“IS TONIGHT REALLY goodbye, Duke?”
“You know it has to be, Melissa.”
“Will you ever come back to Mexico?”
“Who can tell?”
“You won’t, I know it. You sweet-talk a poor defenseless girl into taking the most incredible risks for you, and you leave her in the morning without so much as a backward glance.”
“You do me a grave injustice, fair lady.”
“You’re selfish and vain and you just know you can get a girl to do any foolish thing you want.”
A soft breeze stirred the curtains and the moon probed inquisitive rays through the window of the Carriba Inn.
“You overestimate me, Melissa. I’m just a simple soul given to simple pleasures.”
“If only we didn’t have to say goodbye ...”
“Life can sometimes seem like one long goodbye, I’m afraid.”
“Then say goodbye to me again, Duke ... the best way.”
“Again?”
“Again, my lovely, selfish Duke ...”
The town was in clear sight ahead when Brazos ranged his appaloosa up alongside Diablo’s racing bay. He pointed ahead. “See that next sharp bend in the trail, Diablo? When we round it I’m emptyin’ my saddle. You take my horse on a spell and make as much noise and dust as you can.”
Diablo stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What do you say?”
“I say keep your eyes front, amigo. Somebody’s doggin’ us.”
Diablo started to turn, but checked himself in time. “You are certain of this, Brazos?”
“He’s back there right enough. I only spotted him once. He’s damned good at his work, so he might be just as good with a gun if it comes to that. You do like I say and mebbe it’ll give me the chance to get the drop on him.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue! Just do like I say.”
El Diablo nodded, and as they rounded the bend, Brazos threw him the reins then leapt from the saddle. He landed at a run and dived behind the cover of an old moss-covered rock. He drew his .45 and waited.
He didn’t have long to wait. With his eyes fixed firmly on the dust cloud ahead, Branch Lucas turned the corner, keeping close into the shadows. Lucas was traveling fast now, for his intention was to run Diablo down before he reached the town. But the big voice that suddenly cut at him from behind the boulder warned him that somebody had other ideas.
“Freeze, pilgrim!”
One brief flicker of surprise crossed the bounty hunter’s slab face before he drew and fired.
Lucas was incredibly fast and Brazos felt the slug burn his neck before he could trigger. Then hot flame leapt from his gun muzzle and Lucas buckled in the saddle, gut-shot. Then searching lead came storming back at Brazos as the giant check-reined his horse, powdering the crown of the boulder and driving stinging splinters into Brazos’ shoulder. He squinted over his gun-barrel and fired methodically, driving shot after shot into the great body, following the man down with the last bullet in his gun as he struck with an impact that shook the earth.
“Amigo?” Diablo’s voice reached Brazos’ gun-shocked ears as he came slowly to his feet. “Amigo, you are hurt?”
“Not as bad as him,” Brazos panted, rubbing his bloodied shoulder as he approached the lifeless, bleeding hulk in the trail. “You know this pilgrim, Diablo?”
Reining in, Diablo looked down at the staring face of Branch Lucas. “He is a stranger, amigo.” Then he turned worried eyes towards the town. “But we make a great noise with the guns. This I did not wish.”
“Well, you got it whether you wished it or not,” Brazos said grimly, mounting up. And knew he was hoping that Duke Benedict had been alerted by the shooting, if indeed he were dallying with Melissa Bergman at the inn. “C’mon, let’s dust. This one don’t need us anymore.”
They rode towards a town that seemed undisturbed by the sudden stutter of gunfire. San Miguel had learned the wisdom of ignoring shots in the night. But there were two men who heard the shooting and reacted to it quickly, one in a comfortable room in the Carriba Inn, another restlessly patrolling the streets on one of the blackest nights of his life ...
Buckling on his guns at the window, Benedict could see the horsemen far out along the trail. He had no chance of identifying them, but when a man was indulging in a risky game he couldn’t afford to take chances. Melissa began to protest as he headed for the door, but with a casually blown kiss, Benedict left the room and headed for the back stairs.
Gaining the yard, he skirted a corner, heading for the street. His eyes were intent on the winding ribbon of trail and he didn’t see the second man who had been drawn by the shooting, as he ducked for cover close by.
But Garcia had seen him. A swift panther rush as Benedict stepped out into the street, a clubbing blow from a six-gun and Amado Garcia had recaptured at least one of those who had made him appear such a fool that night.
A scream sounded from the upstairs window of the Carriba Inn as the powerful Garcia slung Benedict’s limp form across his shoulders and trotted towards the square. Melissa was still screaming when her lover and Hank Brazos reined in outside the inn five minutes later. Screaming to them that the sheriff had taken her ‘darling Duke’ off to the jail.
Diablo was being unreasonable, Brazos complained.
“You can’t expect me to bust Benedict out of jail just so you can hang him,” Brazos said.
“But I do.”
“What if I won’t do it?”
“Then we hang you.”
“You’re all mouth and gut wind, Diablo. You’re not with your goddamn army now, remember? There’s just you and me here and I’ve got the notion I can best you on the best day you ever saw.”
El Diablo smiled wickedly. “This is true, amigo. But how far is it to Arizona? And what do you think your chances are of reaching there with or without Benedict, when my great army is in pursuit?”
They sat their horses in the street outside the Carriba Inn. Melissa, who had rushed downstairs inadequately clad in a bedsheet to tell them what had taken place and to receive a resounding cuff across the ears from her unforgiving Juan, now sat miserably huddled on the steps of the inn. Around them the town was still quiet, though many a pale face peered from behind draped curtains trying to determine what was this new development in an eventful night.
Brazos’ first impulse on hearing of Benedict’s arrest had been to ride directly to the jailhouse to attempt to free him. Diablo, uncertain of Garcia’s numbers, had flatly refused to risk his hide, but had no objection at all to Brazos risking his.
“He shall hang,” he reiterated now. “I, Diablo, decree it.”
The Texan rested his hand on his six-gun and briefly considered whether or not to give his amigo a couple of slugs in the leg. Too bad he wasn’t cold-blooded. He had every intention of getting Benedict out of that hoosegow, but nobody was going to hang him. Though judging by Diablo’s thunderous mood, he would probably try.
“Look, man,” Brazos said reasonably, “ain’t you makin’ too much fuss over a little hand-holdin’? What harm’s done, after all? You’ve got your girl back; I’m certain sure she still loves you. I’d say she’d learned her lesson, so why not let it go at that?”
“My honor has been defiled,” Diablo replied, thrusting a finger at the sky. “You will free Benedict from the jail so I may hang him, or when I rejoin my men we shall storm the jail and shoot him down like the miserable seducer he is. The choice is yours.”
“Some choice.”
“So what is your decision? You go?”
“I go. But you realize of course that this means the end of us bein’ amigos?”
“A great burden, but somehow I must live with it, amigo. Now you ride and El Diablo, he wait.”
Brazos went, and Diablo dismounted and went to the inn where he spent his waiting time listening to Melissa tell him how sorry she was, that it was of course him she really loved.
After a time Diablo suspected she might be genuine. But it didn’t change anything. Even if he took her back, Benedict would still hang. It was a matter of honor.
The moon hung low over El Presidente Square. Under its fading light, the shadows of the buildings were deep and still. The provincial flag fluttered gently in the breeze that heralded the dawn and the lacy ironwork of the ornamental well threw patterns across the cobblestones. It would soon be morning.
Gun in hand, Hank Brazos closed in on the jailhouse along the same back street which Benedict and Lucas had followed the night of their attack on the jail. He came from Maderos Street where he’d spent some time with Rosalina Oteros, grappling with the double problem of freeing Benedict before Garcia could kill him, then making good their escape before Diablo could carry out his threat.
Rosalina had told him that all Garcia’s deputies were either dead or fled. That had cheered him some, but the odds were still heavily stacked against him, for Garcia had the territorial advantage. The police chief was barricaded in his stout jailhouse with Benedict as a hostage. Brazos had pondered on how to overcome this disadvantage until his head ached with it, but finally had been forced to go into action with no concrete plan in mind.
For time was running short. If the rebels whipped Prado, which seemed a strong possibility considering their superior numbers and their glut of arms, then he could expect them to return here to reunite with El Diablo. If that happened before he had made his play, then it could well mean the end of both of them.
There was a bitter taste in the Texan’s mouth as he paused in a crouch behind the jail yard fence. He and Benedict had already pulled off the impossible two or three times, and a fitting ending would have seen him and the Yank riding for home with the cheering of a grateful bunch of rebels ringing in their ears. Instead, their situation had never looked grimmer, and he thought of one of Benedict’s favorite sayings, “Dame Fortune is a fickle gypsy, always blind and often tipsy.”
Well, she was that all right. But Benedict sure hadn’t helped fortune along any when he elected to hole up with that long-legged Melissa while they were away at the wars.
His eyes focused on the cell windows. If he could get a Colt to Benedict ... if only he knew the cell Garcia was holding him in ...
He studied the dark slits of the gunports in the stout walls. He reckoned Garcia was alone, but could he be certain? He might have a man and a rifle at every gunport. If he did, an attempt to ease in there would be suicidal.
Moments later he heard a sound that caused him to drop flat with his ear pressed against the earth. A soft curse dropped from his lips. Somewhere in the night the hoofs of many horses were drumming against the earth. Rebels or soldiers? It didn’t matter much of a damn either way from his position. He had used up all the time he had.
Taking in a deep breath, he eased through a gap in the fence and started across the moonlit yard.
“Yank!” he called in a hoarse whisper.
Two things happened simultaneously. Duke Benedict’s face appeared at a high, barred window and, closer, bore flame leapt from a gunport with the crash of the shot tearing the night apart.
The bullet struck Brazos in the shoulder and knocked him headlong. He lay dazed for a moment until the rifle churned again, the slug clipping the collar of his faded purple shirt. Rolling desperately, he gained the wall directly beneath the port where the rifle couldn’t reach him. But Benedict’s window was twenty feet along the wall. Gritting his teeth, he came up in a crouch and sped towards it, his big arm swinging high with the Colt.
He threw it as the rifle thundered again. With two arms extended through the bars, Benedict clawed at the arcing six-gun, struck it, almost dropped it, then managed a desperate, two-finger grip on the barrel.
Brazos was in clear sight now, lurching towards the front, but Garcia had no time for another shot. Whirling from the gunport, he leapt into the corridor to rush to Benedict’s cell.
The last sight in Amado Garcia’s life was that of the taut, handsome face behind the gun that looked the size of a cannon before the gun flame blossomed in an orange ball that grew and grew until all the world was on fire. Then there was nothing.
Reaching through the bars, Benedict plucked the keyring from the dead man’s belt. He was fumbling as he struggled to open the lock.
“Reb!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”
“Chirpy, Yank,” came a faint voice from out front.
“Hold on a minute until I catch my breath and I’ll come and get you out.”
But there was no need for that. The door swung open and Benedict sped towards the office. The night was now filled with the sounds of galloping horses and shouting men. Crossing the office in two giant bounds, Benedict drew the bolt and stepped out.
Brazos sat with his back to the wall clutching a bloody shoulder.
“Reb!”
“Just a scratch, Yank. I’ll be fine as soon as I get my wind.”
But dropping to one knee to inspect the wound, Duke Benedict knew he wouldn’t be fine at all. Certainly not fine enough to run or ride.
Brazos made to rise as the first riders came clattering into the square, but Benedict gently pushed him back down.
“At ease, Reb,” he said very calmly. Then he smiled when he recognized Mama Grande and El Diablo amongst the riders. “They’re ours.”
“Better guess again, Yank,” Brazos said, cocking his .45. “Diablo means to hang you.”
“Why the ungrateful moron—”
“He knows about you and the girl.”
“Well, that does put a different complexion on things I suppose,” Benedict said, sounding if anything even calmer. Then he cocked his gun as the rebels came riding up.
The riders wore the look of victory as they ranged up alongside El Diablo and Mama Grande. The battle with Prado had been bloody but brief. Outnumbering the soldiers three-to-one and striking from ambush, Mama Grande’s force had delivered the first savage hammer blow from which Prado had never recovered. To Prado’s credit he had led his men bravely until he was slain, but surrender quickly followed.
The army of the poor was now the army of Toltepec Province.
El Diablo was a triumphant figure as he sat his big horse, and he may have even been inclined towards mercy had not everybody known of the shameful thing that had been done to him. Honor was a strange thing, and El Diablo didn’t see how he could salvage his without the aid of a hang rope.
So he called for one.
“You will forgive me, amigo!” he called down to Brazos as a reluctant rider came forward with a lariat. “But what El Diablo says, El Diablo carries out!”
This seemed to upset everybody, particularly when Brazos revealed that Benedict had just shot the hated Garcia. But El Diablo looked adamant—until a revolver went off so close that he jumped in the saddle and actually felt the hot air whip of the bullet beneath his proud nose.
He turned his ashen face to Mama Grande. The smoking weapon in Mama’s hand was now trained on his heart.
“Mama!” he gasped. “What is this?”
“This is the time for you to grow up, my son,” came the voice that could have been the voice of Mother Mexico herself. “It is all right for a child to lead a band of rebels, but it must be a man who will govern a province.”
“Mama—”
“You are the man now, are you not?” she broke in inexorably. “You are man enough to close the mouth, drop that foolish rope, and go to see what assistance you can give to our brave companions in arms!”
For a long, taut minute, nothing happened. And then: “Diablo is man enough for anything, even forgiveness,” he roared, and bounding from the saddle, strode to the jailhouse porch. “Amigo!” he boomed, and everybody began breathing again as, very gently, he helped Hank Brazos to his feet.
The cheering that followed threatened to bring down the jailhouse. Brazos enjoyed the cheering, wished he could join in, but didn’t feel quite up to it. Benedict was certainly up to it, but he wasn’t the cheering kind. Neither was he the praying kind, yet he indulged himself in one quick prayer of relief as, with Diablo on one side and he on the other, they helped the wounded Johnny Reb into the jailhouse.
Understandably, Commissioner Manolito, who arrived in San Miguel that morning for the purpose of witnessing the hanging of El Diablo, had some reservations about accepting an invitation to be an honored guest at El Diablo’s victory celebration in the Mayor’s Hall. It could even be accurately said that Manolito was extremely reluctant to accept at first.
But El Diablo could be persuasive and, after considering the facts, the commissioner graciously accepted. The most pertinent of these facts was, of course, that El Diablo was no longer the rebel from the El Capitan Sierras, but El Diablo, the new strong man of Toltepec Province.
Diablo had smashed Prado’s army, which Manolito and El Presidente had always known to be tyrannous, and the commissioner wasn’t in San Miguel long before he began to realize that Prado’s rule had been even worse than they had believed. On the other hand, these rebel rogues seemed genuinely determined to set up an honest regime. And after several tequilas the commissioner almost brought the house down when he announced that he would personally recommend to El Presidente that he grant El Diablo a full amnesty and install him officially as Governor of Toltepec.
It was a magnificent celebration, quite the greatest in San Miguel’s history. The hall was filled to overflowing, festooned with flowers and bunting and the tequila ran like a river.
It was Diablo’s finest hour and he wasn’t about to spoil it with any petty resentments. He was proud to have Hank Brazos at the official table along with Mama Grande, Melissa, the commissioner and his top lieutenants. He may not have been exactly proud to have Duke Benedict take his place with them, but he insisted on it nonetheless.
He was lustily determined to show Mama Grande, the people of San Miguel, and himself, that he was indeed of the caliber of which great leaders were made.
And Diablo was doing just fine in his benign, mature role until Hombre Pallover came into the hall and made his way up to the official table. There were many things that had to be tidied up following the night’s great events, and Pallover had been busily engaged supervising these chores. His last task was to have the man who’d died in the gunfight with Brazos brought in from the trail. And it was after inspecting the dead man and the documents he found on the body that the loyal Hombre decided he must report to El Diablo.
The leader informed his lieutenant brusquely that he wasn’t interested in macabre matters at such a time. But Hombre insisted. For the dead gringo had been identified by one of the men as Benedict’s companion the night of the attack on the jail.
Diablo pricked up his ears at that, for everybody had been curious about that particular gringo, while Benedict had proven uncommonly reticent on the matter.
Leaning forward, Diablo looked past Brazos and Rosalina to Benedict, who had a pretty señorita in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. Then he leaned back and said, “Who is the man, Hombre?”
Pallover spread the papers before him. “His name is Branch Lucas, Diablo, and he was a bounty hunter.”
The pricking of El Diablo’s ears became even more pronounced. And there wasn’t a trace of his celebratory smile to be seen as Pallover fanned the documents and came up with a tattered reward dodger authorized by Hans Bergman on one El Diablo.
“He carried this?” he muttered, and his voice carried to Brazos, who suddenly scented trouble coming.
“Hell, take no notice of that, Diablo,” the Texan said, giving Benedict a warning kick under the table. “Them things are all over Arizona.”
“But this thing is not all over Arizona, Señor Brazos,” Pallover said, tapping an envelope.
“Let me take a look at that,” said Brazos, who couldn’t read a lick. But Diablo plucked the letter from Pallover’s hand and passed it across to Cody.
“Tell me what the paper says.”
“I can tell you, Diablo,” said Pallover, with a dark look at Benedict. “It is a letter from Hans Bergman to Branch Lucas in which he promises him the reward of five thousand American dollars if he is able to capture you and return you to Arizona—”
Cody frowned as he scanned the note. “It’s true, Diablo,” he said. “That varmint was after you!”
“And this man was with Benedict?” murmured Diablo. He turned slowly as the table fell silent, and when he spoke his voice was so calm it was frightening. “You and the bounty hunter with the blood on his hands were compadres, Señor Benedict. You joined forces, you to free my amigo, Brazos, your compadre to free me and drag me back across the border to my certain death!”
“Well that’s a fanciful piece of guesswork if I ever heard one,” Benedict said casually, though he looked a trifle pale as the silence spread. “The truth of the matter is I had no idea who Lucas was and—”
“Liar!” Diablo said, still in that marvelously even voice. Then his face went dark and he leapt to his feet and his roar rocked the room. “Liar!” he thundered, upsetting glasses and knocking Hombre Pallover off his feet as he lunged. “The rope! Get the rope!”
It was fortunate for Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos that the overcrowded conditions in the Mayor’s Hall were not conducive to swift pursuit as they took about one split-second to agree that discretion was the better part of valor—and headed for the doors.
It was even more fortunate that they had their horses saddled and ready out front, having planned to leave for home at the end of the celebration breakfast.
But probably the most fortunate thing of all was that El Diablo the magnificent was so incoherent in his bellowing wrath as he crashed and stumbled through the alarmed crowd behind them, that nobody, apart from those at the official table, knew what the hell was going on.
If there was one talent which Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos had developed to the level of a fine art it was the skill of the speedy withdrawal. Being the breed of men they were, and tending to get involved in risky situations they were often called upon to exit from an unhappy situation with all speed.
Though hampered a little by Brazos’ shoulder wound, they still managed to make good time from El Presidente Square and over the bridge, and had opened up a long, long lead before a solitary rider on a large horse appeared behind.
El Diablo’s shouts carried to them faintly over the rhythmic beating of hoofs. A straggle of riders eventually appeared behind Diablo, but it was obvious even at that distance that the men didn’t have their hearts in the chase.
The only one who gave it all he had was El Diablo himself, and when he finally started to make some ground, Benedict drew his rifle from the saddle scabbard and touched off a couple of shots in Diablo’s direction.
The bullets landed well short of target, as intended, but El Diablo got the idea. He slowed his horse first to a lope, then a trot, and finally halted. They could still see him there alone on the vast plain shaking his fist at the sky as they rode around a hill that cut him finally from sight.
“Excitable, Yank,” Brazos grinned as Benedict thrust the Winchester back into its scabbard. “They’re all like that.”
“The man’s insane.”
“Well, you got to allow you gave him one or two good reasons to get riled.”
Benedict began to smile. “Yes, I suppose I did at that, didn’t I, Johnny Reb? Well, as they say—”
“All’s well that ends well?”
“I wasn’t intending to say that.”
“What then?”
“As snow in summer, and rain in harvest, so glory is unseemly to a fool.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means your hulking amigo is too stupid to last long.”
“Somehow I reckon he will.”
“Then we agree to disagree.”
“Don’t we always?” Brazos chuckled, and led the way ahead.