IT WAS TWO weeks later that Fritz Baum reached San Jacinto, and that was mostly accidental.
The German bounty hunter had spent close on a month looking for the man called Breed. Or Azul. Or Matthew Gunn. He had passed money to the informants he knew and promised more for sure information. On his own, he had taken the logical step of checking the stage lines linking the territory, and spoken with every driver and guard he could find. The lines mostly converged on Santa Fe, and it was there he got his first lead.
‘Sure,’ said the grizzled old man who ran the Wells Fargo depot, ‘I know Matt Gunn. Kieron’s boy. Me an’ Kieron used to trade together, an’ he brought the kid to see me one time. Blond youngster. Built hisself a name, I heard, after his folks got killed. I ain’t seen him in years, but Charley Gracey said there was talk of someone like him down around San Jacinto.’
‘Who’s Charley Gracey?’ asked Baum. ‘Can I talk to him?’
‘Real butterfly,’ said the old man. ‘Drives coaches when he ain’t doin’ things he shouldn’t. He was on the San Jacinto run up to this week.’
Five dollars changed hands and the old man said, ‘You’ll find him in the Queen’s Hotel. Two blocks down.’
Charley Gracey was a small man with lank brown hair and wiry muscles. He wore a pair of faded plaid trousers and a fringed, rawhide jacket. He acted tougher than he was, and mostly carried his big driver’s whip with him: he thought it added an element of romantic menace to his character.
Baum swiftly destroyed the driver’s image of himself. ‘Gracey?’ he asked, abruptly. ‘The stage driver?’
‘That’s me.’ Charley stroked his whip as the big man settled into the chair across the table. ‘What you want?’
‘Information,’ said Baum. ‘I heard you was in San Jacinto. Heard you might know something I want to learn.’
‘That’s right?’ asked Gracey, picking up his whip. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Don’t matter.’ Baum reached across the table to lift the bottle. Then took a glass from a passing waiter and helped himself. ‘And don’t think about using that fly-kicker. Nor a gun. ‘I’ll kill you if you do.’
Charley Gracey believed him: he set his whip down and put both hands on the table beside him. Then he watched Baum drink his liquor and said:
‘What you want to know?’
‘There’s a man called Matthew Gunn,’ said Baum. ‘A half-breed. Called Azul, or Breed, too. Tall, blond. Wears buckskin pants an’ a leather vest. White shirt; black Stetson. Hair comes down to his shoulders. I heard you seen him in San Jacinto.’
‘Heard of him,’ said Gracey, ‘not done seen him. He was around there, though.’ He picked up the bottle and topped his own glass. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘That depends on you,’ said Baum. ‘It could be worth twenty dollars. Or your life.’
‘Jesus!’ Gracey swallowed hard, choking on the whiskey. ‘I only got it on hearsay. I wasn’t there when it happened.’
‘What happened?’ demanded Baum. ‘An’ remember a bullet don’t cost twenty bucks.’
‘Real big shoot up,’ said Gracey. ‘There was a double killing in a saloon. The Golden Goose. Two fellers got shot. One was Amos Dumfries’s son; the other was his top hand.’
‘Who’s Amos Dumfries?’ asked Baum.
‘Biggest goddam landowner in that area,’ said Gracey, nervously. ‘Rich an’ mean.’
‘Go on,’ said the German. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Man that shot ’em answers your description,’ said Gracey. ‘But it don’t stop there. Seems like it all started when Wesley Dumfries took exception to some artist. The half-breed stepped in an’ shot Wesley. Then he shot Cole Turner. So Amos sent men lookin’ for them. The ’breed killed two an’ crippled as many more. Ran off their horses an’ rode away laughing.’
‘When you hear this?’ asked Baum.
‘Two weeks ago,’ said Gracey. ‘Last time I went through San Jacinto. Amos Dumfries was fixin’ the posses then gettin’ ready to hunt the ’breed down.’
‘How far’s this place?’ asked Baum. ‘San Jacinto?’
‘Two days ride, I guess,’ said Gracey ‘You want to buy me a drink?’
Baum dropped two five-dollar bills on the table and stood up.
‘Buy your own.’
‘You was talkin’ about twenty,’ complained Gracey. ‘An’ I give you what you wanted.’
‘You want to argue it?’ The German turned. ‘You want that?’
Charley Gracey shook his head. ‘Nossir. I don’t want to argue nothin’ with you.’
Baum nodded and went out through the swinging doors. As they closed behind him Gracey muttered, ‘Bastard!’ But he kept his voice low.
A day and a half later Baum was in San Jacinto.
Amos Dumfries was in the Golden Goose, organizing the pursuit. He looked up as the big German came in and walked up to his table.
‘Name’s Baum,’ he said. ‘Fritz Baum. Maybe you heard of me?’
Dumfries nodded. ‘Ain’t you the feller Nathan Kellerman used to clear them Mexican sheepherders off his land?’
‘I worked for Mr. Kellerman,’ agreed Baum. ‘Now I’m working for someone else. Might tie in with what you’re doing.’
‘I’m just huntin’ the man who killed my son,’ said Dumfries. ‘Wesley an’ a few others.’
‘Big man?’ asked Baum. ‘A half-breed, with pale hair?’
‘That sounds like him,’ said the rancher. ‘You know him?’
‘He’s called Azul,’ said Baum. ‘Or Breed. Or Matthew Gunn. I been hired to find him.’
‘I’ll pay you the same price to lead me to him,’ said Dumfries. ‘As much again to see him hang.’
‘Man in Cinqua offered me a thousand to bring him in,’ said Baum. ‘He wants to kill him. You ready to top that?’
‘No.’ Dumfries shook his head. ‘That sounds too high. I got enough men I can find him myself.’
‘You ain’t done so good to now,’ said Baum. ‘You’re usin’ cowboys to do bounty work.’
‘All right,’ said Dumfries. ‘I’ll pay you five hundred to lead me to him. That guarantees I watch him die.’
‘You got a deal,’ said Baum. ‘As soon as I got the money.’
Azul led Backenhauser into Placeras around midafternoon.
The town was quiet, most of its noise coming from the windmill that was clacking its fans around in the breeze that gifted power to the mill so that water was dripped slowly up into the cache tank. There was a stable and a hotel. A saloon, and a hardware store; a stage office. Nothing else, except sandy plain and the ominous bulk of the mountains.
They reined in outside the depot.
Inside was an old man with white hair and a whiter beard. He looked up as they approached the desk, and spat a long stream of tobacco juice into a spittoon.
‘You want a ticket fer the next coach?’
‘Just one,’ said Azul. ‘When’s it leave?’
‘Be three days afore the next.’ The oldster chewed his wad. ‘Sell you a seat now if you want to go to Lordsburg. If you want to go to Deming, that’ll be a week. Other places take longer.’
‘Lordsburg’ll do,’ said Azul. ‘How much?’
‘Fifteen dollars,’ said the old man. ‘An’ twenty cents fer each item o’ baggage on top.’
Cal Backenhauser shrugged and sighed: ‘All right. I guess I can afford that.’
‘How much baggage you got?’ asked the old man. ‘I gotta know so I can fix the register.’
‘Just saddlebags,’ said Azul. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Forty cents then,’ said the oldster. ‘Twenty fer each bag.’
Backenhauser paid over the money and collected his tickets.
When they got outside, he asked Azul, ‘What about my horse? And the saddle?’
‘Sell them,’ said the half-breed. ‘You could even make a profit.’
‘Only prophet I heard lately has been you,’ said the artist. ‘And you’re pretty doomy.’
‘You’re still alive,’ said Azul. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Just.’ The Englishman sneezed. ‘I still think I got pneumonia.’
‘Better than a bullet in your head,’ said Azul. ‘Best you get out before Dumfries comes looking.’
‘You think he will?’ asked Backenhauser. ‘Will he really follow us this far?’
‘Maybe,’ answered the half-breed. ‘There’s no way of telling, not with a man like that. So it’s best to leave the questions unanswered and ride away alive.’
‘You won’t do that, though,’ said the artist. ‘Will you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Azul said. ‘Why ask anyway? You’re safe now, so go away.’
‘Spotting the character,’ said Backenhauser, ‘like I told you I get the feeling you’re the kind of man who doesn’t run from anything. So you won’t run from Dumfries.’
‘Maybe not,’ said the half-breed, ‘but that doesn’t stop you from doing the sensible thing.’
‘No,’ said Backenhauser, ‘I guess it doesn’t. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to paint a great picture either.’
‘You stay around me,’ said Azul, ‘and you could get hurt.’
‘A man’s got to put a bit of himself into everything he does,’ said the artist. ‘Even if it’s his own blood.’