THE SAN RAFAEL party reached the mine buildings in midmorning. Led by Teniente Chalo and the four special guards from the bank, the vanguard was followed by Amanda Buell and Francesca Martinez, with Yaqui Joe and Savage bringing up the rear—Savage with the added protection of a Big Fifty buffalo gun.
The two women seemed to treat the whole thing as nothing more than a pleasant ride in the country. Amanda, perhaps looking more radiant than ever due to her good fortune, had managed to talk Francesca into coming in the hope that she may find something of value her father may have left at the mine.
Even Yaqui Joe was relaxed and nonchalant, but this did not surprise Savage, nor did it in any way encourage him to lessen his vigilance. The day he looked to his sidekick for example was the day he would know he was in the wrong trade.
Savage saw how the level ground of the mine lay cupped against the ridges in a kind of bowl. All of the Sister Nina’s buildings were strung in an arc about the floor of the bowl, where the compound blended with the ridges behind.
“Those adobes provided the lodgings for the miners in the old days,” informed Chalo, dropping back to join them as the party entered the compound proper. “Only the guards maintained by Martinez after the closure live here now.”
Big bearded men were emerging from the gate house at the mine mouth. The lawman produced a large set of keys which Martinez had left at his attorneys. They would unlock one of the steel doors which contained his legacy.
Savage eyed Amanda closely as she swung down to greet the mine guards by name. It was easy enough to imagine a lonesome old man falling head over heels for someone as lovely and vivacious as Amanda, he supposed. The fact that he’d ignored his daughter and nephew might be attributed to the fact that father and daughter had never really hit it off. As for Yaqui Joe, would any man leave his wealth to a woman like Amanda or a nephew he hadn’t seen in twenty-five years?
Savage dismounted and stared around the compound as Yaqui Joe sat his ugly mule and produced his fine gold watch, to proudly announce the time.
Savage turned his head and spat. Each time he thought about that timepiece, he reminded himself that Amanda had a reputation for eccentricity. She was the sort of woman who went horsebacking alone late at night, visited the poor when this was anything but the fashion for the rich, was reputed to bathe nude whenever she went out to the river alone, had been known to take bums and no-accounts under her wing much to the disgust of both her father and Rodrigo Vega.
An eccentric will behave in funny ways, he reassured himself. It was the nature of the beast. You’d have to be eccentric to offer Yaqui Joe any gift other than a year’s supply of bath soap.
Soon they were making their way along a steeply-sloping shaft, following the map which the teniente kept consulting by the light of the brands and bull’s-eye lanterns.
Dour, phlegmatic men by nature, the mine guards admitted to Savage that although not actually knowing what they were supposed to be protecting out here since the closure, they’d had their suspicions that bank-hating Ignacio may have stashed away his find.
The men strongly believed there was more gold to be mined here, which Martinez may have planned on doing at some later date had not mortality overtaken him.
Under the terms of the will, the guards were to be kept on, suggesting strongly to Savage that the Sister Nina might still be viable.
Savage hung back and kept alert as they opened the heavy metal door set in a wall of solid rock, and carried their lamps and torches in to bring out the sacks.
He felt just a little edgy here, not for any specific reason other than that any time you had large amounts of money, gold or silver about, you might easily have people eager to get their hands on it.
Back in the shaft, Amanda insisted upon opening a sack which the guards placed upon a bench. Dull yellow metal reflected the light, and Savage felt a powerful sensation in his guts.
This was wealth—the real thing. Amanda Buell had it, and whoever got to marry her would share it.
He crossed to her and slid a casual arm about her waist. She gave him a huge smile and he felt more than a twinge of that old familiar feeling. He glanced at Yaqui Joe who gave him a thumbs up as though sensing what he was thinking.
One night of wild love then off to the bank first thing next morning to make the big withdrawal.
Savage shook his head. Apart from the wild night, he wanted no part of Yaqui Joe’s crackbrained plan. He could be a bastard when he had to, yet the plan sounded a tad tatty. Maybe there was another way to make this trip worthwhile. Maybe an idea would come to him.
It was good to be out in the sunshine again after the cold, musty chambers of the mine. They were loading up and Savage was watching the surrounding countryside when he noticed Stud prick his ears and turn his head towards the old smelter.
Savage’s gaze played swiftly over the great stone-buttressed terraces of the looming structure, a tall chimney rising high above a black slag heap extending out along the hillside, an untidy, lump shelf, barren and weedless.
And saw the face.
It was peering at them from the slag heap and he caught the glint of sunlight on gunmetal.
“Take cover!” he bawled, and lifting the Big Fifty to his shoulder, took a snap aim and fired.
He didn’t miss.
Rushing for the protection of the gate house, the others all saw the figure clutching at its throat. Savage triggered again, the figure fell from sight—and guns stormed from the smelter.
Savage hit the dirt and rolled behind an overturned dump wagon as lead laced the hard-packed earth about him. Squinting through rising dust, he made out five or six spurts of gun flame coming from unglazed windows. The ambushers were shooting to kill, and the old familiar feeling he experienced in that moment had nothing to do with women and everything to do with cold-blooded rage.
Call him obsessive, but Clint Savage always took it personally when some son of a whore tried to drygulch him.
His party was returning fire now and a drifting haze of gun smoke offered Savage enough cover to gain a position at the end of the slag heap without a bullet coming his way.
Savage’s teeth showed in a grim smile. Suddenly positions were reversed. With his people maintaining their fire from the gate house, he was now in a position to close in on the smelter, using the tortured pile of slag as cover.
He moved forward, infantryman style, Big Fifty held in the crook of his arms as he hauled himself over the slag heap on his elbows, knees and toes.
Bullets droned overhead. The enemy knew where he was but could not see him. But soon Savage could see them, one of them at least. It was a Mexican standing in a shielded doorway with a rifle to his shoulder and blasting at the gate house.
Savage took his sweet time aiming. His bullet caught the Mexican in the temple, spattering tissue all over the red brick wall.
A fury of fire came storming back, and as Savage rolled into a depression, a voice called;
“You’re nothin’ but a stinkin’ dirty polecat, Savage. I ain’t finished with you yet.”
Savage lay on his side feeding fresh bullets into the magazine, puzzling over what the shouter meant, trying to place what seemed like a familiar voice.
Soon he heard hoofbeats, which seemed to solve the first part of the mystery. The ambushers were making a run for it. But he still hadn’t identified the voice until, running away to his left to gain a sweeping view of the battle scene, he saw the band of horsemen thundering away.
The biggest of the party glanced back once over his shoulder and Savage recognized the striking features of Vinny St. Claire.
Savage stood with his back against the sun-warmed stucco of the San Rafael Bank. It was early afternoon and the plaza was finally returning to something approaching normal following yesterday’s headline-grabbing events out at the Sister Nina Mine. Walkers passed him by, going about their daily chores, and the stall-sellers were haggling over goods and prices and complaining about the heat.
Even so, there was still an edginess in the air, and Savage’s eye was drawn to a pair of farmers seated in a battered old wagon rolling into town. Both were toting big, old-fashioned shotguns where beforehand, he was sure, they would not be afraid to go around unarmed.
Wrapped about a lamp post not twenty feet away, was further evidence of change in San Rafael this sweltering Thursday. Freshly-printed and only recently pasted up for all to see was a poster bearing the likeness of a cocky, flinty-eyed Americano with owlhoot stamped all over his formidable features.
The large black type read:
REWARD
VINCENT ST. CLAIRE
ROBBERY AND MURDER!
St. Claire was the name on everyone’s lips since Savage had returned to town. With two mine guards and a bank official slung across their saddles, along with a wounded outlaw who had not survived the night, St. Claire was the only topic of conversation today.
Savage was again toasted as a hero, yet a highly suspect one in the eyes of many. For while some contended that it was all the publicity surrounding the Martinez inheritance that had attracted the Sainty gang from the south, even more regarded this big black-shirted man soaking up the sun with the sole of one boot planted against the bank wall as the magnet that was responsible for the gang’s unwelcome presence in the province.
Savage had Chalo to thank for that. The lawman had seen fit to spread information concerning the Savage-Sainty feud dating back to the gun down in Socorro in which the then government agent had carved up Vinny’s wild bunch and almost put paid to the desperado himself.
Not that Savage gave a damn.
For as much as he might resemble a sleek animal soaking up the sun, the Americano with the black mustache was grappling with a big decision—a decision that had nothing to do with Sainty.
Savage was preoccupied with orange blossoms and wedding bells. Was it evil to marry a lady just to get your hands on her money and briefly on her lush white body, all things considered?
Savage considered his position.
He was next door to broke, had no intention of going after Sainty to get square for yesterday or for the big reward; he simply wasn’t in the mood for a manhunt in a country which seemed designed to hide and harbor the ungodly and hamper the noble hunter.
Sainty could be sneaking up the bank alley with a Gatling gun with the intention of using it on him, or just as easily be a hundred miles away, writing off revenge upon Savage as a lost cause.
Savage was not interested in the uncertain or the unpredictable. He was preoccupied with getting rich, getting back home, getting next to Beautiful Amanda in the only way that counted.
He was still deliberating when the clatter of hoofbeats announced the arrival of Rancho Tejano, in force.
Even though he was safely back in town, Savage had been prudent enough not to shuck his Big Fifty. The formidable cannon was leaning against the wall at his side, and he hoisted it across his middle and chewed on his unlit cigar as Don Luis and his son brought their cavalcade to a hoof-rattling halt before him.
Savage put on his best smirk.
Rodrigo Vega looked like a man who’d lost an argument with a 50-ton Titan. His father simply looked ferocious.
“Verminous outlaw scum!” Vega senior stated in a voice that carried. Then, glancing around, “Where is the teniente? I wish to bring charges against you.”
Savage scratched his ear with the foresight of his rifle and winked at Rodrigo. He turned his head as Chalo emerged from his jailhouse and started towards Vega’s party.
He half-expected Chalo to knuckle under to the don’s demands. But San Rafael’s solemn lawman, who’d proven himself against the outlaws yesterday, did so again here in the plaza before the eyes of the entire town.
Chalo had already investigated the incident involving the farmer, Rancho Tejano and Savage. He abhorred the violence but concluded that despite the theft and butchering of a Vega steer, the cattlemen had over-reacted. Savage had done his civic duty in preventing a murder. He suggested Don Luis forget the whole affair—as he would do. The lawman had more important things to take up his time—Vinny St. Claire, for instance.
The Vegas appeared to deflate in the face of Chalo’s stance. In their eyes, Chalo was boosted by the support of Yaqui Joe Martinez. Don Luis reminded the peace officer that the alien vermin would not be around forever. This left Chalo in no doubt that one day there would be a reckoning.
Don Luis turned his attention to Savage.
“The best advice you could ever receive is to leave now and never return, vermin. If you do not you will regret it to your dying day, which may come sooner than you think.”
At this point, whether by accident or design, Amanda Buell emerged from her father’s store to make her way across the square towards the bank.
Every male head turned to stare; Beautiful Amanda had that effect. Impulsively, Rodrigo made to move his horse towards her, but a curt word from his father prevented him.
As Amanda approached the bank, the man San Rafael believed to be Clint Savage came out of La Luz de Mi Veda in a very strange way. Like he was hooked on an invisible line, eyes glassy, expression, to Savage’s critical gaze at least, even more dull-witted than usual.
“In the name of all the Seven Virgins of Cibola—this is the mother and father of all horses!”
“Shit!” Savage was heard to respond.
Here he was, acting all tough and commanding, and the runt was undercutting him by acting the clown. Only Yaqui Joe was not acting, Savage knew. Horses were about the only thing that could genuinely excite Yaqui Joe, for all his talk about comradeship, romance, family and the religion of his forefathers. He was a horse nut and looked it as he made his way towards the gleaming white stallion as though unaware of both the untimeliness of his intrusion and the depth of Vega security.
“The idiota again!” Rodrigo snapped. “Remove him.”
Savage was impassive as vaqueros on grain-fed horses cut Yaqui Joe off from the don. They were anything but polite in herding him back the way he’d come. He was too busy watching Amanda’s reaction; she looked furious.
“How dare you, Rodrigo!” she cried. “How dare you behave so outrageously, after what happened out in the valley!”
Rodrigo looked bemused by her attack but his father was not.
“So, how quickly the acquisition of a little gold can change the storekeeper’s daughter. Did I not warn you all along, Rodrigo, that you must marry a woman of breeding and culture? A fishwife will always act like a fishwife—”
“Guess you’ve said about enough, chili-eater,” Savage said, only now coming off his comfortable wall. “Threatening me is one thing, insulting a fine lady is going too far. Even for a big-nosed son of a bitch like you, that adds up to trouble you can’t handle.” He waved the Big Fifty. “Vamanos!”
Don Luis was about to answer back when a word from Rodrigo stopped him. Rancho Tejano stormed away, swinging swiftly from sight around the church corner.
“I just cannot believe Rodrigo would behave so badly,” Amanda complained. “I’m afraid he is very jealous of you, Jose.”
Jose believed he could stomach that. He called to the no-longer mesmerized-looking figure leaning against the cantina hitchrail.
“You okay?” he called, and Yaqui Joe nodded.
With the great white horse gone from sight, he had lost that look which Savage had identified as equine insanity—the excessive preoccupation with horseflesh you could not afford.
He gave Amanda his best smile but she still appeared a little lost from the clash with the Vegas. The same applied to Chalo, who was wiping beads of sweat from his somber features as he remembered what had brought him from his jail in the first place.
“There is news of a train being destroyed by explosives down south, señor,” he said, clearing his throat. He lowered his voice, and Savage appreciated his discretion with Amanda close by. But she appeared more interested in short, smelly and bowlegged Yaqui Joe, now making his way towards them. “It is believed it may be the same bandidos who attacked you yesterday. Does St. Claire know how to use dynamite, to your knowledge?”
“He sure does. And he hates railroads.” Savage nodded. “You can tell you bosses that job’s got his handprints all over it.”
“And one more thing—”
“Forget it,” Savage said, moving off, eyes upon Yaqui Joe and Amanda. “Hey,” he said, approaching the pair, “what are we so happy about?”
“I suppose we are just pleased to see one another, Jose,” she said easily. She took in a deep breath which drew the gaze of both men to her nicely filled Irish linen blouse. “Goodness, that was some scene with Rodrigo and his father. I do not think I have ever seen them so angry.”
Savage’s mood turned even sourer. “Say, beautiful, would you excuse Savage and me? There’s some business we need to discuss.”
Savage hadn’t lied. There was something of importance that needed discussing. Namely Yaqui Joe’s crackpot plan to propose to Beautiful Amanda then exercise his legal rights as her spouse under Mexican law to help himself to a nice piece of her legacy, then skip.
He was hoping Yaqui would forget the whole thing. Admit the plan was so wildly improbable it had little hope of success.
But Yaqui Joe thought just the opposite. He was dreaming of fine horseflesh and feather pillows.
Savage came to a decision next day.
He’d shaved, bathed, decked himself out in his Sunday best and went calling on Beautiful Amanda with a ring in his pocket.
Amanda was truly impressed and grateful. She insisted with tears in her eyes that it was every woman’s dream to have someone six feet three and dashingly handsome propose to her. Even if the would-be groom’s life-style, morals, manners and all-round persona might well be matters for concern.
“So, will you or won’t you?” he asked bluntly.
“I’m truly sorry, Jose, but I love another.”
Clint Savage was stunned. Turned down? He’d never been rejected before. He was the one who did the turning down.
“Rodrigo?” he said. “That puffed-up popinjay with the curly hair and—”
“No, not Rodrigo. I cared for him once but another has taken his place in my heart.”
“And it’s not me?”
He still found rejection hard to swallow. And as he stared at her the town clock chimed and Savage thought of clocks in general and felt the hair on the back of his neck rise stiffly. He went white. He didn’t feel well.
“Not ...?” He couldn’t even mouth the words.
“Yes, dear Jose, I am in love with Clinton.”