw gave himself a moment; then he opened his eyes warily, as if he knew he might have to close them again at any second should the pain demand it. But the throbbing had settled some.

  He swallowed a dry knot in his throat and looked around with bleary eyes. He had no recollection of being found by Dawson and Caldwell, or of them bringing him to this place—this clean, modest room. Yet his memory struggled to come back as his senses slowly became better grounded.

  “Where am I?” he asked the young man.

  “You are here, senor,” the boy said in earnest.

  Shaw looked at him. “Is that the best I’ll get from you?” he asked flatly.

  The young man looked baffled for a moment until he realized that the injured Americano honestly had no idea where he was.

  “Pardon me, senor,” the boy said. “You are in la Ciudad de Hombres Malos. In Padre Timido’s living quarters. He leaves me here to look after you while he sees to one of his other charges . . . .”

  Padre Timido . . . ? The City of Bad Men . . . ?

  Shaw sifted through his cloudy memory; but he came up empty. “How’d I get here?” he asked.

  “The two Americanos—your two amigos brought you, senor,” the boy said.

  Shaw stared at him, drawing a blank.

  “You know,” the boy said, “the one who wears black gloves with their fingers missing—and a hat?”

  “Caldwell . . . ,” Shaw said. His memory seemed to churn and groan, beginning to draw itself together and move forward.

  “No, he is the Undertaker,” the boy corrected him. “The other is a quiet one. He seemed very concerned about you.”

  “Right,” said Shaw, “my two amigos.”

  He pictured Caldwell and Dawson looming over him amid the rock and dirt on the hillside. He heard his horse whinnying down to him from the upper switchback. He felt his head pull back, the blade jerk across his throat. He winced as he raised his fingertips to the stitches running along his chin and down the side of his throat.

  “Where are they?” he asked, still sitting upright, his gun belt hanging from the short bedpost at his right hand. His holster was empty.

  “They left, senor,” the young man said. “They asked Padre Timido to look after you until you are better, and able to ride.”

  He remembered Readling, and how he’d been set up, how Dorphin and Doc Penton had unloaded his Colt and his rifle while he’d sat entirely blanked out, staring across the valley in the dark.

  “Are you all right, senor?” the boy asked. “Should I go get the padre?”

  “No,” said Shaw, “I’m all right. Don’t bring him to me.” He pictured Dawson and Caldwell leading his big bay into town, his limp body lying over the horse’s back.

  His memory cleared some as he rubbed his throbbing head. Then he thought of the woman and pushed himself around onto the side of the bed. “But you can get my boots, help me go to him,” he said. “Then you can get my horse for me.”

  “Sí, I will help you walk to the padre,” the boy said, as if making mental notes. “I will get your horse for you.”

  He stood up, walked to where Shaw’s boots stood on the floor and brought them back. Shaw reached around and pulled his gun belt from the bedpost and looked at his empty holster. He remembered Dorphin standing over him. He felt Dorphin’s hard kick in his gut.

  A nice keepsake . . . ? he heard Dorphin say, seeing him shove the Colt down behind his belt. I don’t think so, he told himself. Again, he thought about the woman, and managed to pull together enough strength to push himself up and stand with his feet spread for support.

  “What would you take for that old shooter?” he asked, nodding at the battered gun at the young man’s waist.

  “It is not for sale, senor,” the young man said. “But you can borrow it.” He slid the old pistol out and handed it to Shaw. “It is not so good, maybe?”

  “I’ve gotten by with worse,” Shaw said. “Gracias.” He slid the pistol down into his holster, scrutinizing it now that its age and condition weren’t hidden from sight.

  “Let’s go,” he said to the young man. “I’m better enough to ride.”

  Chapter 17

  Buck Collins slammed backward into the stone wall, slid down it and landed hard on the cellar floor. The unburned side of his face now looked as bad as the burned side. His jaw was bruised, and both eyes were almost swollen shut. His split lip bled down and dripped freely from his chin.

  “Get up,” the padre ordered. “I want to show you how affective a combination of short powerful lefts can be when an opponent is starting to wear out.”

  “Pl-please,” said Buck Collins, trying to raise a hand toward the padre, who stood over him, his strong fists clenched and circling slowly in front of him.

  “Oh? You are tired?” the priest
said, as if in surprise. “You no longer feel as tough? You no longer want to push around the good people of my town like you did earlier?”

  “I was . . . drunk. I must’ve been . . . out of my mind,” Collins submitted, trying to lessen his beating. “I—I want to . . . tell them all how sorry I am.”

  “That would be good,” the priest said. He shrugged and dropped his fists. But then raised them again. “First, I think you must finish learning your fisticuffs lesson. After that, there is much more I need to teach you.”

  “Please . . . no!” said Collins. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear I have!”

  Father Timido’s fists opened up. He reached down and helped the beaten outlaw to his feet. “I hope you have,” he said in a serious voice. He dusted the front of Collins’ shirt with his hand. “If not, I’ll have to show you all over again. Do we understand each other?”

  Buck Collins nodded, leaning back against the stone wall for support. “Can I—can I go now?” he asked.

  “No,” the priest said firmly. “You’ll stay here until I say you can go. You will learn everything from table manners to not urinating in public—”

  The priest stopped speaking when he saw Shaw step into the cellar from a stone hallway, his arm looped around the young Mexican’s shoulders for support.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Shaw said, looking at the blood on the battered outlaw’s face, the red and brown front of his shirt.

  “No,” said the priest, “I have just been teaching this poor sinner fisticuffs, as well as a lesson in humility, something we must all learn at some point in our lives.”

  “He appears to be grasping it,” Shaw said, looking Buck Collins up and down.

  “I am a good teacher,” the priest said. He raised his loosely clenched fists for exhibit and said, “There are men who will learn more from these than they will ever learn from the Bible,” he said. He quickly crossed himself and added under his breath, “God forgive me for saying so.”

  “Whatever works,” Shaw said, unconcerned. He took his arm from the Mexican youth and managed to stand on his own as the young man hurried away to get his horse ready to travel. “I came to tell you, obliged, Padre,” he said.

  “Do not thank me so soon, Larry Rápido,” said the priest. “It is better that you thank me after you have been here a few more days. You must regain your strength and your . . .” His words trailed.

  “My senses, Padre?” Shaw said, finishing the words the priest had started.

  “Sí, your senses,” the priest said. “There, I have said it. I am only being honest with you.”

  Shaw touched his fingers to the aching stitches on his chin and the side of his throat. “I appreciate honesty as much as the next fellow, Padre. But I’ve got to get moving.”

  “You must go now, to find Mingus Santana and his gang, and kill them, I hope?” he said.

  “No, Padre,” said Shaw. “The fact is, Mingus Santana has never done anything to me.”

  “Who did this to you?” the priest asked.

  “Two soldiers,” Shaw said, “acting under the orders of a rich American businessman.”

  “You must not hesitate to mention his name to me,” said the priest. “After all, I am a man of the cloth. What you say to me is never repeated. Who knows, perhaps if you talked to me about this, you would be able to—”

  “It would serve no purpose, Padre,” Shaw said, stopping him from going any further. “He tried to have me killed. I’ve got to go.”

  “Why did he try to have you killed, my son?” the priest asked. “Has there long been bad blood between the two of you?”

  “No,” said Shaw, “I hardly know the man. He has something of mine. I intend to take it from him.”

  “I see,” said the priest. “It is something he stole from you?”

  “No,” Shaw said. “It’s too hard to explain, but he has something that was once mine—something that’s very precious to me.” He pictured the woman in his mind, the fearful look she’d had as she’d pleaded with Readling for his life. “I’m taking it back.”

  “But what about your friends, the lawmen? They will come back for you. What shall I tell them?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Padre,” said Shaw. “It’s a sure bet we’re headed in the same direction.”

  The priest watched him walk away, a little unsteadily, he thought. But he saw there was no point trying to reason with this man. He sighed, opening and closing his fists a few times. Then he turned to Buck Collins and said, almost gently, “Wash your face and clean yourself up some. I have sent a woman out to gather some plants to soothe your burn.”

  Moments later, in a shaded courtyard out in front of the church, Shaw met the young man hurrying to bring his horse to him. Shaw looked the big bay over good and stepped up in the saddle. The young man stepped forward.

  “Senor, here is your sombrero. One of your amigos left it in your room.”

  Shaw took the broad-brimmed hat, examined it in his hands, seeing his bandana wadded up inside the crown. “Gracias,” said Shaw, taking the bandana and tying it around his sore and knotted head. He was surprised that the sombrero had made it through so much and was still with him. He set the big hat atop his head, drawing the string up in back against the base of his skull.

  “Good as new,” he said down to the young man, turning his horse to the street.

  As he rode along the road, headed out of la Ciudad de Hombres Malos, he saw the faces of the townspeople studying him curiously. He watched an old woman walk along in a ragged black frock with the hood up to shield her weathered face from the glare of the sun. She carried a walking stave in one hand. Under her arm she carried a cage constructed of twigs and reeds interwoven with sinew, partly covered by a ragged cloth.

  What the . . .

  Without stopping, Shaw turned in his saddle and watched her slip around the corner of an alley. But before she disappeared from sight, she cast a fleeting backward glance at him. Was it her . . . ? The old bruja . . .? he asked himself, or was his damaged mind still playing tricks on him?

  He didn’t know; and it didn’t matter, he told himself, tapping his heels against the bay’s sides with determination. All that mattered was the woman. His Rosa . . . , he told himself. He had to have her.

  No sooner had the column of federales ridden away from the Readling Mining company than the two scouts cantered a thousand yards ahead and looked out across the lower hills and trails below.

  Seeing a long cloud of dust reach up into a hillside behind a group of riders, the older scout raised a badly scuffed telescope and stretched it out before his eye.

  “Holy Madre,” he murmured, looking at the same body of men they’d seen in La Cuidad de Hombres Malos. He lowered the telescope with a concerned look and bit his lip in contemplation.

  “What is it?” the younger scout asked, seeing the look on his partner’s face.

  “It is trouble. That’s what it is,” said the other scout.

  The younger scout could barely see the riders with his naked eye. “Let me look,” he said, reaching for the telescope. While he studied the riders as they galloped out of sight deeper into the tree-covered hillside, the other scout looked back along the trail behind them.

  “Their path will take them right to the mines,” he said, puzzled.

  The younger scout lowered the telescope. “Cleary it is so,” he said. “We must warn the captain.”

  “After the way he jumped on you? I don’t think so,” the older scout said. “He thinks I had you beaten for speaking out of turn.”

  “I know,” said the younger scout, “but it is our duty to report what we see.”

  “Report it, sí,” said the older soldier, “but nothing more. You will keep you mouth shut as to what we should or should not do.”

  “I learned my lesson,” the young scout said. He handed the telescope back to the older soldier. The two turned their horses and rode back along the trail to the column.

  Seeing
the scouts returning in a hurry, Captain Fuente let out a breath and addressed Sergeant Lopez, who was riding beside him, “Head these two off and hear what they have to say.”

  “Sí, Capitan,” the sergeant replied. He batted his heels on his horse’s sides and met the two scouts a hundred yards ahead of the column.

  “Sergeant,” the older scout said, “we must tell the capitan that the Cut-Jaws we saw in town are heading for the mines!”

  “Oh?” the sergeant said, appearing unaffected by the news. “How do you know these are the same men you saw in town? How do you know they are headed for the mines?”

  The two scouts looked at each other.

  “We watched them through the lens!” the young scout said, almost in disbelief.

  “I see,” the sergeant said calmly.

  The older one began to understand. He shrugged, settling down, and said, “It looked like the same men, Sergeant. That’s all we are saying.”

  “You have reported the information to me, that is good,” the sergeant said. “Now continue on with your scouting. I will tell the captain what you saw as soon as I find time.”

  Find time ... ? The two scouts looked at each other again, almost dumbfounded.

  “But—” The younger scout began to speak, but the older scout cut him off before he could get started.

  “Sí, Sergeant,” the older scout said. “We will go now to further scout the trail.”

  The sergeant waited until the two had turned their horses and ridden away. Then he trotted his horse back to the column and fell in beside the captain.

  “They said they have spotted the Cut-Jaws riding toward the mines, Capitan,” he said.

  The captain did not respond. He continued to stare straight ahead, as if the sergeant had not said a word.

  The sergeant realized that his superior officer had just ensured that he could deny any wrongdoing by putting the sergeant between himself and the scouts. But that was as it should be, he reminded himself. When this was all over, he knew he would be taken care of for the part he played in keeping things running smoothly. The captain had promised him.