‘Well, Mister Claybone!’ Teodoro Fuentes said in English with no trace of an accent, looking at the man who entered the dining-room of the house which he frequently visited when in Flamingo, shortly after midnight. His voice was cold, even disdainful, as he continued without sitting down on the comfortable chair from which he had risen when the other came in, ‘I hear you didn’t achieve anything at the dance.’
Even to a casual observer, it would have been obvious who wielded the authoritative power at the Rancho Miraflores!
And why!
Despite being some ten years older, with receding close cropped black hair, Teodoro had a strong resemblance to the build and obviously pure aristocratic Castilian features of his sibling. However, his face had none of the unhealthy pallor and suggestion of debauchery shown by Javier. Instead, it was set in lines indicative of a harshly unyielding and unforgiving nature which would never be tempered by mercy and he exuded an aura of an almost fanatical intensity. Expensive and of excellent cut, his haciendero’s attire was somber black and completely unadorned by even a single strand of gold or silver filigree. He had on an excellently designed and manufactured black gunbelt which was polished until given a close to mirror-like gloss. It was a rig which, provided its wearer was competent in such matters, would allow an extremely fast withdrawal of the rosewood handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the cross draw holster on its left side.
‘Are you sure you weren’t followed here?’ inquired one of the other two occupants in the room—both of whom had also stood up and remained on their feet—before the rancher could be answered.
The question was put, in tones redolent of something close to alarm, by the man of obvious Hispanic origins who owned the property. However, despite the luxurious nature of his surroundings and being dressed expensively and in good taste—although some people would have considered the number and size of the rings he wore on all his pudgy fingers was excessively ostentatious—he was just as clearly from a stratum further down the social scale than that of Fuentes. Of medium height, in his late forties, thickset, albeit running to fat, he would have been recognized by practically everybody in Flamingo as Don Jose Lorenzo Rabena. Despite the honorific which now preceded his name, there were rumors that he had made his fortune from border smuggling and even less savory activities, but nothing had been proven. Nor were assertions that he now owned, or at least controlled, a variety of business any better substantiated. What was known was that he operated a bank patronized mainly by members of his own race and was spoken of as a leading member of the Chicano community.
‘Were you?’ the rancher demanded, when the newcomer refrained from supplying the information.
‘Of course I wasn’t!’ stated the man who had been called ‘Cousin Cyrus’, but whose real name was Moses Claybone, not troubling to hide his resentment at it being thought that he would overlook such a basic precaution. ‘Do you reckon I was born yesterday?’
‘I’d been told you were good,’ Fuentes answered, darting an accusatory glance at the other white man who was present before returning it to the newcomer. ‘But you didn’t manage to do anything at the dance.’
‘I’d got everything going along the way I wanted until that god-damned gunny of Cordoba’s cut in!’ Claybone objected sullenly, having a genuine antipathy towards Mexicans in spite of his current employer being of that race.
‘That knobhead, Tule, had accepted me’s one of his kin from up Texarkana way and I figured I could easily stir up some fuss.’
‘But you didn’t “stir up some fuss”, as you put it!’ Fuentes pointed out.
‘Like I said, Cordoba’s gunny cut in,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ answered. ‘And he hadn’t handed over his gun when he come in like the cowhands from all the spreads.’
‘Neither had you,’ the rancher growled. ‘At least, not the one you’re still wearing under your left arm.’
‘I’d got it,’ Claybone conceded, although he had believed his habit of carrying a concealed weapon had escaped the notice of his employer. ‘Only I reckoned’s he knew I had and, way he took out Bert Wormsley, I wasn’t figuring to stack up against him when he was ready to copper my bet unless I’d got an edge. I might’ve done something, seeing’s how I’d got those yahoos from the B Bar D ready to back me, but Drexell come in and stopped me cold.’
‘How?’ Rabena asked.
‘He as good as told me to get out,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ admitted, but only after he had waited until Fuentes showed signs of impatience over his refusal to respond to the other Hispanic.
‘And you went?’ the rancher stated rather than inquired.
‘Way things’d turned out,’ the would be trouble-causer replied, his earlier bonhomie having been replaced by a surly expression. ‘There wasn’t nothing else I could’ve done. Drexell’s crowd showed they was going to do what he told ’ems. Happen I’d gone against him, not even that yahoo I slickered into thinking I was kin would’ve stood by me.’
There was justification for the tone of bitterness in Claybone’s voice!
As the would-be trouble-causer had claimed, up until the intervention of Cordoba’s gunny’, the scheme upon which he was engaged had been progressing smoothly. Arriving at the B Bar D ranch house at noon, having been supplied with the requisite information when hired, he had led Tule to believe he was a distant relation from North Texas and was invited to accompany the contingent attending the dance. It was his intention to provoke an incident leading to violence before Bradford Drexell, who had been diverted to the International Hotel by a fake message from a prominent cattle-buyer, rejoined the party. Having employed what a later generation would call ‘ethnic’ jokes of a derogatory kind to stir up animosity amongst the groups from the Rancho Mariposa and Union Jack, he had waited until seeing the deputy in charge of the deposited weapons was decoyed away as he had been assured would happen. Fortune had appeared to be favoring him. Realizing even Cordoba’s segundo—who had kept the rest from showing their resentment for his jokes—would not remain passive if the girl was treated with disrespect, he had taken advantage of her approaching to do so. Unfortunately, ‘John Smith’ had stepped in and the appearance of their employer had prevented ‘Cousin Cyrus’ from persuading the men he was with to start trouble.
‘They’re loyal to Drexell, that’s for sure,’ Doctor Otto Grantz supported, it having been on his recommendation that Claybone was hired. Under different conditions he would not have tried to excuse his nominee, but he had an ulterior motive for wanting to avoid having the elder of the Fuentes brothers begin to doubt his judgment. ‘I’d say you played it the only way you could under the circumstances.’
Big, heavily built, there was nothing of the friendly small town medical practitioner about the latest speaker. In fact, he did not have an appearance calculated to fill patients with the belief that he would be kindly and understanding. Beneath his plastered down blond hair, which reeked of bay rum, his sallow features were less than pleasant and a thick moustache stained with nicotine did nothing to soften their lines. Furthermore, having a slight Germanic accent, his voice was too harsh to produce a soothing ‘bedside manner’. As a result of his physical shortcomings, while he had proved to be competent in all aspects of his profession and far more up to date in his knowledge, he had failed to build up the liking which his predecessor had established all through Bonham County. Nevertheless, his dark brown suit and white silk shirt were of a quality which indicated he either had independent means or earned a very good income in spite of his unprepossessing demeanor.
‘I did!’ Claybone asserted, cold challenge in his manner. ‘There wasn’t a chance of me trying anything else. I might’ve done something with that damned fools’s took me for one of his kin, but Drexell wig-wagged for his foreman to come with us when we headed for the saloon. It was soon plain I couldn’t get either of ’em liquored up enough to do anything.’
‘How did you get away from them?’ Fuentes wanted to know.
‘Said I felt like some she-male company and aimed to go to the cat-house for it,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ explained. ‘The cow-nurse allowed he didn’t have enough money to go with me, so I told him’s how I’d see him back at the spread. Fact being, he looked like he was more pleased than sorry to see me leave. There was one thing, though ... ’
‘What was it?’ the rancher was compelled to ask as Claybone showed no sign of continuing until somebody raised the subject.
‘Cordoba’s gunny was watching when I left the saloon,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ obliged, in the manner of one conferring a favor. ‘He followed me to the cat-house, but I ducked out the back way and made damned sure he didn’t shag me here. Well, I’ve come and now I’ll take my money and head back there.’
‘Your money?’ Fuentes asked, placing his hands behind his back in a posture he frequently adopted. ‘And what money would that be?’
‘The pay you owe me,’ Claybone supplied, his manner charged with menace.
T said you’d be paid when your work was finished,’ the rancher pointed out, a spot of darker color coming to each of his swarthy cheeks. It was a warning to anybody who knew him well that his never too even temper was approaching the point where it erupted dangerously. ‘And, from what you’ve told me, you’ve done nothing to earn it.’
‘I did all I could,’ Claybone asserted. ‘It wasn’t my doing’s Drexell didn’t stick around the hotel like he should’ve.’
‘That still doesn’t entitle you to !’ Fuentes began, but was not allowed to continue with, ‘the full amount’.
‘I allus get paid, greaser,’ ‘Cousin Cyrus’ snarled, starting to ease open the near side of his jacket with his left hand and move the right in that direction. ‘So you can haul out the dinero and—!’
While speaking, Claybone was watching the rancher’s posture. In his considered opinion, it was not a position to make the best use of the potential for speed offered by the well made cross draw rig. What was more, believing all Mexicans to fight with knives rather than revolvers, he doubted whether Fuentes had the ability to bring out the Colt with any speed regardless of the gunbelt’s excellent design. Satisfied upon those points and just as convinced he had nothing to fear from the other two men present, he was going to draw his concealed gun and insist upon receiving the money he had been promised even though he had failed to complete the task he was given.
Already annoyed by the failure of the scheme he had concocted and the less than respectful manner in which he had been treated by Claybone, as well as being just as much of a racial bigot, Fuentes was in no mood to yield to such a demand for payment particularly when it came from a gringo. However, although he could handle the revolver with considerable proficiency, he was disinclined to take chances against a professional gun fighter. Therefore, he had put his hands in a position which he hoped would produce a sense of false security. Satisfied this was achieved, he made his play and the manner of his response justified one of the conclusions drawn by ‘Cousin Cyrus’.
The rancher made no attempt to bring his right hand from behind his back and across to the Colt. Instead, it was already holding a weapon when it came into view. Despite his supposition with regards to the way in which Mexicans fought, the movement took Claybone by surprise. Although he started to reach for the Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver as soon as he realized some form of hostile action was being commenced, he had not even touched its butt when he learned he was at least partially correct in his assumptions.
Coming into view, Fuentes’ right hand was holding the knife which he had slid from its place of concealment on his left wrist beneath the sleeve of his bolero jacket. Giving a twist to his torso, he flung the weapon with the speed and skill which-told of long practice. Hissing through the air, its six inch long spear point blade penetrated the centre of Claybone’s throat. Aided by the impetus of the throw, the razor sharp edges of the twin cutting surfaces sliced onwards to sever his jugular vein and windpipe.
Although ‘Cousin Cyrus’ managed to clutch and bring out his revolver as he was stumbling backwards, the wound he had received was sufficiently potent to render its use impossible. It slid from his fingers and they rose involuntarily to join his other hand in reaching for the hilt of the weapon protruding from his flesh. Instinctive though the movement was, wrenching free the blade merely served to aggravate his predicament. The removal allowed his life blood to gush out in its wake and, a sudden weakness overcoming him, he spun to sprawl face down on the floor. Watched by the other three men, none of whom—not even Grantz, regardless of the ‘Hippocratic oath’ which tradition required was sworn by all members of the medical profession prior to qualifying as a doctor—offered to render any assistance, Claybone’s body jerked spasmodically for a few seconds before becoming limp and motionless.
‘Huh!’ Fuentes grunted, after having crossed to roll his victim over and, extricating the knife, he cleaned the blade on the lining of the unfastened jacket. ‘It seems, Doctor, that you are no better at picking a reliable man than you are at curing Javier’s ... problem.’
‘Shall I get Dumb Ox in here?’ Grantz asked, trying not to show he was impressed by the deadly prowess which he had never suspected, and referring to the rancher’s massive mute servant-cum-bodyguard who was on guard in the entrance hall and had admitted ‘Cousin Cyrus’. He was seeking to change the subject from his shortcomings in curing Javier Fuentes of an addiction to cocaine. Despite having supplied heroin to alleviate the problem, he had never subscribed to the prevailing medical belief that it served as a harmless and non-addictive potion to substitute for the noxious narcotic used by the younger of the brothers. Nor, as he augmented his income to no inconsiderable extent by his patient’s need for more cocaine, was he eager to effect a cure. ‘We’ll have to get rid of the body.’
‘So we will,’ Fuentes agreed, returning the knife to its sheath. Waving his now empty hand towards the corpse, he continued with no more emotion than if he was discussing something of no importance, ‘And he might be more use to us now than he proved while he was alive.’
‘How?’ the doctor asked.
‘I’ll have his body stripped, mutilated and taken into the barrio,’ the rancher explained. ‘Then, when it’s found, it’ll be assumed he was robbed and murdered there. That ought to get the B Bar D gringos stirred up and, with the right kind of prompting, they could even go in after revenge.’
‘Would that serve our purpose,’ Rabena inquired.
‘Any trouble between our people and the gringos serves our purpose,’ Fuentes claimed and his gaze swung to Grantz. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘I was thinking about that gunny who stopped Claybone’s tricks,’ the doctor answered, seeking to ensure that the subject of Javier’s problem was not raised again. ‘It’s not the first time he’s billed into your affairs, Teodoro. So who is he and what’s his game?’
‘He calls himself “John Smith”, but that’s likely a summer name,’ Rabena supplied, preventing Fuentes from pointing out that the visit by his brother to the Rancho Mariposa had not been made at his instigation. Possessing the means to obtain information from the local ranches as well as many places around the town, he continued, ‘Seems his horse got spooked by lightning and threw him into a draw on the way here and he was hauled out by Ransome Cordoba and that ‘breed segundo of theirs. They fixed his hurts and let him stay at the hacienda, which’d be their way, but I haven’t heard anything to suggest he’s working for Cordoba.’
‘It could be that Cordoba hired him to try to find out about the cow thieves,’ Grantz suggested.
‘It could,’ the banker conceded, his tone implying he considered this unlikely. ‘But he hasn’t been asking any questions about it at the Cantina del Chili Con Came, or anything else much, for that matter.
‘He moved in quickly enough when Claybone tried to use the Cordoba girl to start trouble,’ Grantz pointed out, remembering what had been said about the events at the dance.
‘I can’t gainsay that,’ Rabena conceded, almost grudgingly as—sharing Fuentes’ antipathy for those who did not belong to their race, albeit generally concealing it better— he resented having a gringo so deeply involved in their affairs. ‘But he only danced with her once and the men from the Rancho Mariposa who were there didn’t treat him like a friend.’
‘I’ve heard that cowhands don’t take to professional gun-slingers,’ the doctor claimed. ‘Even when its one who’s been hired by their boss.’
‘That’s always the way I’ve found it to be,’ Fuentes affirmed and gestured at the body. ‘In fact, our friend here only got by because he wasn’t wearing a fast-draw rig and that fool of a gringo at the B Bar D was dumb enough to fall for him reckoning to be his kin. But it’s this “Smith” hombre who interests me right now.’
‘Like I said, I haven’t been able to find out whether he’s been taken on by Cordoba or not,’ the banker confessed, in response to a pointed glance from the rancher. ‘But I heard Monocle Johnny and Drexell both tried to hire him.’
‘Why him?’ Grantz asked. ‘They’ve not taken on any of the other gunslingers we’ve got waiting around town.’
‘They must think he’s something special,’ Fuentes estimated. ‘And, thinking of how he handled Javier and those fools at Rancho Mariposa, I’m inclined to believe the same. Yes, there’s more to this man Smith—if that’s his name ... !’
‘His name is Smith!’ announced a voice with a Texas’ accent, speaking with conviction.
Swinging around, the three men looked at the speaker who was standing in the open doorway. He was tall, handsome, albeit with a somewhat sullen cast of features and in his mid-twenties. Dressed after the style of a successful professional gambler, he wore a gunbelt decorated by silver conchas with a pearl handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in a low hanging Missouri Skin-Tite holster.
‘You sound very sure, Mr. Ottoway,’ Fuentes remarked, without offering to introduce the newcomer to his companions.
‘I am sure,’ the man declared, glancing at the body on the floor. Instead of asking any questions, he went on, ‘He’s Sergeant Waxahachie Smith and he’s in the same Company of the Rangers that I w—am.’
‘You are a Texas Ranger?’ Rabena almost gasped, too surprised to have noticed the way in which the last word had been changed.
‘I’d show you my lil ole silver “star-in-a-circle” badge,
but !’ Talbot Ottoway replied, swinging a gaze filled
with mockery at the clearly startled Hispanic banker and letting the response end there.
‘Why didn’t you let me know they were sending somebody in?’ the rancher demanded, also having failed to attach any significance to the way the newcomer’s previous comment had ended.
‘I didn’t know myself until I got back to Headquarters like you said I should,’ Ottoway answered. ‘The Captain looked more than a mite surprised to see me afore my furlough was over, but I let on I was just passing through and dropped in to pick up any mail’s might have come.’
‘Why were the Rangers called in?’ Rabena asked, showing consternation. ‘Has news of what we are doing reached them?’
‘Seem’s your Sheriff Tobin figures all the cattle stealing and murdering in his bailiwick’s like’ to start a range war,’ Ottoway replied, wondering exactly what was involved and feeling sure it went far beyond the reason he had given. ‘So, like every local John Law can, he’s asked for help from the Rangers.’
‘And you’ve been sent to help this “Smith”?’ the rancher guessed, contriving to avoid showing his relief at hearing that the real reason for the killings and the theft of cattle was not under investigation.
‘The hell I have!’ Ottoway denied, but he had no intention of admitting he had been warned by Captain Frank Thornton on his arrival at Headquarters that his career as a Texas Ranger was likely to be terminated in a less than satisfactory fashion unless he tendered his resignation. Nor, wanting to add to the not inconsiderable sum of money he had already been paid by the rancher for supplying the information and assistance made possible by his official position, did he wish it known he had done so rather than face too close a scrutiny of the activities which were responsible for the demand. However, realizing he had been too vehement in his response, he went on in a less aggressive fashion,’ I nosed around and found out that Smith’d been sent.’
‘Just him?’ Fuentes asked.
‘Thornton doesn’t have anybody else on hand,’ Ottoway replied. ‘ Nor, what I heard, is he likely to for another week at the soonest.’
‘Is he good, this Smith?’ the rancher inquired, deciding the information explained why the man in question had dealt with the situation at the dance in the manner reported by Rabena.
‘Good enough,’ the former peace officer stated, relieved that the none of the trio had thought to raise the subject of why he had not been sent to assist Smith. ‘He’s one real smart son-of-a-bitch and’s come out the winner on some other mighty tricky chores.’
‘Then he might !’Grantz began.
‘ Not if he gets killed first,’ Fuentes purred.
‘If he does,’ Ottoway put in. ‘You’ll right quick wish he hadn’t!’
‘Why?’ Fuentes asked, impressed by the earnest way in which the warning was delivered.
‘You don’t kill any Ranger without asking for more goddamned trouble than you can handle,’ Ottoway answered. ‘And that’d go even more so with Waxahachie Smith.’
‘Why him?’ the rancher queried.
‘He’s a right popular feller and not only with our Company,’ the former peace officer explained. ‘And soon’s word got out that he’s dead, even should it be made to look like an accident, there’ll be more Rangers than you can shake a stick at headed down here to find out the why of it. Once here, they’ll move heaven and earth to get at the truth and won’t stop until it’s got. Then God help the feller responsible, because they’ll nail his hide to the wall no matter how they do it.’ xxx
‘You believe it’s that serious?’ the rancher queried.
‘I’m telling you it is,’ Ottaway declared.
‘Then we won’t kill him,’ Fuentes decided and glanced at Grantz. ‘But we’ll fix things so he won’t be in any condition to go on with his investigations and, by the time somebody gets here to replace him, we’ll have achieved our purpose and they’ll have other things to keep them fully occupied.’