FLAKES OF DAYLIGHT fell down the sky like early birdsong. Cade Onslow suppressed a shiver as he pulled on his clothes and checked the clips of ammunition on his two handguns. The saddlebags were ready packed: maps, field-glasses, boxes of ammunition, some dried food, ground coffee, a flat-bottomed pan, matches. The rest was in his head.
Although Matamoros wasn’t in rebel hands it wasn’t difficult to find men there who were sympathetic to the cause and who were prepared to talk about it. Men, also, who had information as to the whereabouts of the revolutionary forces.
Venustiano Carranza was Governor of the State of Coahuila and was one of the main forces for the rebel Constitutionalists. Together with Alvaro Obregon in Sonora and Pancho Villa he held the majority of the North of Mexico against the Federal forces. He was a land owner who had the reputation of being given to long monologues rather than action, and his army was led in the field by the self-styled General, Pablo Gonzales.
The rumor was that Gonzales was presently in the area of Juarez, beyond the lake, Presa de Don Martin, and close to the Rio Salado.
Onslow hoped that the rumors were correct; he hoped also that Gonzalez would agree to see him. More than that, that the rebel General would be prepared to commit a number of his men to the journey back to Matamoros. Onslow thought that he would—after all, what army existed that did not require more arms? And if his information concerning the supply train was accurate, there would be more than enough to go round.
After all, they were all on the same side.
Weren’t they?
Onslow had passed beyond the town and was riding through the plain that dipped away to the west. He would keep the valley of the Rio Bravo del Norte to his right; the great river that divided Mexico from the United States. Onslow thought about his own country within several hours’ ride to the north. How difficult it would be for him ever to return there—except as a fugitive. Now he was a man in exile. A man who felt himself not only to be out of time but out of place too.
Hell! Onslow pulled at the collar of his top coat, shielding the back of his neck against the keen morning wind. It didn’t do for a man to philosophize too much: that much thinking couldn’t be good for anyone. Least, not that kind of thinking.
Details, though. Attention to details. Planning. Onslow had been an efficient officer. A good Major. This operation would be carried out with as much precision as possible.
McCloud and Jamie Durham, they would be playing their part back around Matamoros. Madden’s information about the train would have to be checked. Dynamite had to be obtained, fuses. The Kid would need to get familiar with the bridge and work out the best place to set the explosion.
When Onslow returned with help, everything would be ready. Set.
He glanced up at the sky. Now it had lightened sufficiently to see the clouds. They still hung heavily; still promised rain. He wondered if he would reach Juarez before it began to fall.
Cade Onslow was not the only man to rise early that morning; not the only person travelling across the north of Mexico for the purpose of meeting a commanding officer. But in this case the officer in question was in charge of the detachment of federales that was assembled outside Matamoros. And the man travelling to meet him was not on horseback.
Hiram Bender was not a happy man; not this day of all days. He did not like being forced to rise too early; did not enjoy having spent the night in an excuse for a hotel without warm water for shaving or bed linen that either smelt or looked clean.
He had intended to stay in Monterrey; he knew that there was at least one hotel in the town that met his requirements. But in the past few weeks the forces of Carranza had pushed further and further south; those supposedly under the command of the brigand, Villa, had scattered Federal troops south and east.
To be in Monterrey and to be a member of the staff of the United States Embassy was not a safe thing: shameful as it was for Bender to admit the fact, even to himself. That a representative of the greatest government in the world should not be free to travel to any part of the globe was next to unthinkable.
Yet Bender had been forced to think it—to act on it. To toss and turn in a hotel room in Tampico with only his silver hip flask of bourbon for company and his chauffeur outside the door on guard throughout the night.
The road north was rough, bumpy; the tires of the big Packard weren’t able to absorb the impact of the stones and rocks and gaping holes that were scattered along its every mile.
Las Lavaderos.
San Fernando.
Santa Teresa.
Matamoros.
On and on and on. Through the gloom of the day. Bender knew why the detachment of federales was close to the border and lacked any real interest in the shipment of guns, even though he had been in no small way responsible for arranging it. There was a better reason—far more interesting and possibly more valuable for the future.
Major Hans Otto Kleiber.
A major of the 12th Regiment zu Pferd.
An officer from the Prussian army.
That the Major was in Mexico to assist the forces of the Federal Mexican government with their armed struggle with the rebels was not without connection with the armed struggle the Prussians were themselves making ready for in Europe. It was as well to look for allies amongst sympathetic governments: friends in need.
Bender was anxious to meet this Major Kleiber. He would send a detailed report back to Washington, summing up his impressions. More than that—he was interested in assessing how far the help coming from outside could stem the advances being steadily made by the rebels.
What was it he had said back in Mexico City, that night with the girl?
Hiram Bender’s fingers opened and slowly closed, the tips of his fingers smoothing slowly across the skin of his thumb.
Yes, the girl ...
But: there were pressures in the United States for switching support away from the Federal government. In a way it would be sad for Bender to see so much of his work undone. But such things were almost bound to happen from time to time.
And he would still be where he was, he was certain of that. The ambassador would certainly be recalled, then reposted. But Bender was too insignificant—on the surface.
He would survive.
He always had—it never occurred to him to doubt it.
Spatters of rain suddenly hit the side windows of the car; he could see the windscreen ahead apparently covered with bubbles of water and then the arcs of the wipers came into action and smeared it clear. The car lurched to the right and Bender was thrown off his balance; the flask was almost knocked from his hand. He swore at the driver, but with the dividing windows closed there was no way the driver was going to hear him.
Bender glanced at his watch and took another swig at the bourbon. He clipped down the cap and pushed it into his pocket. He would close his eyes and try to sleep.
The journey would seem to pass more quickly.
Knowing it was an illusion, he allowed himself a smile, just one.
It was dusk when Onslow entered Juarez. Lights from windows and open doorways threw a pale yellow glow out into the narrow main street. Men stopped in their tracks or pushed themselves forwards from where they were half-squatting, half sitting on the cracking boardwalk to watch Onslow ride past.
He was a tall, arrogant figure. Not seeming to be worried about what was happening around, but heading directly forward, heedless.
A yanqui in the middle of a Mexican town.
The words hissed along each side of the street, following him as he passed like the hissing of the wind: ‘Yanqui! Yanqui! Gringo! Gringo!’
Onslow ignored them, even as they stared openly at the rifle that pushed up from under his left leg; at the bottom of the holster at his right hip; at the bulge on the left side of his coat that might be another gun.
‘Gringo! Gringo!’
Like spirits in the first fall of night.
Onslow rode along the street until he got to the largest cantina. Then he reined in his horse and dismounted; tied it to the hitching post outside. His spurs jangled as he walked through the doorway and over the stained boards of the floor. Voices cut off abruptly in mid-sentence; glasses were replaced on surfaces, their contents untouched.
‘Whisky.’
Onslow spun a coin onto the counter and turned so that his back rested lightly against it. With his left hand he unbuttoned the front of his top coat, the center button of the coat underneath.
A gasp moved from mouth to mouth and man to man at the sight of the Colt .45 automatic and the way the stranger’s fingers moved easily towards its squarish butt.
Feet scurried and two, then three Mexicans hustled out of the cantina. Onslow smiled to himself, letting them go. If word had not got to Pablo Gonzalez already, then it would very soon.
He reached for the glass of whisky and downed it in two swallows; ordered another and a beer to go with it. The journey had given him a thirst. And there was no immediate hurry—they would come for him before long.
Before he finished his second whisky.
Four of them: well-armed, rifles as well as pistols, though the latter were not automatics like Onslow’s Colt. Nor were the rifles such up-to-date models. They all wore the same sombreros; had the same kind of belts crisscrossed over their chests. One had round buttons on his waistcoat that shone in the light from the hurricane lamp when he stepped forward.
‘You come with us.’
Onslow turned away and picked up the whisky glass.
‘You come!’
Onslow raised the glass to his lips. The Mexican came all the way up to him, eyes narrowed and angry.
‘Come!’
Onslow drank.
A hand flashed at his head and the glass was knocked sideways from Onslow’s fingers. As it bounced on the boards then broke, Onslow’s right hand went for his Colt. One second the Mexican was on the attack, the next he had been spun round, with Onslow’s left arm tight round his throat and the muzzle of the Colt automatic hard and cold against his temple.
None of the other three men had made a play for their own guns. They simply stared, astonished. Agape.
‘Now you learn some manners. Come where?’
‘Let me ...’
‘Where?’
The arm tightened and the Mexican’s head came further back, the neck threatened to snap, air hardly came from his lungs. The metal of the gun seemed to bore into his very brain.
‘The Gen ... General, s ... s ... señor.’
‘General?’
‘Gon ... zalez. Gener ... al Gonzalez.’
Onslow released the man, but kept his gun drawn. ‘You spilt my drink. It was whisky.’
Shamefaced, the Mexican took coins from his pocket and pushed them over the counter. The bartender set up a fresh glass and poured a generous tot of whisky. Onslow drank it down.
‘Where is this General Gonzalez?’
‘The hotel, señor. The Hotel Salado. His headquarters are there.’
‘Of course. Tell your General I will be there in ten minutes. I shall be pleased to talk with him then.’
Pablo Gonzalez was seated behind a long, narrow desk. The surface of the desk shone and an inch away from its edges there was a pattern of inlaid wood.
Onslow wondered for an instant where the desk had come from and who had so recently polished it. He thought Gonzalez had had it brought to his headquarters from one of the haciendas that his men had raided.
Gonzalez himself was a stocky man, handsome in a way, with the sweeping moustache that the Mexicans favored. Longer and more luxuriant than Onslow’s own. He had a cigarette in his left hand and in his right hand he held a shell. Onslow thought it was a .45. The General toyed with the shell as he watched Onslow, and later as he spoke. Twisting and turning it over and over between his fingers, never dropping it, never looking at it. Over and over and round and round between his fingers.
‘I send my men for you.’ His voice was one of barely controlled anger; smoke drifted from the corners of his mouth when it opened and drifted lazily up towards the lamp that hung over the table.
‘I am here.’
‘In your own time.’
‘Yes.’
Gonzalez stared at him and Onslow stared back. He knew that his only chance of convincing the man to help him was through his own strength, not through weakness.
‘Why do you ride here? So many guns.’
‘To see you.’
General Gonzalez raised one eyebrow, let the ash fall from the end of the cigarette onto the table top. He wiped the ash off and let it fall to the floor, some of it remaining on his sleeve. The .45 shell continued to move through the fingers of his other hand.
He said, ‘Go on.’
Onslow told him about the army supply train and he listened with increasing care until the end of the cigarette nearly burned his fingers and he tossed it to one side. One of his men immediately came forward and put his boot on it.
‘Why do you tell me this?’
‘I intend to stop the train and take the arms.’
Gonzalez laughed; opened his mouth wide and laughed. Onslow could see the blackness of some of his teeth, the gaps near the back at the top of the mouth.
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
‘You stop the train?’
Onslow looked back at him, not bothering to answer again. Gonzalez pushed himself up and walked round the table. He was maybe six inches shorter than Onslow, twenty pounds heavier.
‘By yourself?’ Again he laughed.
‘I have men.’
‘Oh, so you have men.’ The General turned away and then spun back quickly. ‘Then why do you come to me?’
‘There are federales near the town as I’ve said. I do not have that many men.’
‘Ah, you wish for my help?’
‘Yes.’
Gonzalez took a cigarette from his top pocket where they were lined up loose and another of his men came forward and lit it for him.
‘Why do you think I will let my men ride all that way to help you? A gringo?’
‘Because you can strike at the federales. And they are your enemies. Because you are in need of arms yourself and if you help me then you can take half the arms on the train. Perhaps more.’
Gonzalez stopped the pacing about he had been doing; the eyebrow rose. ‘You say?’
‘I shall have two wagons. With my men I shall take them south, to Zapata.’
‘Zapata?’
Onslow nodded. ‘What Zapata does not have, you shall have—all for the revolution.’
Pablo Gonzalez went back behind his desk and began to sit down. In the middle of the movement, he stopped and placed the shell on its end on the table, the only object on it.
He looked at Onslow. ‘I will do this. And more. Some of my men will ride with you. South to Zapata. It is a deal?’
Onslow nodded again. ‘It’s a deal.’
General Pablo Gonzalez reached out his right hand, fingers slightly separated. Onslow closed them in the strength of his grasp.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow.’
The Prussian major was thin; thin like a number of lengths of sinew coated with skin. A long face with a tight mouth and above it a nose that was like a razor. Bright blue eyes that never left Hiram Bender’s face all the while the men talked together. Cigars and brandy. Soft fall of rain outside that seemed miles away in the distance.
The Prussian in his gray uniform talking long and earnestly about the need for discipline, discipline, always discipline. The power of disciplined might, bunching his fist tight as he said it, so that the bones of his knuckles seemed about to break through the skin.
Bender listened, talking infrequently himself, impressed and yet ... and yet disturbed by the fervor of the Prussian’s manner and speech, the intensity of him.
‘And the train?’ asked Bender as the bottle of brandy was passed over to him.
‘It will be safe.’
‘To the right men, it could prove a tempting target. All those arms ...’
‘Ja. There are such men. I know. But also, I know what they are to do.’
Bender sat forward, interested.
‘These men—Americans?’
‘Ja.’
‘Perhaps ...’ Bender spoke as casually as he could, ‘ ... it would be wise not to underestimate them.’
Major Kleiber smiled. ‘Because they are Americans?’
‘No. Because of what these men have done before.’
‘So. But this time we have an advantage.’
Bender looked at the Prussian, waited.
The smile stayed on the major’s face, as if set there; the eyes were unusually bright. ‘One of these Americans. Countryman of yours. He is ...’ The Prussian paused for a moment, seeking the right expression, looking down at his uniform. ‘ ... you would say, in our pocket?’
It was Bender’s turn to smile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what we would say. Yes.’
The brandy tasted good and the rain outside seemed further away than ever.