AZUL RODE SLOWLY up Main Street, hoping that no one would recognize him. If there were warrants out in Galenas and Fronteras, it was possible that word had spread this far south, too. He chose, however, to take a chance on the Mexican authorities confining their searching to the two towns he was known to have visited and the border. As an Apache, he had often ridden down as far as Chihuahua, but as Matthew Gunn—as Breed—he was notorious mostly around the border country. In any event, he was determined to locate Nolan—irrespective of legal hindrance.
He settled his Stetson over his face and eased the pinto up the road.
Main Street was, in effect, a huge plaza. Like most large Mexican towns, Chihuahua was set out around the central hub of city life. There was a tiled boulevard, the rambla, set with palmetto and jacaranda trees running up the center of the street. Traffic was eased out on to the sand roadways skirting the rambla, and busy waiters dodged amongst the horses and the wagons to carry drinks and food to the customers settled around the wood tables on the plaza. There was a constant flow of people moving clockwise around the square and a counter flow strolling in the opposite direction. The outer ring was composed mostly of families, parents walking with daughters or grandmothers, carrying babies, talking, staring.
The inner ring was composed mostly of young men in groups of three and four. They were dressed up in fancy outfits all silvery with conchos and overworked gunbelts, and they grinned and chuckled as they caught the eye of the girl they fancied. When they caught the grim gaze of the accompanying father they got confused and hurried on, so that the central movement was brisker than the stately progress of the outer circle.
It was the Mexican custom of the pasear: the evening stroll at which the young men snatched a hurried word with their sweethearts, and the whole town showed off its finery and caught up on local gossip.
At the far end of the rambla there was a big fountain with a statue of Pizarro built up above the spilling water. The water ran lazily down from a big basin with gutters cut along the sides to take it off under the street where it probably supplied water to the gardens of the richer houses. There was a bar to the right of the fountain and a second to the left.
Azul reined in and went inside the place on the left.
There was a hitching rail dug into the side street with four horses tied up. Azul left the pinto alongside.
The bar was low-roofed and bright with light. It was packed with vaqueros and storekeepers, and smelled different to an American saloon. Azul pushed up to the bar and called for tequila. The patron gave him a curious glance, then shrugged as though dismissing his doubts and opened a bottle. He reached behind the counter to lift a clay cup and set it down in front of the half-breed.
‘Gracias,’ murmured Azul, dropping a coin on to the rough pine.
‘De nada.’ The man picked up the coin and bit it. It was a five dollar piece. He dropped it into the leather pouch hung off his belt. ‘I must find some change.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Azul. ‘Pay me with words.’
‘I am no writer,’ grunted the Mexican. ‘I run a clean bar, not dabble with stupid scribbling.’
Azul smiled. ‘But you see people. And a man as important as the owner of so fine a cantina must know who lives in this splendid city.’
The Mexican puffed up, hiking his shoulders back and straightening his spine so that his eyes got level with Azul’s nose.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Ramon Garcia knows everyone. Who are you looking for?’
‘An American,’ smiled Azul. ‘A tall man with dark hair and green eyes. He favors black clothes. He might be accompanied by a Mexican.’
‘Ah!’ Garcia tugged at his moustache. ‘There are two Americans in town. One of them is a man such as you describe. Word has it that he carries money with him. At least, he purchased the old hacienda and has since hired servants, and pistoleros to guard it for him. He has an amigo Mexicano, a man called Raul Granos. Poor Raul.’
‘Why poor?’ Azul filled his glass and extended the bottle in invitation. ‘With a rich yanqui amigo, he cannot be too badly off.’
Garcia found an empty pot and let Azul fill it. ‘Raul sold his business,’ he said. ‘He had a nice little business as a printer. He printed our paper and when we wanted to make bills for advertising, or weddings … you know the kind of thing … Raul was the man we went to. Then he closed down and rode north. He came back with his tail between his legs and his yanqui friend to pay his bills.’
‘And his friend,’ said Azul, ‘is a tall American with dark hair and green eyes?’
Garcia nodded. The movement set his jowls to wobbling.
‘Sí,’ he said, shaking a limp wrist in an obscene gesture. ‘I think that maybe Raul has chosen the back trails—’
‘Where do they live?’ Azul interrupted Garcia and made up for it by filling his pot again. ‘Do you know?’
‘The hacienda is just the other side of town,’ said the barkeeper. ‘A walled place with men to guard the gates. I think they have something to hide.’
His dark, red-veined eyes got bright and piggy.
‘Are you with them?’
‘Is that likely?’ said Azul. ‘The American owes me a debt I wish to collect. He is unwilling to pay it, so I must find him and claim it.’
Garcia smiled as though he enjoyed the thought. ‘The place is about a quarter a mile out. If you were to take the road opposite this cantina and ride as far as the broken pine on the side of the road you would find the house a little way up along the street facing the tree.’
‘Thank you,’ said Azul. ‘It is pleasant to meet an honest man.’
He set down his glass and turned away. He hadn’t thought to find Nolan so easily, but it had to be the scalphunter. He walked out through the bead curtain covering the doorway and reached down to loose the pinto from the hitching rail.
Something hard and cold dug in his back as his hand touched the single rein.
A hard, cold voice said: ‘Don’t turn round. Just put your hands on the rail. Don’t move, or three guns will kill you.’
Azul put his hands on the rail. The hard thing went on sticking into his back, but the voice moved round in front and got a face. It was a cold face with a black moustache dribbling over the lips and hard grey eyes glistening from under a grey, peaked cap. A Federale cap. Under the face was a uniform. A grey uniform with a black Sam Browne spread neatly over the chest and waist. On the right hip there was a big holster with the flap open. The gun that would usually be inside the holster was out and lifted up into his face. It was a Smith & Wesson American .44 caliber. The hammer was all the way back. Azul could see the tension in the trigger finger even through the leather of the black glove the lieutenant was wearing.
‘What in the hell is this?’ he said. ‘What have I done?’
‘A great deal,’ said the lieutenant. ‘The killing of Ramon Padillo for one thing. Then there was Amos Grieve in Fronteras. I believe, too, that some yanqui lawmen would welcome talking with you. There is a considerable amount of money available to the man who captures Breed.’
Two Federale troopers came out from the shadows. They both carried Winchesters. Both rifles were leveled steady on Azul’s ribs. The third stayed hard and fast on his back.
‘I done nothing in Chihuahua,’ he said. ‘How come you’re taking me?’
‘Money,’ said the lieutenant. ‘There is a reward of six hundred and fifty dollars American posted on your capture. The authorities in Texas and Nevada offer more.’
Azul felt a hand move in and lift the Colt from his holster. To his left, the Bowie knife was lifted. They forgot the throwing knife tucked down into his boot.
‘How come you recognized me?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t think there’d be posters this far south.’
The officer laughed: ‘We were warned. We had word.’
‘From who?’ Azul’s face got pale with anger. ‘Who told you?’
A rifle moved up in obeyance of the lieutenant’s gesture and struck the underside of his chin. Azul lifted back from the rail. His legs hit the boardwalk and he sat down. The two troopers flanking him moved round to stick their Winchesters tight into his ribs. The probing muzzles hurt him and he loosed an unwilling groan.
‘A man called Carmady,’ said the officer. ‘He told us. Now stand up. It will take a few days to get word from Fronteras, but when it arrives we shall hang you. Like the lobo dog you are.’
Azul stood up. The two troopers fell into step behind him, their rifles touching his back enough to remind him of their presence. The lieutenant walked alongside, on the right, with his S&W angled past his trim belly to level on the half-breed. The third soldier followed on with the pinto mustang in tow.
They took him all the way down the rambla to the Federale station and threw him into a cell. It was a small cell with wet stone walls on three sides and a wood door filling up most of the fourth. The door had a metal grille set into the middle, at head height. Facing the grille was a window. It was barred with steel shafts an inch thick apiece. There were four bars over ten inches of window: very little light would ever come into the cell. The floor was paved stone, covered with rushes and sand that held thick memories of bygone occupants. There was a straw mattress on the floor by the northern wall. It had holes in it and yellow stains. There was a bucket that had once held fresh water. Now it looked like the spillings from the fountain in the square. The air smelled hot and damp; it smelled of urine and sweat and lost hopes. There was no light, and the window faced a side street with high buildings.
It was a lost and lonely place. The kind of place a man dreams about when he dreams of death.
Azul kicked the mattress. Bugs ran from the cracks. He turned it over. The underside was liquid with damp and thick with insects.
He went over to the corner of the cell and squatted down. Bracing his back against the wall, he hunkered into a crouch and dropped his head over his folded arms. He closed his eyes and did his best to sleep while he was still thinking; working out his position, his situation.
He still had the throwing knife inside his right moccasin, and no one had thought to check his vest. There were six cartridges in the lower right pocket. Six .45 shells that might prove useful. Given the right opportunity.
John Michael Carmady congratulated himself on his powers of observance and the speed with which he put them into effective operation.
It had been pure luck to spot Azul—Breed—lounging up to the bar as he left Rosita’s room. But it had taken, so Carmady told himself, real skill to recognize the situation and make capital out of it before the half-breed could even know what was happening.
He had snuck back into the shack and climbed out through a window. Then he had run to the Federale station and warned Lieutenant Guerra of the sadistic killer boasting his presence in a peaceful town like Chihuahua. The Pinkerton badge had convinced the lieutenant of Carmady’s honest intentions, and mention of the rewards—which, of course, Carmady would forfeit in the interests of justice—had gone a long way to getting Guerra on his feet and working.
Carmady had watched Guerra take his three-man squad off to arrest Azul, then run back down the plaza to be sure the Federates were locking him up.
Convinced of that, he decided to ride out and tell Nolan of his coup. And put his proposition to the owner of the printing plates.
The welcome was less than he had hoped for.
Getting the address of the hacienda had cost him ten dollars in bribes and tequila. The ride out, for all that it was short, was rocky with the effects of too much liquor. Then he had spent a long time arguing with the guard before he even got into the place.
Then Nolan got tough.
‘Why should I cut you in?’ he asked. ‘You got no authority down here. That goddam Pinkerton badge don’t mean a single damn’ thing south o’ the border.’
‘Means a whole on the north side, though.’ Carmady tried not to slur his words: he wanted to put up a good impression. ‘I got contacts in Texas and New Mexico that could ease the money through real easy. Like feedin’ milk to a baby. I got a Pinkerton badge to back me up, an’ that’s a whole lotta authority. I could tell them I killed you an’ the plates an’ money got lost.’
‘I could just print it up an’ bank it,’ said Nolan. ‘Why should I cut you in?’
‘Insurance,’ said Carmady. ‘I’m an upstanding citizen who won’t get questioned when I start puttin’ those bills in my bank. All them nice five dollar bills you got set to print.’
‘You’re pretty sure of yoreself,’ said Nolan. ‘You took a long chance comin’ here. Why shouldn’t I just kill you an’ get done with it?’
Carmady smiled. ‘You killed two Pinkertons already,’ he said. ‘That’s what got me on your trail. Kill another, an’ the whole organization will be after you.’
Nolan nodded. ‘All right, he murmured, ‘it makes sense. I’ll cut you in.’
‘Good,’ said Carmady. ‘How about showin’ me the set-up?’
Nolan stood up and led the way down to the basement. Carmady followed on behind, deciding not to tell about Azul, locked up in the local jail: it was a trump card to hold in hand.
He followed Nolan all the way down to the cellar, taking the precaution of easing the Merwin & Hulbert pocket gun clear of his shoulder holster and settling it down inside his right hand hip pocket.
Nolan swung the cellar doors shut and gestured at the machinery.
‘I guess you know about the plates,’ he said. ‘They should be working soon. At least that’s what Raul says, an’ he’s the printer. It seems we need some kinda special paper, which should be in pretty soon.’
Carmady walked around the printing press.
‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘You sure laid out a whole lotta money to set this up.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nolan. ‘I did. More than I’m willin’ to share with some has-been sonofabitch Pinkerton.’ Carmady jerked back, recognizing the menace in Nolan’s voice.
He was too late: the dark man stepped up behind him and swung the Colt’s Frontier up out of the holster and down.
Nolan didn’t fire the pistol. He drew and reversed the gun, switching it round so that the butt crashed solidly on to the back of Carmady’s neck. The Pinkerton groaned and slumped forwards, fighting the numbing pain that threatened to freeze his arms. He tried to draw the Merwin & Hulbert from his pocket, but Nolan grabbed his wrist and twisted it up behind his back. The Colt hammered a second time against Carmady’s neck.
Nolan eased a foot forwards to kick the Pinkerton’s legs out from under his body. The man was badly stunned, and the movement came easy. Carmady slumped like a soggy bag.
‘Bastard!’ Nolan snarled. ‘You want a share? All right, bastard, I’ll give you a taste of it.’
He shoved the Colt back inside the holster and slammed his hand down on to the back of Carmady’s skull. The Pinkerton groaned again as his throat hit the edge of the big bucket. Nolan hiked his arms up so that they dangled over the rim. Then he stooped down to lift the man’s legs.
He tilted Carmady up and over, shoving him face down into the vat.
Carmady screamed once as his face hit the acid and began to burn. Then his own body weight carried him under and all Nolan had to do was feed the kicking limbs down into the seething liquid.
The acid ate into cloth and skin. It dissolved flesh from bone with horrible speed. The cheap cloth of Carmady’s suit disappeared as though washed away, followed by his flesh. Much sooner than Nolan had thought there was only a skeleton left to mark the dreams of a dissatisfied Pinkerton. All that was left to mark the place of John Michael Carmady was a grinning skull with empty sockets where the eyes had been and shredding trailers of cloth bubbling up around the bones.
Nolan used the long tweezers Raul Granos had bought to lift metal safely clear of the acid vat to fish Carmady’s remains clear of the bucket. He pulled on a pair of leather gloves and spread a sheet of oilskin on the floor of the cellar.
When he had all the bones and flesh and remnants of cloth clear of the vat he folded the sheet of oilskin and tied it with waxed twine. Then he took it out behind the house and dumped it under a jacaranda at the far end of the spread. He walked back and got a spade, then dug a grave about two feet deep. He kicked what was left of Carmady into the hole and filled it up. After that he stamped the earth down flat and kicked leaves and fallen flowers over the hole. Then he went back to the house and wiped the spade clean on a rag that he tossed into the acid bucket.
All that was left of John Michael Carmady was a brass badge and a pistol. Those Nolan hid alongside the money, under the boards flooring his room.
After that, the dark man went out on to the balcony of his hacienda and poured himself a whiskey.
He felt very safe, insured by money and a firm knowledge of his own skill with a gun or an awkward situation. There was nothing left, now, to spoil his plans, and once Raul had printed up a reasonable amount of five dollar bills and taught him to use the machinery, he could get rid of the Mexican.
And then, with Breed dead, he could enjoy life without troubles or cares.
Nolan emptied his glass and shouted for the servants to bring him food.