Clint listened hard for a few moments until he had a direction on the sound, and then leaped from the bed, gun in hand.
There was an answering scuffle as whoever was in the room with him headed for the door. Clint made a dive for the intruder, missed, and piled into a massive oak chest of drawers. As he was picking himself up, slightly dazed, the door closed and the running of padded feet retreated across the patio.
Clint yanked open the door and by the flickering light of a handful of oil lamps in brackets around the patio could make out a man darting into the shadows across the way.
Clint, irritated and determined, ran after the man, following him through the zaguán and out into the open yard full of flower gardens. The sweet smell of jasmine was heavy on the night, and it felt like running through a thick fog to go through it. Clint could make out the running footfalls somewhere ahead and kept on.
The night exploded with muzzle flashes, and Clint dove for cover. The shooting stopped and the footfalls went on.
Clint came up from the flower bed he’d flopped down in, running, gun in hand.
The night began to wake up. Guards came running, hammers of their guns clicking back. Casement windows opened; men called to each other in Spanish.
Clint thought about going on after the man who’d gotten into his room, and then thought about the kind of trouble that might buy for him, and against his powerful desire to find out who the man was decided he’d best light out for his room, and see if he could get there without showing himself. It was likely he wouldn’t last the night, if he were found out here gunning for one of the hacienda’s trusted men. This was a long way from home and mighty treacherous kind of country for a norteamericano. A smart man didn’t push his luck.
He slid around through the bushes as men came charging down the garden paths to investigate the shooting. They all went by, and he trotted for the door of the house.
There were servants there, in their robes and wrapped in blankets. Clint held back in the shadows, thinking, waiting for these people to clear out so he could get in. But nobody was planning to budge until the excitement was over, that was clear. And Clint got to wondering what would happen if it was discovered he wasn’t in bed where he belonged.
He considered acting as though he’d been first out to investigate the shooting, but figured nobody would believe him, since his room was on the far side of the patio and none of the people who came out of their own rooms to investigate would have seen him and so would question his story.
Clint had half a mind to hunt up his horse and make for the border, but that seemed an unlikely business, since he didn’t even know where exactly the horses had been bedded down, and the vaqueros knew their ground a lot better than he did. Besides that, he was barefoot. As was his usual practice, he’d slept with his clothes on, but his boots were under the bed.
There was only one thing left, as far as Clint could see: go up over the roof somewhere at the back side of the building, climb down the latticework and slip along to his room.
It was hard to tell exactly what was going on down in the gardens, but everybody sounded plenty busy thrashing in the undergrowth, and Clint hoped they’d stay busy a while longer. He went along the wall to the left, following around two corners, and then hunted for a way up.
The wall was stone and adobe, massive construction. It was not perfectly smooth, but not rough enough to get handholds or footholds on. He wished he had a rope.
Some distance along the wall, he found a big oak tree with limbs that spread nearly over the roof. He climbed it and got cautiously out on the longest limb towards the building. The roof was ten feet down and five or six feet away. When he landed he was going to make a clatter on that tile. But there was no way around it, so he jumped.
He broke loose three tiles and they went skipping down the roof like bits of shale down a mountainside, ending up in the trough in the middle of the roof where rainwater collected to run along to a drain, under which was undoubtedly a cistern. Clint slid after the broken tiles into the trough and then listened. Off in the distance he could hear men talking. It sounded like the chase was over. Clint climbed up the other side of the roof and looked down into the patio. It was empty at the moment, but he could hear people in the pórtico discussing the situation in rapid Spanish.
He found some latticework on which grew vines, and climbed swiftly down to the stone floor of the patio. Then he darted through the shadows to his room and got into bed. Later, when everything had quieted down, he lit a candle and checked the room over. All seemed well until he got back into bed and reached his pistol back under the pillow. That was when he became aware that his knife, with his initials carved in the handle, was missing.
~*~
In the morning, Clint and Felipe were invited to have breakfast with Griego. Griego was still in his bed, but propped up. They were seated at a table by his bedside. Clint wondered how much who knew about what. They were served fruit, some of which Clint didn’t even know the name for. But it was all welcome after the spicy food he’d been stuck with for supper. It was smooth and fresh and he would have enjoyed it greatly if he hadn’t been worried about what had happened the previous night.
Griego’s eyes seemed to settle on him curiously every few minutes, as though waiting to see what he was going to say. Clint said nothing.
Felipe talked about his family some more, and then he and Griego both talked about the weather and about the danger from bandits that seemed to be everywhere. Griego’s eyes clouded over with thunderheads as he talked about bandits.
Finally, Griego settled back against his pillows and eyed Clint with faint amusement. But he addressed Felipe when he spoke.
“I believe I have never told you, Felipe, of a small incident which happened not very long ago. I wished to hire a norteamericano who goes by the name of Clint Evans to rescue Pepita. It is said this Señor Evans is a very effective hunter of men and has done many amazing things. It is said he searches for a man who killed his wife.” Griego was still looking at Clint, and Clint had a strong notion that Griego knew who he was.
“I sent a man to find this Señor Evans and my man carried money to pay Evans with. My man never returned.”
“It is Valenzuela,” Felipe said with such conviction that if Clint hadn’t known of Felipe’s involvement he would never have suspected it. “He has men everywhere. I do not think you will ever see this man again.”
“I do not expect it,” Griego said. And, still in Spanish, he addressed Clint. “You have killed him, have you not, Señor Evans? And taken the money.”
Clint did not let on.
Felipe looked shocked and translated the accusation into English. Clint looked what he hoped was surprised and said, “Tell him my name is Smith, and I can’t understand what’s put that notion into his head.”
When Felipe had translated, Griego’s smile remained steady on Clint. His hand fumbled under the covers and pulled out Clint’s knife.
“Señor Evans,” he said, “I am well aware that you speak Spanish, and so I do not see any reason to trouble Felipe for translations. As you can see, I have your knife. Now you understand the disturbance last night. Let us not continue with this charade, eh?”
Clint looked back into Griego’s eyes evenly, thinking. He had half a mind to put up a front of innocence, and hope Felipe would back him. But it would require long unconvincing explanations and in the end it was unlikely he’d ever convince Griego he was not Evans.
“It is a fine way to treat your guests,” he told Griego in Spanish.
“It is a fine way to treat a man who comes to hire you. It is beneath your dignity to kill such a man for money, is it not?” Griego’s eyes were hard.
“I did not wish to become involved. I refused both the job and the money offered. There was shooting from the darkness, killing your messenger. I left. A man came after me and I killed him. Another man was after me also, but I got away.”
“And how is it you are here now with Felipe?”
“I am staying close to Felipe because I am hoping he can help me find Blake Dixon, who killed my wife.”
Griego smiled. “Felipe promised this?”
“Felipe has promised nothing. It is that he is my only hope of finding Dixon right now.”
“How is it you did not wish to rescue my daughter Pepita? The pay would be very high.”
“I do not like to become involved in family quarrels.”
It appeared for a moment that Griego would explode at this way of referring to the kidnapping, but he contained himself and said softly, “I will pay you as much as you desire, Señor Evans, if you will bring back my daughter alive and well.”
“It is not the money, Señor Griego. It is the lack of desire. I am sorry. I wish you well and my sympathies go with you, but I cannot become involved in this.”
Griego closed his eyes and looked very old.
“I could have you killed, Señor Evans,” he said weakly. “I could very easily think you killed Antonio and stole my money.”
“It would be a mistake,” Clint said flatly, leaving his meaning ambiguous.
Griego’s eyes opened, and he looked sadly at Clint. “Señor Evans, I care nothing for the life of one vaquero. I do not care if you have taken my money from him and in return have done nothing for it. I care only for my poor daughter who is in the hands of that bandit Valenzuela. If I considered that you would obey my orders and free her if I threatened your life, I would threaten it. But you need not fear, Señor Evans. I know enough of you to know that you would not scare so easily. You would be worse than useless in an attempt to rescue my daughter if you were not doing it because you wished to. Señor Evans, I must now appeal to your sense of right and decency and to your foresight of what will become of my daughter if she marries this dog. I am a very rich man, Señor Evans. I could afford to lose the mine which I have promised her as her dowry when she marries. It is not the wealth that concerns me. It is the man who will possess it, and worse, the man who will possess my daughter, against her will. Señor Evans, think of how it would be for you, if Pepita were your daughter. Would you be able to sleep or recover from your disease if your daughter were about to marry this scoundrel?”
“Well,” Clint said, “if she does not wish to marry him, she could refuse—women change their minds all the time.”
“Valenzuela will not allow it. He will force her to submit.”
“Maybe I don’t understand all this too well,” Clint said, “but couldn’t you stop the whole thing by just telling Valenzuela you won’t give your daughter the mine if she marries him? It’s the mine he’s after, I’ll wager. He’s doing this to get his hands on it. But if you refuse to give it to her if she marries him, won’t that stop it right there?”
Griego lifted a hand in exasperation, closing his eyes and shaking his head slowly from side to side as though in great pain.
“Señor, it is true you do not understand. I have given my word to Pepita that she will have the mine when she marries. It is known far and wide. I cannot go back on my word of honor. Would you, señor?”
“I would if it would get my daughter back.”
“I cannot. I have never in my life broken my word of honor.”
Clint shrugged. “Well, I don’t think just telling Valenzuela you’re going to stop him if he tries to go through with his intention of marrying Pepita will do much but make him grin from one ear to the other.”
“It is true. This is the reason I must have your help. I could send some men to attack, but a battle would endanger Pepita’s life. There is only one way to get my daughter out of there. A man such as yourself must find a route in and get her out by night over this route.”
Clint felt safe enough to refuse. “I must tell you, Señor Griego, in all honesty, that there is no such way in or out. I have been into this stronghold of Valenzuela’s, and it has only one way in and out, and this way is heavily guarded. There is no way at all to get your daughter out without the help of a large force of men, which you must have already. It is true that to attack would be dangerous to your daughter, but there is no other method possible that I know of. Even if I wished to help you, I could do nothing. I think you’d better forget your honor and let Valenzuela know he’ll never get his hands on the mine.”
Griego lifted both hands to his face and then let them drop.
“There is also the problem that Valenzuela will be angry,” he said. “If I did do that, he would kill Pepita out of spite. You are allowed in, are you not?” he asked. “It is true you will be going with Felipe to deliver the message? Will you not consider while you are there, if there is not some way you might bring Pepita with you when you come out? I am not used to begging, señor. I never have in my life. But I beg you to help my daughter. If you succeed, I will give you all that you may wish.”
Clint fished out the twenty dollars he’d been given to help deliver the message, tossed it onto Griego’s bed. “I cannot promise even to do that,” he said. “I have sent word to Dixon that I wish to see him. If I am offered an opportunity, I will kill him. This may interfere with helping to deliver the message. I have no right to take money for a service I may not perform. However, if I do go with Felipe into the stronghold, I will consider how a rescue might be done. But I promise nothing. I will not myself be involved in a rescue. But if there is a way I can see it could be done, I will tell you how.”
Griego’s expression relaxed. “Oh, I am much indebted to you, Señor Evans. Keep the money. The peace of mind you have given me is worth much more than that. Please, take it, señor.”
But Clint refused, thinking of what was left of the other money belonging to Griego he carried. He felt a little guilt about it for the first time and would have returned it except that doing so would require too many difficult explanations he didn’t feel safe trying to make.