Diablo Death Cry Page 9

  Velasquez said, “You have a plan?”

  El Lobo flashed his lipless grin. “A plan? Ramon, against Fargo, the mouse that has but one hole is quickly taken.”

  He looked at Pedro. “You are breathing fire to kill him. He has never seen you, so you are going to be waiting in the saloon, apparently in a stupor from drink, when he arrives. You will be disguised as a poor, broken-down, and unarmed bracero. A man who is already drunk and nodding out when Fargo arrives will not draw the attention of a man who comes in after he does.”

  “But, jefe, there are two saloons in Victoria, the Alibi and the Three Sisters. How will we know which one he selects?”

  The Skinny Wolf assumed a pious look. “You have not heard? What a pity it is! Last night there was a terrible and mysterious fire. It burned the Three Sisters to the ground, eh, Paco?”

  “Sí, jefe, a very tragic fire. Now there is only one saloon.”

  The rest of the men laughed.

  “But ten cuidado, Pedro. Be very careful. We will talk more about this, but if it becomes necessary you must strike swift and sure and escape before the big ape with Fargo recovers his senses. However, if all goes well you may never have to make your move.”

  “The second mouse hole you spoke of?” Velasquez asked.

  The Skinny Wolf nodded. “Preciso. Fargo likes his beer, but tonight there will be no beer. Only whiskey. I know the bartender at the Alibi—he is a gringo, but a greedy one who would sell his own mother to the Devil for a gold piece. I am going to ride ahead to Victoria now and make an arrangement with him. I swear by Jesus Christ and all the saints that Fargo has seen his last sunrise.”

  • • •

  “Deke,” Booger said as the cook spooned biscuit dough onto a flat iron baking pan, “where the hell does them two gals take their bath?”

  “Right in their tent.”

  Booger shot a homicidal stare at Fargo, who sat nearby with a look of cherubic innocence on his weather-bronzed face. He ran bore patches through both of his weapons and coated the firing mechanisms lightly with gun oil.

  “Ah? In their tent, is it?”

  “Sure. Every other night I heat up the water for ’em. The old man goes off with Salazar and them while the women scrub up. Oh, to be a fly on them canvas walls, huh?”

  “Every other night, you say?”

  “I don’t believe I spoke Chinee,” Deke said irritably. “Tonight I’ll be heatin’ water again.”

  “Fargo, you treacherous son of a bitch,” Booger said in a low, dangerous voice. “That means when you went visiting night before last, it was their bath night. I knew you came back smelling like fish! A night of unbridled lust for the Trailsman while old Booger stroked his wand.”

  Hearing this, Deke perked up. “So you pitched a little hay, Skye? One ’r both?”

  “Oh, slyboots never tells,” Booger carped. “He just eats the whole of the meat and leaves old Booger the parsley.”

  “Ease off,” Fargo said, “or at least set it to a tune. I ain’t your damn pimp. Besides, you’ll be in Victoria tonight and you can get your ashes hauled.”

  This remark heartened Booger. “Say, that’s the straight! And there’s some fine, smoke-eyed soiled doves there.”

  Bitch Creek McDade joined the group and poured himself some coffee.

  “Looks like we’ll be going in, too, Deke. I talked to Mr. Quintana last night. He said all four of us could go because he’s keeping all his men in camp.”

  “A wise policy,” Fargo said. “A Spaniard is a Mexican to a Texan. Victoria tolerates local Mexers and even a stray stranger, but that whole bunch arriving in one night would trigger a ruckus. Lead would fly.”

  “You know, Catfish,” Booger said to Fargo, “that old viceroy looks plenty healthy to me, if you catch my drift?”

  Fargo caught it, all right, and he had noticed the same thing. He’d had twelve days now to watch Quintana, a man supposedly moving to California to salvage his health. The Spaniard seemed hale and healthy, and Fargo hadn’t heard him cough even once.

  “Look at Rivera watching us,” McDade said. “He hates all of us, especially Booger.”

  “That gimlet-eyed bastard is crazy, Bitch,” Deke said. “You can see it in his eyes, most especial when he looks at Booger.”

  “I’m glad he hates me,” Booger said calmly, “on account I mean to kill him. That son of de Soto is already dead and don’t know it.”

  Deke banged the triangle mounted on the tailgate of the chuck wagon. “Grub pile! Come and get it ’fore I toss it to the birds!”

  As usual Fargo heaped up two plates and headed south of camp to feed Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him. The sun had risen high enough to show how much the terrain had changed since they had set out from Powder-horn on the Gulf Coast. The Texas flatland had given way to ravines and low chaparral hills surrounding them, unfolding toward the far horizon in brown waves. The scalloped silhouette of more formidable hills lay ahead to the west.

  “Christ.” Fargo greeted the Indians, surprised. “You two are sober as deacons. So you’ve stopped stealing the medicine whiskey?”

  “Stopped, my ass,” Cherokee Bob grumbled. “That bandy-legged cook has got damn good at hiding it.”

  All Behind Him snatched a plate from Fargo. As usual, he tossed the fork aside and shoveled the food in by hand.

  “Seems to me he used to talk more,” Fargo remarked.

  “He’s lost all his teeth since you seen us last,” Cherokee Bob explained. “He don’t make much sense when he talks now.”

  “Lost all his teeth and he’s eating bacon that fast?”

  “Oh, he can chew like a spring-drunk beaver. See, we was hungry and stole a government mule at Fort Union. But this stupid Delaware got behind it, and it fetched him a kick that knocked him out for two days. Knocked his last teeth out, too. So one night he got drunk as a fiddler’s bitch and took a horseshoe rasp to his gums. Scraped ’em clear down to the jawbone. Now he just sorta crushes and mashes his food.”

  “I’ll be damn,” Fargo said. “Scraped his own gums off?”

  “Stone cold. Fargo, it was a bloody mess. But now he can crack walnuts open in his mouth. If he’s really hungry, he just chews it all up shells and all.”

  Amazed, Fargo shook his head. “Any trouble last night?” he asked.

  “Not so’s you’d notice. That pig Rivera does spend plenty of time riding outside camp. I s’pose, being the sergeant, he’s checking on the picket guards. But there was this queer sorta deal a couple nights ago.”

  Fargo looked annoyed. “A couple nights ago? Why didn’t you mention it to me?”

  Cherokee Bob, busy eating, just shrugged.

  Fargo was damned if he would ever figure out the Indian mind. “Well, what happened?” he demanded.

  “Cost you a dollar to find out. We ain’t on wages, you know.”

  Fargo expelled a long sigh of surrender and fished a gold dollar out of his pocket, flipping it to the Shawnee. “All right, give.”

  “It was Rivera. Around midnight he ducked into this big clump of brush. I figured maybe he was taking a shit. But he wasn’t in there long enough. Next morning I poked around in there. Didn’t find anything, though.”

  “How ’bout tracks?”

  “Them I found. Boot prints coming from the south, then heading back that way. I followed ’em south for about a mile and seen where a horse had been waiting. Those tracks went south, too, but I wasn’t stupid enough to follow. Could be Rivera left a note in that brush for somebody to pick up.”

  “Interesting,” Fargo said.

  “Yeah, well, something else is interesting, too—them two big military guns these Spanish devils are hauling in that wagon. Bitch McDade says they’re for scaring off Indians. You b’lieve that?”

  “I got no evidence to the contrary,” Fargo said.

&
nbsp; “I got no evidence that birds can’t fly to the moon, neither, but I doubt if they can.”

  “The hell’s that s’pose to mean?”

  “I ain’t sure. It just seemed like the thing to say.”

  “Damned Indians,” Fargo muttered, turning to leave. But Cherokee Bob called out behind him.

  “Hey, can me and All Behind Him ride into Victoria with you tonight?”

  Fargo turned back around. “Why? They won’t serve liquor to Indians. More likely, they’ll shoot you full of holes.”

  “Yeah, but I know this one whore there. Her name’s Margarita. She works her own crib on the edge of town, and she’ll strap on an Indian buck if we pay her double. Fargo, we ain’t had no pussy for a helluva long time.”

  “You mean that toothless Delaware actually stops eating long enough to get a poke?”

  “I like fuck.” All Behind Him spoke up, belching loudly before licking the grease from his plate.

  Fargo gave in. “Well, I guess it’s only fair. It’ll be dark when we ride in. Besides, it just might be a good idea to have you two lurking in the shadows. El Lobo hasn’t tried to put the quietus on me in almost a week. But he won’t waste this opportunity tonight.”

  “He sure’s hell won’t,” Cherokee Bob agreed. “Before this night is over, somebody is going to die hard.”

  • • •

  Fargo halted the Quintana party an hour before sundown on the bank of a creek about two miles east of the settlement of Victoria, a rustic but bustling place that served mainly as a supply center for travelers along the Southwest Trail.

  “Fargo, is your garret furnished?” Booger demanded when he found out the two Indians would be riding along with the four white men into Victoria. “That damn Cherokee Bob could get us all killed pulling one of his damn rooks.”

  “You’re more likely to get us killed, you crazy bastard. Just pipe down. Those two aren’t as stupid as you look.”

  Fargo tightened the cinch and inspected the latigos before turning the stirrup and forking leather. Booger already sat atop his saddle ox. Bitch Creek McDade had cut out two horses for himself and Deke, and Fargo whistled sharply to the Indians as the four men gigged their horses toward town.

  Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him fell in behind the men, riding the mules McDade had lent them.

  “Them two are a hoot,” Deke said. “But goldang that Cherokee Bob’s chewed-off ear is ugly. Puts me off my feed every time I look at it.”

  “Hey, McTeague!” Cherokee Bob called out. “Bet you five dollars I can tell you where you got that big ox.”

  “I’m in a crosswise mood, savage,” Booger called back, “and I’d just as lief shoot you as look at you. No parlor tricks, hear?”

  Booger lowered his voice. “That red son won’t be happy until I ain’t got two nickels left to rub together.”

  Deke chuckled. “That coy red bastard.”

  “Let me warn all three of you,” Fargo said. “Those two Indians act like a pair of dance hall fops. But if you ever hear one of them say ‘crick’ and the other answer ‘crack,’ get the hell out of their way.”

  “Why?” McDade asked. “What do crick and crack mean?”

  “It means anything too close to them might get killed, that’s what. Those two are hell on four sticks when they choose to be. Mister, I mean grizzly bear dangerous.”

  Booger howled with mirth. “Dangerous? Them two pogies? Fargo, you’re off your chump.”

  “I did my duty and warned you,” Fargo said. “You best harken and heed. And speaking of danger—Booger, you saw what the Skinny Wolf and his murdering jackals did to that Indian girl. All of you have to keep a sharp eye out in Victoria. The Skinny Wolf will have some fox play to spring on us.”

  “I got my Colt Pocket Model,” Deke said, “but I couldn’t hit a bull in the butt with a banjo. I shot at a mad dog once and the bullet flew wide and killed a donkey.”

  “I don’t even own a gun,” McDade admitted. “All I got’s a buck knife.”

  “You can both still keep your eyes open,” Fargo said. “That’s the main mile. Booger and me will take care of the fireworks.”

  “And how,” Booger boasted. “Us two been in shooting frays from Old Mexico to the high Rockies. Left our share of widows and orphans, too.”

  Fifteen minutes later the riders crested a low hill and Victoria loomed into view in the grainy half-light of early evening. It was a good-sized cluster of unpainted wooden structures in a cup-shaped hollow. Enough light remained to show a still-smoldering, charred heap next to a sprawling mercantile.

  “Well, I’ll be et fir a tater!” Deke exclaimed. “The Three Sisters has burnt to the ground!”

  “Just burned, too,” Fargo added. “You can still smell it.”

  “Now, ain’t that the drizzlin’ shits?” Booger complained. “That was my favorite of the two watering holes when I used to whip a swift wagon through these parts. The Alibi ain’t got no free lunch counter and lets too many beaners in. Their soiled doves wash your dick first, too, and if you cook off they charge for a full ride, the besotted slatterns.”

  While Booger carried on, however, Fargo was thoughtful. That saloon had gone up only in the past day or so. Fires were mighty common on the frontier, all right, but the Trailsman had never been a big believer in coincidences—especially not when the Skinny Wolf was in the mix.

  “All right, you two reprobates,” Fargo called back to Cherokee Bob and All Behind Him. “Both of you stay back until it gets a little darker. And for Christ sakes, watch your ampersands.”

  “Fargo, you’re the one better worry,” Cherokee Bob assured him. “El Lobo don’t care a frog’s fat ass ’bout a couple of shit-heel Injins. You’re the jasper he’s after, and I’ll guarandamntee there’s a trap waiting for you down there.”

  “I hope so,” Fargo replied cheerfully. “Best way to cure a boil is to lance it.”

  10

  The dusty main street of Victoria was nearly deserted when the four riders tied off their mounts in front of the Alibi. The saloon was a low, split-slab building with a shake roof and a long hitch rail out front still covered with bark. Nearly transparent hides, riddled with bullet holes, had been stretched over the windows to keep out the flies.

  “Ain’t exactly Delmonico’s,” Deke quipped.

  Fargo stood in the rapidly darkening street for a full minute, looking carefully around for the telltale signs of an ambush and the best places for gunmen to lurk in the shadows.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m going in first with Booger behind me. Deke, you and Bitch stay just outside the door until I give you the hail.”

  Fargo slapped open the batwings and stepped inside. Stinking lard-oil lamps, suspended from overhead beams, cast an oily yellow light and made the few occupants look jaundiced.

  The bartender was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced man with a spade beard and thinning red hair plastered down with axle grease.

  “Evening, gents.” He greeted them.

  “Ha-ho, ha-ho!” Booger’s voice boomed like a six-pounder. “Kill the women and rape the horses! Booger McTeague is here to drink, fuck, and fight, and the order does not matter!”

  Fargo’s eyes prowled the flyblown saloon. Only a few men stood at the plank bar, young men with sunburned faces and the scarred leather chaps of that new Texas breed known as cowboys. Predictably, they ignored Fargo and stared in slack-jawed amazement at Booger as if a house had suddenly walked in.

  A few listless, jaded-looking soiled doves sat around a table at the rear of the saloon, playing poker for bung-town coppers. They studied Fargo with close interest.

  Fargo, however, was intently watching a lone Mexican apparently asleep at a table in the center of the room. He wore the white cotton clothing and rope sandals of a common bracero, his straw Sonora hat pulled low over his forehead.

  To a
ll appearances he was just a Mexican sleeping off a drunk, not an uncommon sight. But Fargo had survived so long on the frontier by trusting the sixth sense born of adversity. Besides, he was certain the Skinny Wolf had not given up on killing him.

  “Booger,” Fargo muttered, “keep your eyes on that bar dog and the rest while I roust this Mexer. I don’t like the way both of his hands are hidden under that serape.”

  Circling around behind the Mexican to avoid making himself a target, Fargo moved up behind his chair and shucked out his Colt.

  “Mite warm today to be wearing that serape inside, ain’t it?” Fargo said loudly behind him.

  The Mexican did not move or speak, continuing to snore.

  Fargo screwed the muzzle of his Colt into the nape of the Mexican’s neck. “I asked you a question, Pancho. But all I’m hearing is crickets.”

  This time the man stirred, his head swinging slowly up. “No hablo ingles.”

  Fargo switched to Spanish. “Hace mucho calor hoy. Por que tiene usted un serape?”

  “Mexicans always wear their serapes,” the man replied in Spanish. “Hot or cold.”

  That was true enough. But Fargo was only interested in those hidden hands.

  He tried English again. “Put both of your hands on the table.”

  “No hablo ingles.”

  Fargo’s Spanish was limited, but again he cobbled together the sentence. “Ponen sus manos sobre la mesa.”

  There was a long pause while everyone in the saloon held their collective breath in suspense. The Mexican sat still as a granite block.

  Fargo pressed the muzzle of the Colt even tighter. The Mexican’s empty left hand emerged.

  “Y el otro,” Fargo said. “Lentemente. Slowly.”

  Another long, almost painful silence. The right hand finally emerged gripping a Colt Navy revolver. The Mexican laid it on the table.

  “Bitch, c’mon in!” Fargo called over his shoulder. “We just got you a sidearm. Deke, stay on watch outside the door. Watch my stallion’s ears.”

  “Kill that sneaky little cockroach, Skye.” Booger spoke up.