“WELCOME TO MY humble place, Yaqui Joe,” beamed Barlow Buell, whose sprawling store that took up most of the square was anything but humble. There could be no doubting the big man’s warmth as he shook hands firmly with Savage and beamed. But there was no smile in his eyes. This storekeeper had eyes like bullets. He freighted store goods over the mountains in his own wagons, marked them up two hundred percent and sold them to the down-and-out with a straight face. He was a hard man to impress yet was indeed impressed by this man who’d left Mexico long before he moved south. “And, pray tell, how are you finding things after being away so many years?”
Savage said he was finding it just fine.
He wasn’t lying.
The tape measured him at an even six feet three, but in San Rafael he stood about ten feet tall and, with just a few exceptions, everyone wanted to be his friend.
So who wouldn’t like it?
“I’ll take a box of your Old Jackass cigars,” he said, deliberately raising his voice as he gazed towards the rear. Amanda worked part-time in the office, helping to keep track of the goods that came and went and the endless river of silver that replaced them.
Buell’s Store was the most important commercial enterprise in town and had occupied that position for some twenty years or more. Filling one half of the entire western side of the square, it supplied just about every need from medicines to farm machinery, fashions and weapons.
Savage would rather hang upside down over a cliff by a frayed rope than spend a moment longer than necessary in any store, normally. But he stayed on here chatting amiably with Buell and his customers until a door opened in back and she appeared.
Seemed they’d begun calling her Beautiful Amanda when she was just a kid. Savage had to concede the name fitted her like a glove. This statuesque redhead with the peaches and cream complexion made even the prettiest dark-eyed señorita look dowdy by comparison. She had personality, brains and charm, but what Savage admired most was her taste in men.
Amanda acted as though she found him about the best thing to happen to San Rafael in years. How could he argue with that?
He suggested a stroll. Amanda agreed despite a frown from her father. While Barlow Buell might be deeply impressed by tall and broad-shouldered Yaqui Joe as any man, he had other plans for his only daughter. Big plans.
People on the square paused to watch as the couple strolled by in the afternoon sunshine. They stared at Savage’s big six-guns, at his formidable black mustache, at the way he walked and the breadth of his shoulder. And they marveled. The Yaqui Joe who’d run away from boring provincial life at that tender age following an unpleasant incident over a stolen horse, had been personable, quick-witted and comely enough, it was agreed. But none had expected him to blossom into this strapping six-footer, a man who despite his deep tan and coal black hair looked much more American than Mexican.
But Clint Savage, on the other hand, the bowlegged runt who smelled bad, who had snaggled teeth and rode an ugly mule, had made little if any impression. The ordinary man in the street found it difficult to equate the runt’s appearance with the reputation he brought with him—a reputation which Teniente Chalo’s records with Arizonan peacekeeping agencies was able to confirm.
Amanda paused as they reached the big sprawling house opposite the church. The shades were drawn and the doors were shut fast. The luxurious home of the late Ignacio Martinez had been closed up following the funeral. The fate of the home and the miner’s reputed fortune would not be revealed until the formal reading of his will.
“Poor Señor Martinez,” Amanda sighed. “Such a generous and kindly man.”
“At least to you.”
She looked up at him. “Why do you say that?”
Savage shrugged.
“There’s always talk. I hear he thought a heap of you, Amanda.”
“He was a good friend.” She squeezed his arm. “As you and I have been for so long now, Jose.”
Jose. She believed him to be Jose Martinez. Now that was a handle that took some getting used to. He preferred Clint Savage, and had a sneaking suspicion a certain sawed-off Mex was getting comfortable with his new name right now.
Yaqui Joe was bragging in bars about his exploits at manhunting, government work, peacekeeping and armed-escorting the rich and famous.
“Hmmm,” Savage said noncommittally, not wanting to tread the minefield of the past where avoidable. “Feel like a drink?”
“Do you remember the day at the swimming hole when—”
“Sure do,” he said, moving on. “You looked good that day. Still do.”
“Not as good as you,” she smiled. “Honestly, the day Francesca showed me your photo, I got goosebumps just to think how little Yaqui Joe had grown into such a fine figure of a man. And honestly, I never would have dreamed that my friend would ever become so assured and commanding. It’s truly remarkable.”
Although Savage could soak up flattery as well as the next man, he still felt a touch uneasy about the masquerade as far as Amanda was concerned.
He changed the subject once again.
“I’m plannin’ on doin’ some ridin’ tomorrow. Want to see some of the old country?”
He made it sound offhanded and innocent, when he was well aware that he’d try anything just to get this luscious lady off by herself someplace where they might get to really revive some old friendships.
“Sounds exciting but I’m afraid father wouldn’t allow it. He’s just as strict as he always has been.”
“I’m told he’s pretty keen on you and this Vega geezer gettin’ together. What’s his name?”
“Rodrigo.” Amanda sighed. It seemed she sighed a lot. Savage didn’t mind, it helped emphasize her breasts. “He is a fine man but ...”
“But?” he prompted hopefully. He’d heard Vega was well-bred, handsome and rich. Sounded like someone you could easily dislike.
Amanda didn’t get to answer as a familiar figure approached from the livery stable where Savage and Yaqui Joe housed sorrel and mule.
Savage glanced at Amanda sharply as Yaqui Joe approached, bowlegged, grinning and amiable. Luckily they were standing upwind. Reluctantly he introduced them.
“Good afternoon, Clinton,” Amanda almost purred. “How very nice to meet you.”
Savage scowled. She sounded genuine. But how could that be? Nobody was ever glad to meet Yaqui Joe. It was like being glad to shake hands with a leper, or thrilled to your back teeth to confront a Kiowa war party with fresh white scalps hanging from their lances.
“Ahh, Beautiful Amanda,” the Mexican said, in what Savage realized was much better than his usual English. Then he took her hand and kissed it, and a radiant blush covered Amanda’s cheeks. “Until I see you, this day was as boring as ... as boring as chasing a whole army of outlaws across Death Valley alone as I did when—”
“We don’t want to bore the lady with all that now, do we?” Savage cut in. “Amanda, about that drink?”
“Of course, Jose,” she beamed. “And now your friend can join us. That is, of course, if you are free, Clinton?”
“As free as the birds in the trees,” Yaqui Joe beamed, just as Savage knew he would, despite all the signs and signals he was giving him to get lost.
Yaqui Joe and Amanda Buell had a fine old time over the next hour spent at San Rafael’s top cantina, the romantically named La Luz de Mi Veda. They were chatting, laughing and scoffing tequila while Savage mostly brooded. He couldn’t help wonder if there might not be a tragic, hidden flaw in the makeup of Beautiful Amanda if she couldn’t see that sawed-off Clint Savage was a wart on the backside of humanity, who smelt bad and stole horses to boot.
They were still there when the attorney’s clerk came to them with the news that the will would be read at 2 p.m. the following day.
Yaqui Joe and Savage traded looks when the man almost insisted that Amanda should also be present.
“Señor Martinez requested it personally,” the man said.
This news was overshadowed by what came later.
As both men were escorting Amanda home, a large crowd had gathered outside the newspaper office. There they learned that the American outlaw Vinny St. Claire had slaughtered several people down in Hermosillo and had escaped unscathed.
This was the first Savage had heard that the killer was in Mexico. He and Sainty went back a long way ... but not as friends.
Rather like himself and a certain Mexican horse thief, he thought, looking around to see Yaqui Joe and Amanda with their heads together again.
What was wrong with this woman?
Whatever it might be, he was sure he knew the cure.
Only the water carter and a couple of stray dogs were to be seen upon the square early next morning as Savage stood at his hotel window, massaging his beard stubble and sucking on an unlit cigar.
Wearing only pants, boots and Colts as he came to terms with the new day, he followed the cart’s progress. Two plodding burros hauled the rusty tanker by the church, the law office, the long-closed assay office and La Luz de Mi Veda, sleeping with all windows tightly shut against the morning’s pearly light.
He had to admit there was something about early mornings in Mexican towns when everything was clean and fresh before people got up to spoil it.
And grinned at the thought.
What a world-weary cynic he had become. Maybe people tended to spoil things with their greed and jealousies. But no more so here than anyplace else, he suspected. And on the credit side, there were people here that you didn’t get to meet in Arizona, Texas or New Mexico—specifically people like Amanda Buell.
The smile faded as he reached for his black shirt hanging on the back of a rickety chair.
He was hesitant about the storekeeper’s daughter mainly because he suspected she was hesitant towards him.
She’d evidently developed a crush on him through that photograph Yaqui Joe had sent her. And Savage could not deny that she was attentive and admiring when they were together. Yet she was still reserved, and while he sensibly attributed this to the fact that she was involved with another man, perhaps even intended marrying, there was an uneasy feeling that there could be something else preventing Beautiful Amanda throwing herself at him as wholeheartedly as he might like.
At this moment, a short, bowlegged figure led a big sorrel and an ugly mule from the livery stables on the far side of the square.
Bare-chested still, the shirt draped over his shoulder, Savage rested his hands on the sill and aimed the cold cigar between his teeth like a gun barrel at Yaqui Joe.
Accustomed to women of all types preferring to run a mile than associate with his sidekick, he continued to be puzzled by the instant rapport that seemed to have sprung up between the beauty and the beast.
Maybe it was the heat, he decided, pulling the shirt over his broad shoulders and stuffing the tail into his pants.
The heat made folks act strangely and it was already hot enough even though the sun was barely in the sky.
The church bells were softly chiming as the partners pushed their mounts across the square, circling the fountain where the first careworn woman was filling her earthen water jar then heading for the south trail.
Lights showed behind the windows of the attorney’s office and a fat old man in black rig and snowy white shirt stood on the porch scanning some documents.
“He makes the preparations for this afternoon,” Yaqui Joe said confidently. “He must see that all is in order before handing over the gold to Francesca and me.”
“Francesca and me,” Savage corrected. “I’m Jose Martinez, remember?”
“Hey, you cannot tease me on such a great day, amigo. You will receive my share of the will, I will pay you for your trouble as I promised, and all of us shall be so much happy.”
“Oh yeah?” Savage wasn’t sure he believed in happiness, but it was too big a question to consider on such a morning. He pointed with his cigar as they clip-clopped by the store where the long gallery was cluttered with brightly painted new farm implements all securely chained to heavy bolts. “Don’t see your buddy Amanda up and about as yet.”
Yaqui Joe frowned. “Why do you say that in such a way, companero? Is she not smitten by you, just as I said?”
“Reckon so,” Savage grunted then kicked Stud into a trot as they followed the long street out.
Up ahead, two young boys in tattered serapes drove a bunch of burros through the dust. The animals were laden with bundles of wood. The boys were whacking the burros with long sticks and laughing, but fell silent as the riders drew abreast. Savage saw suspicion in their eyes as they looked him over. Smart kids, he thought. Maybe they could smell a phony where their parents could not.
The street widened as they approached the south trail. It was white and dusty and overladen with giant trees that were aflame with flowers. A disused fountain, well into the throes of decay, caught the falling blossoms. He kicked the sorrel into a lope and they left the town in their dust and took the trail to the mine.
Yaqui Joe wanted to see the place where the late Uncle Ignacio’s fortune had come from. As well, Savage had energy that needed burning up. They would be back in plenty of time for the reading. Yaqui Joe would not be late for that. Cousin and daughter seemed rock-solid certain the gold was as good as theirs.
The mine trail led along the lip of a canyon, and the dry creek bed lay a hundred feet below. The sun was well up now and the land was already beginning to bake.
The Sister Nina Mine burrowed into a brooding ridge of stone. Their first glimpse of it was a gallows of heavy timbers, straddling the road, carrying over it a broad wooden chute. Above the chute, a timbered head frame shielded a tunnel opening into the ridge. There were big sheds, a stamp mill, long thatched ramadas between the upper end of the chute and the mine entrance.
Many people had worked here once but now the personnel was reduced to just four—security men who guarded the mine against vandals and, of course, treasure hunters.
Although Martinez insisted the Sister Nina was played out when he shut it down a year ago, local rumor had it that there was still gold to be found. Uncle Ignacio had simply collected enough of it and decided it was not worth the effort any longer.
When Savage presented ‘his’ credentials to the guards, they were allowed look around. They couldn’t help but be impressed with the size of the operation.
There were areas however, that were strictly off limits. When this was made clear, Yaqui Joe rolled his eyes at Savage, and later on their way back, put forward the suspicion that this seemed to support the belief that the mine might not be as played out and worthless as reported.
Savage barely listened.
Despite the fact that they were traveling friendly country, habit ensured that he remained fully alert no matter where he might find himself.
That was how he got to see the horseman atop a distant hill long before Yaqui Joe knew he was there. The man disappeared and the Mexican said, “That hill marks the border of Rancho Tejano.”
“The Vega spread?”
“Si. The Vegas were not here before, but Rancho Tejano was. It has always been the great rancho of the province, and I am told that Don Luis and his son have much improved it.”
“They don’t seem too popular,” Savage remarked as they dipped down and around a corner marked by a pile of giant blue boulders. “That because they’re so rich, you reckon?”
Before the Mexican could reply, a dust cloud showed above the hill where they had sighted the solitary horseman to be replaced with a squad of riders heading swiftly their way.
Savage hauled his Colts and checked them.
“Amigo, why do you do this? This is my country, everyone is friendly and peaceful here.”
“Bullshit.”
“Hey, why do you say that? Have we not been welcome here? Are we not treated with respect?”
“Can’t deny that,” Savage replied, slipping the guns back into oiled leather and slapping the handles. “But there’s nothin’ like a couple of Colts to guarantee that people stay that way.”
“But look. You can see by the fine horses and the manner in which these hombres dress that they are aristocrats.” Yaqui Joe snapped his fingers. “Of course. This could only be Don Luis, upon the white horse and the other ...” His voice trailed off and his eyes began to bulge. “Sapristi, but do you see the white horse, companero. Surely this is the prince of all wonderful creatures that we see before us, no?”
Savage was checking out the party through narrowed eyes, not wholly liking what he saw.
Certainly the men rode fine horses, while the pair in the lead certainly radiated the aristocratic look, for what that was worth. But they appeared anything but friendly as they dragged their horses to a dust-stirring halt before them, blocking the trail. His nose crinkled. He supposed there was no way he would take to Amanda Buell’s alleged suitor, but although forced to concede that the fellow he took to be Rodrigo Vega was stylish and formidable looking, surely there was a wolflike cast to the man’s face that was in many ways a mirror of the tall man on the white horse. He was looking them over as though they might be rustlers fixing to run off his primes.
“Buenos dias,” Yaqui Joe greeted. “I am, er, Señor Clint Savage and this is my amigo, Señor Jose—”
“We know who you are,” the older man rapped, an autocrat complete with silver goatee and mobile eyebrows. “What are you doing on the trail to the mine?”
“Mindin’ our own business,” Savage put in, staring hard at Rodrigo. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ on it?” He almost added ‘wetback’, but thought better of it.
Rodrigo heeled his mount forward to study Savage at close range. He was a handsome fellow, yet you sensed, hard as old bootheels.
“You are Mexican?” he challenged.
“What do I look like?”
“You look like a gringo, señor.”
Rodrigo was obviously smarter than most of the townsfolk in San Rafael who were prepared to accept him as Mexican-born, Savage reflected. But being smart didn’t win any points with him.
“You were watchin’ us from up there,” he accused. “Then you came hootin’ down as soon as you spotted us. Why?”
“We have a warning for you,” Don Luis stated. “Leave San Rafael.”
“Oh?” said Savage. “And why should we do that?”
“Several reasons,” Rodrigo stated. “But two will do. You have been seen in the company of Señorita Buell, and that offends me. Secondly, we have been alerted that there are outlaws in the province, gringo outlaws, and Rancho Tejano has always dealt severely with such people. Do we make ourselves clear, señor gringo?”
“As dish water,” Savage grunted. “Now shift your asses as we’re comin’ through.”
As he heeled Stud forward, Don Luis barked an order. Riders attempted to block Savage’s path. Deliberately driving Stud into a horse, he leaned swiftly from the saddle and knocked the vaquero to the ground with a solid right.
His hand was on his gun handle as he hipped around to confront the Vegas. They were livid.
“Never try to run a bluff when your poke’s empty,” Savage said. “Greasers!”
“Pigs!” Don Luis shouted, turning his venom on his men. He uncoiled a long whip and laid it across the downed man struggling to his feet. The lash cut a strip across the fellow’s cheek. The Don was bringing the whip back for another strike when Savage rode alongside and hit him with his shoulder. Hard.
Yaqui Joe blessed himself as the master of Rancho Tejano hit the dirt. Rodrigo let out a stifled curse and grabbed for the butt of his saddle rifle. He froze when Savage wrapped hand around gun handle and gave him a smile as cold as sleet.
“You shall pay dearly for this!” Vega swore. “We are the power in this land. We will—”
“Got another piece of wise advice for you, son,” Savage cut in. “When you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.”
With obvious effort, Rodrigo Vega fell silent as he leapt to the ground to assist his father to his feet.
“Just for your information,” Savage said as they started off, “we ain’t thieves, and we’ll keep company with whoever we like.” He gave them a wicked grin. “Within reason, of course, which means I don’t think we’ll be keepin’ company with your breed any longer.”
“Amigo, was that wise?” Yaqui Joe gasped as their mounts carried them away.
“Mebbe so, mebbe not. But it was fun. Come on, we’d better make time or I might be late for that fat old lawbones to pat me on the head and tell me how stinkin’ rich I am.”
Yaqui Joe was getting worried about Savage. But then he looked on the bright side. How could a man really worry when he was on the brink of coming into a fortune?