19
“Where will he hide?” Angela asked, sitting up in the great bed, holding the sheet up to cover her bare breasts as morning light slipped into the room from behind the drapes.
Busy dressing, Slocum pulled on his leather britches. “A good question. Salazar left the live oak, according to Cherrycow, who tracked him out of the grove. He had to have some help to do that. Cherrycow thinks I hit him. There were spots of blood, he said.”
“I heard part of that conversation. I hope he is right. Maybe Salazar will crawl off and die.”
“I doubt we have that good of luck. But anyway, I think he’ll go back to his headquarters and raise another bunch of outlaws.”
“Using his power over their minds, huh?”
“It has worked so far.”
“You are right.”
An hour later, he and his men held a parley squatted in the lacy shade of a large mesquite. Few of the Cockroach’s men could have escaped their assault. Several were blown up in the jail explosion, many more killed in the efforts of Slocum’s men and the villagers to pick them off separately, and the Cockroach’s segundo was no longer breathing.
“Will he run to Mexico City?” Angela asked them.
“No, his power is over the people up here. He will try to kill us. We are the only threat to his reign over these people.” Slocum regretted not managing to shoot him the night before. Salazar was worse than a plague on these mountain people—getting control of their minds, then making them do criminal things for him. Of course, the rape and pillage they’d done to this village probably didn’t take much encouragement on Salazar’s part—but he still led them.
“So?” Angela looked wistfully at him. “What is next?”
“Sierra Vista.”
“Ah, sí.”
Two days later when Slocum led his crew over the pass, the red tile roofs of the peaceful village gleamed beneath them in the bright mountain sunshine. The sight made him satisfied that at last they had arrived. Gathering cumulus clouds had begun to form, promising a shower or two, as regularly soaked the afternoons. Maybe a drencher, maybe only a sprinkle, rainstorms kissed the mountains somewhere every afternoon. From the looks of the thickening clouds, the rain would soon start.
They rode directly to the great casa outside of town that Salazar had occupied before, but found it empty. No one was there. An old wood seller on the road said everyone there had left several days before, and he lamented that there was no one there to buy cooking wood. It obviously must have hurt his economy.
“Is it safe to go to your amigo’s place?” Angela asked.
Slocum nodded, and they rode on to Don Carlos’s house. The clop of their horses’ hooves on the stone street was noisy, and his friend was on a balcony when they rode into the courtyard.
“Good to see you, amigos,” he said to them, smiling at their return.
Donna rushed from out front door to be hugged and swung around by Slocum.
“How are things? Are you married?” he whispered in her ear.
“Yes, yes.”
He set her down with a wink. “Good for you.”
“Thanks to you, my friend.”
“Quit flirting with my wife,” Don Carlos shouted, and everyone laughed.
“You should have married an ugly woman. How could I not flirt with such a lovely one?”
His crew laughed, and they dismounted too. Angela ran to hug Donna, who told Slocum to follow them inside. Then the two females left him. Chattering like magpies, they sauntered back inside, arms hooked together, deeply engaged in a conversation.
“Did you get him?” Don Carlos asked when he came downstairs.
“Not yet. We had a close encounter two days ago. We took out his gang down at Los Piñones. He is not at the casa outside town here.”
Don Carlos nodded. “I caught a hint about him. They say he is at the Hernandez Ranch on the Río Verde.”
“We can rest our horses and head there mañana.”
“Good. I have some excellent American whiskey.”
“Sounds good,” Slocum said and nodded to the men to take care of the horses. He followed after his friend.
“How are things at the mines?”
“No problems. You have La Cucaracha so involved in getting you that he has no time for robbery.”
“I may have wounded him in our encounter two days ago. Cherrycow said there was blood on his trail.”
“Shame you didn’t kill him. The son of a bitch.” Don Carlos poured some whiskey into two glasses, then handed one to Slocum. “Here’s to his death.”
“I have him on the run. We’ll get him.”
“Oh, sí. But it would have been nice if he was already dead.” They clinked glasses and took sips of the fine bourbon.
Slocum nodded his approval. “The rope is getting much shorter.”
“I hope that people appreciate all you do for them.”
“The ones that count do.” Slocum nodded and took another sip of the good stuff.