CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jake, Dundee, and Curly slid back down the hill and put their heads together.
“I don’t think we can help it,” Dundee said. “The town’s gotta take some damage.”
“We don’t know where all the men are,” Jake said.
“Gotta be in a saloon,” Curly said. “That’s where I’d be sittin’ if I was waitin’ for my boss to make a decision.”
“Well,” Jake said, “from the short time we were there I only remember two saloons.”
“So which one are they in?” Dundee asked.
“I’m gonna guess Seaforth’s man took Taco into that saloon to see the Major.”
“And what about the other men?” Curly asked.
“I’m gonna say that Seaforth is too arrogant to drink in the same saloon as his men,” Jake said. “So whichever one he’s in, they’ll be in the other one.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” Dundee said.
“Well,” Jake said, “that’s what we’re gonna find out first.”
Taco ate the food the bartender supplied for him, washed it down with a mug of beer.
“You were pretty hungry,” Seaforth said.
“I told you, señor,” Taco said. “I have not eaten in some time. Gracias for this.” Taco pushed the empty plate away.
“Now that you’ve been fed,” Seaforth said, “do you want to change your story?”
“My story, señor?”
Seaforth looked over at the bar, where Garfield was standing and watching, working on a beer.
“Yes,” Seaforth said, “about coming here to steal.”
“But, señor,” Taco said, “that is why I came here. I saw the town was so quiet, I thought I could come in and get out quickly.”
“Where’s your horse?” Seaforth asked.
“Just outside of town,” Taco said. “A few hundred yards from the livery.”
“I can have somebody go out and get it,” Garfield offered.
“Not yet,” Seaforth said. “Let’s talk a little longer.”
“About what?” Taco asked.
“About who you are,” Seaforth said, “and what you do.”
“My name is Taco,” he said, “and I steal.”
“But you must be able to do more than steal,” Seaforth said. “For instance, can you work with cattle?”
“Cattle? Oh, you want to know if I am a vaquero. No, no, I am afraid not. I do not know anything about cows.”
“Can you ride? Shoot?”
“Oh, sí, I can do both of those things.” Taco raised his eyebrows. “Ah, you would like to recruit me into your gang?”
“We’re not a gang,” Seaforth said. “I’m Major Seaforth, and my men are Seaforth’s Raiders. Have you heard of us?”
“Oh, sí, sí, I have,” Taco said. “You have a reputation as a muy malo man.”
“Muy malo?” Seaforth asked.
“A bad man,” Garfield said.
“Sí,” Taco said, “I do not mean to offend you, but—”
“No, no,” Seaforth said, “they’re right. I am a bad man. You would do well to remember that.”
“Sí, señor, I will. But . . . if you are trying to recruit me . . .” He smiled broadly and spread his arms. “. . . I accept.”
“Nobody’s trying to recruit you—” Garfield started.
“Wait, Gar,” Seaforth said. “We can always use a good man, right? Let’s not be hasty.”
Garfield gave Seaforth a puzzled look, but remained silent.
“And you are a good man, right, Taco?” Seaforth asked.
“Oh, sí, señor,” Taco said. “Muy bien.”
“See, there you go,” Seaforth said to Garfield, then looked at Taco again, his face growing stern. “But first we’ll wait for our other two men to get here. They were with us when we tried to take that herd. Let’s see if either one of them remembers you.”
“Herd, señor?”
“Don’t worry about it, my friend,” Seaforth said, waving to the bartender. “Have another beer.”
Jake, Dundee, and Curly approached the town on foot, having left their horses several hundred yards away. Dundee had his saddlebags over his shoulder, one with dynamite in it, the other with fuses and blasting caps.
As they reached the last building Jake peered around it and had a good view of the main street. He could see both saloons, even though they were a full street apart.
“Get that dynamite ready to throw, Dundee,” Jake said.
“Right.”
Dundee crouched down, took the saddlebags off his shoulder, and opened both. Curly got as far from his friend as he could, while remaining under cover.
“Relax,” Dundee told his friend, “I know what I’m doin’.”
“You wanna put some distance between you and your friend?” Jake asked Curly.
“I sure do!”
“Work your way down to that far saloon, see if you can get a look inside from the rear. Then come back and do the same for the closer saloon. And don’t take long.”
“What do I do if you fellas blow yourselves up?” Curly asked.
“If that happens you’re on your own, Curly,” Jake said. “You can do whatever you want.”
“I’ll be back,” Curly said, and lit out.
“He better not get spotted,” Jake said.
“He won’t,” Dundee said, sliding fuses into a couple of sticks of dynamite. “How many of these are we gonna need?” he asked.
“Two or three should do it,” Jake said. “The only problem is . . .”
“Yeah?”
“You’re probably gonna have to toss them in from the front.”
“As long as the street’s empty, what’s the difference?” Dundee asked.
“Okay, then,” Jake said. “Get ready. We’ll move as soon as Curly gets back.”
Garfield finished his beer, put the empty mug down on the bar, and headed for the door.
“Where you going, Gar?” Major Seaforth asked.
“Just checking the street again.”
“Go back to the bar and relax,” the Major said. “We have a guest here who may need some attention.”
Taco had been trying his best to appear both puzzled and relaxed, but all the while his mind was racing, looking for a way out of this situation. He knew Big Jake must’ve been watching through his spyglass, so on one hand he thought all he needed to do was sit and wait for his amigo to make a move to get him out of this mess.
Then again, would Jake think that he could get himself out of this, and simply wait?
“Another beer?” Seaforth asked.
“No, thank you, señor,” Taco said. “I was thinking perhaps I could go and get my horse? I would come right back.”
“You would, huh?”
“Oh, sí, señor.”
“Well,” Seaforth said, “you just sit tight. As soon as my other two men get back, we’ll know what we’re going to do with you—recruit you, or kill you.”
When Curly got back he said, “The far saloon is called the Red Cherry Saloon. Why, I don’t know. What other colors are cherries?”
“Green,” Dundee said.
“Never mind the cherries!” Jake snapped. “How many men in that one?”
“Twelve,” Curly said. “They’re sittin’ around, drinkin’. Looks like they’re waitin’.”
“And the other saloon?”
“Called the Sunrise,” Curly said. “Taco’s in there, sittin’ with that Major. And the other man is at the bar.”
“That’s it?” Jake asked.
“Except for the bartender, that’s it.”
“Bartenders!” Dundee said. “They do one of two things when the shootin’ starts. Duck down behind the bar, or bring out a shotgun.”
“We’ll keep a watch on this one,” Jake said. “Now here’s what we’re gonna do . . .”
Garfield could see that Major Seaforth was becoming impatient. This was an oddity, because as long as he’d known him, the man had more patience then Job. Maybe if he walked over to the table and put a bullet in the Mexican’s head, it would hurry things along.
He started toward the table, deciding that he’d have his mind made up by the time he got there.
Dundee made his way along the rear of the buildings, then down the alley next to the Red Cherry Saloon. He stopped at the mouth of the alley to check the street. Once he was sure it was still empty, he stepped out with the saddlebags on his shoulder and approached the batwing doors. The men inside were drinking and laughing. He knew if he threw all the dynamite sticks into the saloon, it would kill every one or most of them. But Jake had told him to toss them in one at a time. Up to this point, none of these men had any dealings with Big Jake Motley, and none of them had anything to do with the death of Chance McCandless.
For a man out for revenge, Dundee thought Jake Motley was still being fairly logical in his thinking. Vengeance was usually the death of logic, in a man.
But for now, Dundee would do what Jake wanted.
He took out a single stick of dynamite, lit the fuse, and tossed it over the batwing doors . . .