BRAZOS WAS HAVING a bad night. He was a man of the wider places of the West who began feeling cramped even when he spent too much time in a town. This wasn’t his first experience behind bars but it had already qualified as the longest, and a steady diet of sullen deputies, malevolent sheriffs, El Diablo and second-rate jailhouse grub was starting to wear him thin.
Slowly pacing the confines of the cell, he looked up at the scatter of stars through the high barred window and listened to El Diablo snoring like a loco going up a steep gradient.
He blew a tune through his harmonica, but it was sad music he was making so he tucked it back inside his shirt and built yet another Bull Durham cigarette.
It was quiet enough to hear his beard grow, and he supposed that was chafing his nerves, too. He had tried to work out what all the low talk and the coming and going in the front office had been about earlier, but without success. Some half an hour ago he’d heard horses leaving the jailhouse yard and, peering from the window, glimpsed the riders receding across the plaza. He’d thought he’d identified Garcia’s broad back amongst the Mexicans but couldn’t be sure. Since then there had been no sign of any deputies, though he could hear voices from the front. Nervous voices, he imagined.
With smoke trickling from his lips, he turned and looked through the bars at the terror of the Sierras. Diablo slept the way he did everything—boisterously. He’d gone to sleep lamenting that fortune had deserted him, but was just as likely to wake up and do a jig around the cell just because he felt so good.
A clock chimed somewhere and he found himself thinking about Rosalina. He knew she had attempted to visit several times but Garcia had turned her away. She was one fine little lady that, and it was better to think about her when the night hours dragged than about that big cottonwood up on Hangman's Hill.
Brazos lifted his cigarette towards his lips, then went still.
A small sound had disturbed the pattern of the night.
He listened intently, but didn’t hear it again for a minute or more when it came much more clearly, and instantly identifiable.
Somewhere in San Miguel, horses were moving through the streets. A lot of horses.
The deputies heard the sounds moments later and he heard Valdez’ squeaky voice lift in alarm. He called, “Who is it?”
The sound grew louder and Brazos thumped the bars of El Diablo’s cell. “Hey, Diablo. Rise and shine. Somethin’s happenin’ out there.”
Diablo swung his boots to the floor and staggered blearily to his window. Standing on his bunk, Brazos peered through his window at the square. Now he could see men running back and forth and suddenly a hoarse cheer went up.
“Ole! They come for Diablo!”
Brazos and Diablo looked at each other wonderingly, then swung their eyes back to the square as the first rider came into sight.
“Mama!” El Diablo breathed, then knuckled furiously at his eyes. “But surely it cannot be?”
But it was Mama Grande in all her robust glory seated imperiously astride a barrel-chested mustang with one wall eye and four white-socked feet. And directly behind the stout woman whom Diablo now saw through eyes misted with joyous tears, came his rebel army of the poor.
Neither Hank Brazos nor the citizens of San Miguel had ever seen El Diablo’s army before, but they drank their fill now as the horsemen poured into the lamplit square in a seemingly unending stream.
They made a motley, impressive sight in their huge hats and displaying a vast array of weapons ranging from Winchester rifles to ancient flintlocks, rusted carbines and a weird array of scatterguns that looked as though they would pose a greater threat to the shooter than his target—if they could be fired at all.
On they came until Mama Grande halted by the well. A squad of riders formed around her but the rest flowed on towards the jailhouse. The first uncertain cheer had been taken up by many other throats now and the plaza rocked with sound.
Suddenly a horse moved up the jailhouse alley and lowering his eyes Brazos stared into the smiling face of Duke Benedict.
“Buenos noches, Johnny Reb.” He greeted. “Catch!”
Brazos’ hand shot through the bars to snatch the tossed six-gun from the air. He stared at Benedict unbelievingly. “Yank! ... How ...?” he stuttered.
“Incarceration seems to have dulled your normally razor sharp wits, Reb,” Benedict drawled, moving his horse on. “You’d better look sharp in case of deputy trouble in your quarter. I’ll reconnoiter up front.”
Turning swiftly from the window, Brazos bounded to the floor and crossed to the door with the big Colt sprouting from his hand. It was difficult to make out exactly what was happening up front, with El Diablo bounding around his cell and roaring like somebody gone loco with excitement. But he could hear a heavy crashing on the doors, the deputies’ fearful voices mingling with louder voices from outside.
Suddenly there was a rush of running feet in the corridor and a deputy burst into sight, heading for the back door. The man skidded to a stop when the Colt snaked through the bars and slammed into his ribs.
“Blink and you’re dead, Zurito!” Brazos barked.
The deputy didn’t blink. He didn’t even seem to breathe as he stood there clutching his rifle, which was pointed the wrong way.
“Drop the rifle and tell your pards to open the doors or I’ll blow you clean away, Zurito. And you just know I’ll do it.”
The rifle hit the floor with a clatter and Zurito’s voice lifted tremulously. “We surrender! All is lost, for they have the guns in here also!”
The speed with which the doors were unlocked suggested that the remaining deputies had been praying that someone would convince them they should surrender before things turned really unpleasant.
There followed a great sound of excited shouts and tramping boots and Benedict came through, swinging a huge keyring, followed by a flood of Mexicans.
“Companeros!” El Diablo bellowed. “Little amigos! Brothers of my blood!”
“Better unlock him first before he bursts a valve, Yank,” Brazos shouted above the bedlam. But Benedict just shook his head and twisted the key in his lock before tossing the ring to Cody. El Diablo was quickly released to be borne out on a surging sea of shoulders into the square, there to bathe in the roaring acclamation of his troops.
“Much obliged, Yank,” Brazos said simply.
“Any time, Johnny Reb,” Benedict replied easily and they went out to the crowded porch to see Diablo being carried through the throng to where Mama Grande sat her horse at the well.
“Excitable varmints, ain’t they?” Brazos grinned.
“Downright emotional,” Benedict agreed as Diablo swept Mama Grande down from the saddle then swung her around and around in the air. He turned as Brazos moved off. “Where are you going, Reb?”
“To spring Bullpup. They’ve had him locked up in the barn out back.”
Benedict shook his head wonderingly. Come hell, high water or even successful jailbreaks, that Texan wouldn’t forget his grotesque dog.
Suddenly the rebels close by began to chant his name and Benedict bowed and smiled and waved condescendingly. It was rather pleasant being treated as a hero, he thought, even though a man as worldly-wise as he, just knew it couldn’t last.
It was destined to go down as the most memorable night in the history of Toltepec Province, and the splendidly successful raid on the San Miguel calaboose by the rebel army of the poor was only the beginning.
Following his joyful reunion with his men, El Diablo the Magnificent came to the conclusion that this was his night of destiny, a night upon which nothing he attempted could possibly fail. So being El Diablo and, in this triumphant frame of mind, he decided impetuously that they would never find a more appropriate time to take the long-planned step that would crown his rebellion with success.
They would ride to Jaguar Canyon and plunder the provincial armory.
This decision was greeted by roars of approval from the rebels, and finally agreed to by Mama Grande when Diablo convinced her that Colonel Prado would be drawn to San Miguel when he heard of the jailbreak, thus leaving the armory open to attack.
Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict proved more difficult to persuade that they should take part in the glorious ride to Jaguar Canyon, however, for both were thinking in terms only of making a very fast ride to the Arizona border.
But El Diablo proved adamant and, once free and back amongst his own again, he could be very adamant indeed. Diablo was determined that the armory raid should succeed and felt that the support of the two most formidable gringos he’d ever known would virtually guarantee that success.
Brazos gave in at last and Benedict appeared to. But as the noisy, shouting cavalcade set off on the trail to Jaguar Canyon under a brilliant midnight moon, Duke Benedict confided to his saddle partner that he had no intention of risking a bullet in his handsome head just because, as he put it, “This comic opera Napoleon doesn’t know when to stop pushing his luck.”
But if El Diablo were indeed pushing his luck tonight, he wasn’t doing so blindly. While many in San Miguel had welcomed the rebels with open arms when they rode into town, there were those who had been outraged, and several riders had been seen galloping from town during the bloodless raid on the jail. It was certain that some had headed south to warn Garcia, but others had traveled the west trail. And west lay Jaguar Canyon.
Diablo reasoned that Prado would have to overlook his enmity for Garcia and take his soldiers to San Miguel when he heard news of their massed raid. His whole plan was based on this assumption and, before leaving San Miguel with his army, he had sent scouts westwards to reconnoiter.
The rebels had passed through the tiny hamlet of Agua Negra and were roughly halfway to the canyon when Cody and his scouts returned to report that Prado and the Provincial Army was indeed en route to San Miguel, leaving a skeleton force to guard the armory.
Boasting of his military genius in a way that would have done credit to the original Napoleon, Diablo immediately ordered his men into the hills, and when the two big forces finally passed each other in the night an hour later—the rebels traveling west and the soldiers hurrying east—ten miles of high hills separated them.
“Victory is assured, amigo,” Diablo gloated to Brazos. “For once we have the arms, we can crush Prado like that.” He snapped his fingers.
He laughed mightily and clapped Brazos on the back. But the best Hank Brazos could manage was a pallid smile. His mind seemed to be on other things.
Meanwhile, in other parts of the province, other dramatic events were unfolding and the most significant of these took place at Lopez Wash where outlaw Villanova was taking a welcome respite from cutting throats and robbing old widows of their life savings.
Believing his attack on the Wash might prove one of the most important undertakings of his career, Garcia laid his plans carefully and his stealthily-moving men had infiltrated right up to the outlaws’ sentry lines before realizing that the men camped in the Wash were not El Diablo’s top lieutenants.
All Garcia’s men were disappointed, but only Deputy Orlando was foolish enough to express his disappointment with a loud oath.
A sentry picked up the sound and the shooting began. Garcia’s deputies were poor fighting men, but were every bit as good as Villanova’s seedy collection of barroom sweepings and border riffraff.
The result was a bloody, untidy affray that concluded when Villanova was shot twice through the head by Garcia and the tattered remnants of his pack took flight, leaving seven outlaws and four deputies dead in the dust.
The moment hostilities ceased, Garcia started back for San Miguel, riding at a gallop. From the very moment the police chief realized his information concerning the campers at Lopez Wash was false, he knew he’d been tricked and all his worst fears were confirmed when he met up with one of his deputies galloping south to warn him of the rebel attack on the jail.
It was the blackest hour of Amado Garcia’s life and it didn’t improve at all when his deputies flatly refused to accompany him back to San Miguel. The deputies had had enough. If Garcia wanted somebody to accompany him into a town held by Diablo’s army, then he would have to look elsewhere.
Deputy Cazal acted as spokesman for the others and paid with his life as Garcia’s rage and six-gun flared in unison. The others fled for their lives and all but Antonio Pastor made it. Blowing smoke from his Colt as hoofbeats faded in the night, Garcia felt some satisfaction in paying out Pastor, the man who had carried him the false news about Mama Grande, but it was overshadowed by the enormity of his setback in San Miguel.
Amado Garcia was now alone as he rode north. He knew now that if anything were to be saved from this evil night, he must get the help of Colonel Prado. But first to San Miguel, where he would have to see the results of the disaster with his own eyes.
He approached the outskirts of San Miguel with great caution an hour later, and it took him another half hour’s reconnoitering to realize that caution was not necessary.
El Diablo, Mama Grande and their accursed rebel army were gone.
The same moon that lit the way for Amado Garcia, shone on the westbound forces of Colonel Prado and the eastward moving cavalcade of El Diablo’s army of the poor. It also made traveling easy for the ox-shouldered man on the big sorrel horse, who tracked Diablo towards Jaguar Canyon.
Branch Lucas had been almost sorry to leave Hangman’s Hill. He had grown attached to the place.
As an observer, Lucas had enjoyed seeing Garcia and his deputies ride south, leaving the gates wide open for the rebel army that appeared across the plains soon after, to ride unopposed into San Miguel, though he’d had mixed feelings when he saw El Diablo set free, for naturally this was going to make his job more complicated.
But his hopes had risen when the rebels rode from town to take the Jaguar Canyon trail, and he saddled up, said goodbye to the hill where the dead were said to walk, and followed.
Lucas hadn’t much fancied his chances of nailing his man had the rebels remained in San Miguel. But out here in the open it was different. A manhunter could always rely on getting a chance sooner or later in open country. And as always, Branch Lucas was a patient man who knew how to wait for his chance.
The moon was a further hour across the sky when the sentry at the provincial armory walked away from the big, blocky building on the edge of town to investigate a noise coming from a nearby gulch. As the man peered over the edge of the gulch, a lasso shot upwards, snaked around his neck and jerked him off his feet.
“Good!” El Diablo whispered admiringly as Brazos slugged the man unconscious and freed his rope. “Beautiful! Did I not say that my amigo would be of great assistance?”
“It ain’t done yet, Diablo,” Brazos murmured, glancing back at the gorge which concealed the main rebel force.
“You worry too much, Brazos,” Diablo insisted as they snaked away to get in close to the next sentry. “Victory is already ours. I taste it in the mouth.”
In the event, Diablo was right. Less than a dozen shots were exchanged before the white flag fluttered above the armory battlements.
Sitting quietly on a deadfall log, massaging Bullpup’s scarred head, Brazos smoked a cigarette and reflected that the one thing a Mexican never seemed to run short of was emotion.
He’d thought the rebels would have burned themselves out in San Miguel when Diablo was released. But if anything, they were even noisier and more jubilant here as they plundered the armory and spilled out into the moonlight waving gleaming rifles and toting boxes of ammunition. Brazos watched four men struggling under the weight of a heavy Gatling gun. They were like kids with a new toy, he thought, but undoubtedly they would shape up like men when the time came to put those weapons to use.
“Señor,” a voice said at his shoulder, “you do not join in the excitement.”
Brazos rose smartly. He was always polite with women. “I’m excited right enough, Mama Grande. Mebbe I’m just a mite too tuckered to show it.”
Mama Grande’s eyes searched his face. “Sí, you would be weary. You have come through much. It pleases me that we were able to save you with El Diablo. You have the face of a good man.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned as he gestured across at El Diablo, who was now demonstrating his great strength by staggering around in a circle carrying the heavy Gatling on his shoulder. “He’s a good man.”
Mama Grande’s face softened. “He is a big overgrown child. But there is also greatness in him and his victory tonight is Mexico’s also.”
Brazos was about to answer when it happened. Suddenly Diablo dumped the Gatling and hollered, “Melissa! Where is my little one? Come to Diablo and we shall dance before we ride to destroy Prado!”
Everybody began shouting for Melissa, searching for Melissa. But the tall, deep-breasted blonde girl with the green eyes was nowhere to be found. And as everybody searched and wondered, it was realized belatedly that somebody else was missing, too.
Where was Duke Benedict?
It grew quiet around the provincial armory building then, and Diablo’s face became more and more perplexed as he traveled from one group to another. And finally, inevitably, the wheel of suspicion turned in his mind with an almost audible click.
He swung to stare at Brazos. “Amigo! Where is your companero?”
“No idea,” Brazos lied. “He’s a hard man to keep tabs on.”
“Who saw Benedict last?” Diablo shouted. Then: “Who saw Melissa?”
Nobody seemed prepared to meet Diablo’s questioning eye, least of all Hank Brazos.
The minutes that followed were uncomfortable for everybody as Diablo raged around with dark suspicion hardening into certainty in his mind. He accused Brazos of complicity in some conspiracy, berated Mama Grande for concealing matters that he should know of, abused his men violently.
But even in his rage, Diablo didn’t actually put his worst suspicion into words. He dare not.
It was a glum and silent cavalcade that wound from the canyon and started east again some thirty minutes later. El Diablo’s plan of action, dependent on the success of the attack on the armory, had been to return east, seek Prado out and engage him in battle before the soldiers could evade them. The plan would still be adhered to, and though the rebels were confident of victory the fire had gone. Everybody felt they had somehow let Diablo down, and that included Hank Brazos.
Brazos knew that Benedict had quit the band as they left San Miguel. He hadn’t attempted to dissuade him, for Benedict had been wearing that certain look that warned that his mind was irrevocably made up. They’d parted with the arrangement to meet at a designated place outside San Miguel in twenty-four hours, and Brazos had been satisfied with that.
What Benedict had neglected to tell him was that he didn’t plan to spend the waiting time alone. For like Diablo, Brazos was now certain that Benedict and Melissa Bergman were together. Set a well-favored female up in front of his roving eye and Duke Benedict could be relied upon to act like a double-rectified fool every time.
So they drove east with Diablo’s swift scouts probing far and wide until, in the night far ahead, they could see the glow of lights from San Miguel. At this point Diablo called a halt to wait until the scouts returned. Ominously brooding, Diablo took himself off to a rocky lookout and was there some ten minutes before Hombre Pallover detached from his group and limped across to him.
“Vamoose!” Diablo growled, but Pallover held his ground.
“A great wrong has been done you, Diablo,” the loyal rebel said. “I have seen this and I am saddened. I have also seen another thing which I have considered at length and now feel you should be told about.”
Diablo looked up. “Speak, then.”
“The inn on the edge of San Miguel. I see ... I see Melissa slip away into the yard there when we passed.”
Diablo was on his feet, eyes glittering. “And the gringo Benedict?”
“I do not see him, Diablo, but perhaps …” Pallover shrugged.
El Diablo was striding for the horses when the swift drum of hoofbeats heralded the return of the scouts. Cody brought the news that Prado had left San Miguel, and obviously suspecting where his quarry had gone, was traveling at great speed back towards Jaguar Canyon along the old Indian Trail to the north.
It was the moment of truth for El Diablo, the time to decide whether he was a jealous lover or a man of destiny.
And being El Diablo, he showed that he was both when he ordered Mama Grande to lead the force to engage Prado while he struck for San Miguel alone to settle another matter that simply could not wait.
There was great confusion for a time until Mama Grande took charge. Mama held Diablo high as a fighter and leader but knowing him better than any, realized that he would be of little assistance in the battle with his mind plainly on other things. So Mama Grande sighed in her philosophical way, kissed her troubled man-child on the cheek, then ordered her troops to mount and ride.
Watching them go, Diablo ground his teeth impotently, cursing his own passion, heaping odium on his own mercurial nature. Then he whirled to go to his horse and saw Brazos leaning against his appaloosa with his dog at his feet.
“What is this, amigo? You do not go to fight?”
“I go with you, Diablo.”
“I go alone.”
“No, you don’t. Benedict’s my pard, and the way you’re actin’ you’re liable to do somethin’ loco if you find him with your woman. I’ll be there to stop you doin’ that.”
Diablo clawed at his gun but Brazos was faster. Much faster. The Colt in his fist winked in the moonlight.
“We go together, Diablo,” he said quietly.
Diablo’s hand left his gun. “So we go together, gringo. But if, when we get to the inn, I find things as I expect, then I shall have my revenge. It is my right.”
“We’ll see about that when the time comes.”
“Some amigo!”
“We’re wastin’ time.”
Lips compressed, Diablo strode past the Texan and flung himself into his saddle and dug in with his spurs. Stepping up, Brazos holstered his gun and kicked the appaloosa into a gallop.
A half mile behind, on a moon washed ridge, a rider emerged from the trees and followed. A giant of a rider on a big sorrel horse.