EL DIABLO WAS not a man for half measures. When he loved, he loved with a violent passion. When he hated, his hatred was as all-consuming. And when he was sarcastic, he just naturally gave it all he had.
“Ah, that El Diablo were blessed by the Divine Virgin with such a companero as you, amigo,” he mocked in the sultry jailhouse morning. “Such a princely hero to be able to call a friend …”
“Cut it, Diablo!”
“... Greater love hath no man, that he would look after number one first and leave his dear friend to hang. Tell me, Brazos, amigo, what gods smiled on you that you are so blessed?”
“I bent your ugly snout for runnin’ off at the mouth last night, Mex. How’d you like to try for gettin’ it twisted right off your ugly face?”
El Diablo spread his hands wide and appealed to the ceiling.
“The hombre is angry. How could any reasonable man feel anger just because his loyal friend saved his own life but did not choose to save his friend? Surely this is not reasonable?”
Brazos slammed a fist into his palm as he swung to face the rebel through the bars.
“How many times have I got to tell you? He’d have sprung us if he could. It was a damned miracle he was able to get away himself against them odds. If he’d tried comin’ back in here he’d have been shot up like a sieve, and a damned lot of help he’d be to us then. Use your brains if you got any, pilgrim.”
The atmosphere between the two ‘amigos’ who had shared so much over the long days was definitely chillier.
Diablo dropped his sarcastic pose and talked straight. “Twice within a few hours, this Benedict let you down, Texan. Once through stupidity and the second time through concern only for his own flash skin. Yet still you defend him. If the brains are to be discussed, surely yours must be in question.”
The man who had been described as a gentle giant looked anything but gentle as he came to Diablo’s bars.
“Bad-mouth Benedict and you bad-mouth me, Diablo,” he said threateningly. “So cut it.”
Diablo’s swarthy face flushed. The anger continued to work in him, but he fought it down. For regardless of all that had happened, he still held this young Texan in high esteem and had no wish to antagonize him further.
So he returned to his bunk where he sat and stared moodily at the floor. He wouldn’t say anything more about Duke Benedict, but there was nothing to stop him thinking what he liked. And nothing would convince him that Brazos’ great friend was not a hero with feet of clay.
Chewing tobacco helped take a man’s mind off pain to some extent, Branch Lucas reflected, but if he had his druthers he would rather be out of tobacco and have a whole hide.
Sprawled in the shade of the hanging tree, the bounty hunter peeled back his bloodstained shirt and examined the wound again. The bullet had caught him in the short ribs and plowed straight through. He’d cleansed the wound with whisky and applied a pad and bandage, and now it looked as if the bleeding had stopped.
He would live, he decided. Undoubtedly he would be uncomfortable for a few days, but it took more than a greaser bullet to put Branch Lucas out of action.
Buttoning up the shirt again, he lifted his field glasses and played them over the plains to the east. The deputies he’d sighted returning from the foothills were much closer now. They were coming back empty-handed and Lucas would have been surprised had it been otherwise. Their chase after Benedict had seemed half-hearted from the start; as though they had merely gone through the motions for the sake of appearances.
How had Benedict done it?
The bounty hunter shook his head admiringly. He’d certainly picked the right man to pard up with when he picked that dude. Not that it had done him much good. Of course nobody could have anticipated that they would tangle with that bunch by the jailhouse, but the end result was that he was no closer to getting his hands on El Diablo now than before the wild night in San Miguel.
But it wasn’t over yet. The hand was a long way from being played out. He had a hunch that they had tangled with Diablo’s men in the town last night. If that were the case, then there was a good chance the rebels would try something else, and with Benedict on the loose as well, anything could happen.
His course of action was clear. He would rest and wait to see what happened. If there was one thing Branch Lucas had learned over the dangerous years of hunting men for money, it was patience.
Benedict rode over a crest and began the descent on the rocky trail. In spite of the smothering heat and the tendency to make him want to doze, he studied the country alertly.
Something told him he was being watched.
The feeling had been with him ever since he saw the pursuers turning back towards San Miguel. It was a tingle in his wrists and a prickle along the back of his neck. But wherever he looked the rocks and hills lay hot and empty under the sun.
His hand went to his head. The fierce headache had subsided to a low steady throbbing. He could distinctly remember having felt better, but the sweet taste of freedom went a long way towards discounting physical discomfort. He had drawn to an open-ended straight again, and again it had paid off. Now what he had to do was find water, rest up a little, and start figuring his next move.
Far ahead over the Sierras that seemed to recede at times in the shimmering heat Benedict saw a dark blue cloud beginning to build. Fifty miles, he estimated, licking his lips. Rain up there certainly wouldn’t do him any good down here. It would be something though, to ride through the pouring rain, feeling its cooling beat on his head and shoulders, letting it run over his dusty cheeks and into his mouth.
An hour later he was crossing a series of dry washes where the deep sand made a dry whispering noise under the hoofs of the mare. He saw three cottonwood trees grouped together at the edge of one wash. There was green undergrowth, indicating water somewhere under them, he knew, but it might be deep down.
A few minutes later he saw a flash of light as he turned to look at his backtrail. It was a quick gleam on a barren ridge. For one short moment he tried to tell himself that it could have come from a piece of quartz up there on the rocks.
He knew better.
Somebody was watching him.
Ruefully he took the empty .22 from his pocket then slipped it back. If they were Indians, then perhaps he might trade them the pistol to keep his hair, he thought a little lightheadedly.
Suddenly he was twice as thirsty as he had been before he had seen that flash of sunlight on metal.
Two roadrunners scooted across his path. He watched them disappear between two canting boulders. He saw animal tracks leading in the same direction across the sand. He turned the weary horse and followed the sign.
The waterhole was amongst rocks that jutted from the base of a high ridge. He sat his saddle for several minutes searching for sign of life before letting the thirsty mare have her head.
Slipping from the saddle, he threw himself full length and dropped his hot face into the water, the horse drinking noisily at his side. He sluiced water over his head and drank deeply. He was coming alive again.
The horse whickered.
Benedict started to rise. He got no further than his hands and knees. A chill ran down his spine. He was staring at worn leather sandals and dusty feet. He saw bowed legs encased in shabby white canvas pants.
He kept raising his head slowly. He saw a heavy belt, ammunition bandoleers over a brawny chest, and then the dark, mustachioed face beneath the sombrero.
The rifle in the Mexican’s hands was almost touching his forehead.
“Rise, gringo.”
Benedict got up and looked around. More Mexicans were coming from concealment and he realized they had lain in wait for him here, knowing he must come to water.
His attention focused on a tall, lean man with a leather-tanned face. An American. The man spoke to the Mexican who still held the rifle at his head.
“This him, Miguel?”
“Sí. Is one of those from the fight at the jail.”
“Kill him!” growled another.
“Now let’s not be hasty about this, gentlemen,” Benedict said with a nonchalance he was far from feeling. “I’m aware that you have your own quaint customs down here, but surely even here you don’t kill a man without a reason?”
“We got reasons, mister,” declared the American. “You and your partner killed three of our men in San Miguel last night.”
Benedict’s eyes widened. “You belong to El Diablo’s rebels?”
“Got it in one,” replied the American, and lifted his six-gun.
“Hold on!” Benedict said urgently. “You don’t understand. We’re on the same side.”
“Do it,” snarled a fat Mexican, but the American held up a steadying hand.
“Just a moment,” he said. “What do you mean—on the same side, mister?”
Speaking as persuasively as he knew how, Benedict quickly told them the whole story, while carefully omitting to mention that his unnamed companion of the raid on the jail was a bounty hunter who wanted to drag their El Diablo back to retribution in Arizona.
By the time he was through the rebels looked unsure. Their lookouts had witnessed Benedict’s noisy exit from San Miguel and they had seen the deputies pursue him as far as the foothills, before trailing him themselves. Their faces showed uncertainty as they exchanged glances.
“What do you reckon, boys?” the American Ben Cody said finally.
“I say kill him,” growled the man with the rifle.
“That would be a waste,” Benedict reasoned coolly. “I’m of far more value to you alive than dead. What happened last night was simply the result of confusion. We were there with exactly the same purpose as you, to free Brazos and El Diablo. I believe I could have succeeded but for the unfortunate accident. I believe I can still succeed, if you spare me. I see no reason why we should not join forces. In all modesty I can assure you I make an excellent ally.”
“Modest you ain’t, Benedict,” Cody said with some perception. “But maybe ...” His voice trailed off and he stroked his jaw, thinking hard. Then he lowered his Colt. “All right, we’ll give you breathin’ time, mister. We’ll see what Mama Grande thinks of you. But don’t build up your hopes too high, feller. Mama can be harder than any of you know how to be.”
But despite the man’s warning, Benedict was feeling more hopeful as they escorted him to the draw where the horses were tethered. For Mama Grande was a woman, and he had never met the woman who proved immune to the Benedict charm. Well, hardly ever.
The fierce sun beat down on Toltepec Province.
Far to the south of San Miguel, it burned remorselessly on the coach and four that was carrying Commissioner Manolito on his journey from Mexico City to San Miguel to witness the hanging of El Diablo.
To the west, where the plains lay arid around the sturdy walls of the provincial armory in Jaguar Canyon, soldiers rested in the barracks drinking tequila while their commanding officer listened with some relish to the news just brought to him by a messenger concerning the big troubles being experienced by his old enemy, Amado Garcia in San Miguel.
On Hanging Hill, where the sun sent probing bars of heat down through the branches of the giant cottonwood, Branch Lucas watched and dozed and thought about five thousand dollars to take his mind from the ache in his side and the sweat that bathed him.
In the jailhouse of San Miguel protected by thick walls and stout roof the heat was less intense. But the air, thick and stuffy and still tainted with the stink of burnt grass and gun smoke, did nothing to improve the mood of the jailers or the jailed.
But it was in El Presidente Square itself where men and women clustered in groups, that the punishing heat of the day seemed to be most keenly felt. Encircled by buildings, there was no prospect of even the faintest breeze in the plaza, while the provincial flag which hung limp and motionless from the pole above the well seemed to be on fire where the sun caught the crimson stripes.
It was a day to put tempers on edge in San Miguel and faces were sullen as they talked amongst themselves and gazed across at the jailhouse and the undertaker’s.
San Miguel was simmering, and not only with the heat.
Again blood had been spilled, again the undertaker was busy. Yet the resentment was not directed against El Diablo, the rebels who had invaded their town the previous night, nor the gringos, Benedict and Brazos. Today, as it had been many times in the past, San Miguel’s anger was focused on the man who wore the law officer’s star, Amado Garcia.
Garcia had never been popular amongst the people he was employed to protect and the arrest of El Diablo had caused mixed reactions in San Miguel. Some believed the rebel leader to be a boastful, lustful self-seeker who needed hanging, but the majority saw him in a different light. For whatever faults he might have had, Diablo never wavered in his commitment to the poor and there was a feeling that, given his chances, Diablo may have succeeded in his high ambitions to overthrow the provincial army and introduce a more humane regime in Toltepec Province.
But El Diablo played dangerous games, they had said at the time of his capture, and must expect to take the consequences.
But the arrest and conviction of Hank Brazos over the death of Sancho Garcia had sent waves of resentment and outrage through San Miguel. Sancho Garcia had always been known as a man even worse than his brother, a man who should have hanged a dozen times but for the sheriff’s protection. All knew of Sancho’s obsession with Rosalina Oteros; up to a score of people had actually seen Sancho’s murderous attack on Hank Brazos and the accidental manner of his death.
Yet the Texan had been arrested, tried and found guilty of murder with such a blatant disregard for justice that it reminded each man in San Miguel how vulnerable anyone was should he fall foul of Amado Garcia.
And now, because Brazos’ friend Benedict had come to San Miguel to try and save the Texan from his fate, men were being killed, and tension and uncertainty hung like a pall over the entire town.
It was all Garcia’s fault, they knew, and saloonkeeper Romero was not afraid to say so openly.
“How many more shall die to support Garcia’s tyranny?” Romero asked rhetorically in the shade of his porch. “Even now the rebels may be massing for an attack on our town ... how many of us will survive?”
“I say it is unfortunate that Garcia himself was not there to be slain when Benedict made his escape,” said the hotel clerk.
“And I say that something must be done—” began the blacksmith, but broke off abruptly at the soft chime of spurs.
All heads turned as Garcia approached along the walk. Garcia carried a shotgun in the crook of his arm and his eyes bored at them like drills. Silence engulfed the group, a silence broken only by the chink of spurs as Garcia went by.
Nobody spoke again as the group slowly melted away. For, with all their brave words, the citizens of San Miguel were still like chickens cheeping in a pen. And Garcia was always the prowling fox.