Bittner, Rosanne (39 page)

"Wine
sounds just fine. You have a beautiful spread here, Señor Cordera."

"Ah,
yes, my father spent many years building this
ranchero.
We survived the
French occupation and Maximilian, and under Porfirio Díaz, men like myself have
never been so prosperous."

"So
I see." And how many of Díaz's enemies have you helped capture and murder
or put in jail? John wanted to ask. Everyone in the States knew Porfirio Díaz
ruled like a dictator here in Mexico. Those who supported him did well. Those
who did not sometimes disappeared and were never heard from again. But he was
not here to argue Mexican politics. He hated this small talk and would rather
get to the point, but it was dangerous to offend a wealthy Mexican in his own
country, which was probably exactly what he would end up doing. Still, he had
no choice left. Cordera was his last hope of getting the information he wanted
and getting back to Tess before she had that baby. God he missed her, ached for
her. "Do you have sons, Don Emiliano? Children who will one day inherit
all of this?"

"Sí,
I
have four sons," the man answered proudly. "All are grown and are
much help to me already. Two are married, and I have five grandchildren
now!"

John
smiled and nodded. "I hope I can say the same someday. I am only recently
married. My wife is expecting a child at any time now."

"Ah,
it must be hard for you not to be near her. Why are you three hundred miles
away,
señor?
Perhaps it is farther? It is almost three hundred miles
from here to the Rio Grande. And, my men tell me, you are one of those— what
are they called?—
mariscals?"

"Not
a marshal. Texas Ranger."

"Ah,
sí."

John
watched the change in Cordera's eyes as he looked him over. Texas Rangers were
not welcome in Mexico. The servant girl brought in a tray with two wineglasses,
along with a bottle of chilled wine, and set them on the small table. Cordera
picked up the bottle and dismissed her.

"You
see?" He held up the bottle. "It is cold! I have men whose job is to
bring ice from the Sierra Madres. If none can be found there, they must go into
the mountains of New Mexico and bring it all the way back here. Did you know
that if you pack ice in straw, it can last for weeks?" The man poured two
glasses of wine.

"Yes,
I know," John answered, thinking how nice it must be to be so wealthy you
could pay men to do nothing but make trips into the mountains to collect ice.
He took the glass of wine Cordera held out to him.

"So,
señor,
tell me what business a Texas Ranger has here on Ranchero de
Plata? Do you know the meaning of
plata?"

John
sipped the wine. It was indeed delicious and cool. "Silver," he
answered.

"Sí.
That
is what started all of this. My father owned a silver mine in the Sierra
Madres. Now it belongs to the government, but I was paid much money for
it."

In
return for what? John wondered. Mexico's current government didn't help its
citizens without getting something in return. He only nodded. "Good for
you. By the way, you speak good English."

"Sí.
I
hired an American to teach me. You have no trouble understanding me?"
Cordera studied the handsome, obviously Indian man who sat across from him,
suspicious, curious. The big man looked like someone who knew how to handle
himself. He knew the reputation of the Texas Rangers, didn't like having one
here on his
ranchero.
Texas Rangers had no business anyplace but in
Texas, but this man looked to him like someone who didn't care about rules.
That kind of man was the most dangerous. "Do you speak Spanish,
señor?"
John nodded, thinking what a braggart Don Cordera was. This was a powerful,
proud man. He would have to be very careful.
"Sí. Yo lo
comprehendo."

"Bueno.
I
suppose a Texas Ranger must know the language."

"You
can't live in Texas without knowing Spanish."

Cordera
laughed. "Texas should still be a part of Mexico, you know. But, what is
done is done. I suppose it cannot be changed now. So, again I ask, what is a
Texas Ranger doing so far from where he is supposed to be?"

John
took another sip of wine and leaned back in the leather chair. "I'm a man
who gets to the point, Señor Cordera. When I am through telling you why I'm
here, you have every right to bring in your men and have me thrown off the
place. I have no power here. I know that. I came to ask your help. Others tell
me that although you rule with an iron fist, you're an honest and fair man. I
am counting on that."

Cordera
sipped more wine himself. He'd met a few Rangers over the years, didn't like
their arrogance or the fact that sometimes they came into Mexico after men
wanted back in the States. Those things were supposed to be left up to the
Mexican government. But this Ranger, there was something about him he liked, an
honesty in those dark eyes, a daring, straightforward approach. "And how would
my honesty and fairness help you,
señor?
I
am harboring no
American outlaws here. Nor have I broken any American laws."

John
leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Maybe you
think
you
haven't broken any laws. But I'm afraid it's possible you have. You might have
some information that could be useful to me, Don Cordera, and frankly, I have
no place else to turn. I have been talking to people and asking questions for
weeks, and the answers finally led me here. In a
cantina
in town, one of
your men told me he thinks you do business sometimes with an American rancher
named Jim Caldwell. Is that true?"

Cordera
weighed the question and sipped more wine before answering.
"Sí. Es
cierto. Por qué?"

John
sighed, praying he'd done the right thing by coming here. "As I said,
Señor Cordero, I have no power here and no plans to make trouble for you. Down
here that would be impossible for an American. I ask this next question only
because I am desperate for some information. And I ask that you be honest with
me."

Cordera's
eyes narrowed with suspicion. "It is as others told you,
señor.
I
am a honest man."

John
nodded. "Then tell me. Are you aware that Jim Caldwell deals in stolen
cattle? Has he ever sent cattle down here with the brands burned off?"

Cordera
stiffened, and he slowly set his wineglass on the table. "I have seen
brands burned off. But it matters little to me how Señor Caldwell gets his
cattle. It is not my business."

"Isn't
it? Does your new
presidente
know you deal in stolen cattle from
America?" John watched Cordera squirm a little.

"Porfirio
Díaz cares little how I come by my cattle,
señor."
Anger began to
move into Cordera's dark eyes as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his
knees. "And I do not take lightly that you seem to be trying to threaten
me in my own home. I will remind you I have many men, and you are only one
man." He looked John over carefully. "My instinct tells me you are
good at what you do. You would not go down easy,
señor,
but however good
you are with that fine gun you wear, one man cannot fight thirty and remain
alive."

The
open, though obviously fake, friendly attitude was gone. John could see he was
facing the real Don Cordera now. That was good. He would rather know a man was
being truthful. Still, he had already crossed the danger line. He might never
leave this
ranchero
if he wasn't careful. He drank a little more wine
and set his own glass aside.

"I
am not a fool, Señor Cordera. Of course I know better than to insult or
threaten you on your own land. I am not trying to do either. To put it bluntly,
I am desperate for some information, and you are my last hope." John felt
a little relief when Cordera's eyebrows arched in surprise and some of the fury
in his eyes changed to curiosity and pride.

"Your
last hope,
señor,
should be that I do not have you shot. Tell me,
por
favor,
what this information is that you need, and how you think
I
can help you. In fact, I am curious to know
why
I should help you."

John
rose, walking to stand in front of a stone fireplace. He looked around the
room. "Señor Cordera, Jim Caldwell is very much like you up there in
Texas. He owns a big ranch, has a lot of men working under him, has money and
power. But there is one big difference. I am guessing that if you did decide to
shoot a man, you would stand him up and let him see what's coming, maybe even
give him a chance to defend himself, just like you're giving me a chance to
explain myself now. You wouldn't shoot him in the back from a distance and run
off. I guess what I am saying is I believe you are an honorable man. Jim
Caldwell has no honor."

Cordera
frowned and stood up himself. "In the back? And who did this Jim Caldwell
have shot in the back?"

John
rested his hand on his gun. "Me. The only trouble is, I lived."

Cordera
folded his arms, looking John over. "And how do you know it was Señor
Caldwell?"

"Believe
me, I know. I also know Jim Caldwell has been dealing in stolen cattle. But
with a man as rich and powerful as he is, I have to have solid proof. I have to
catch him or his men in the act." John walked behind the leather chair
he'd been sitting in and braced his hands against the back of it. He'd been in
the saddle for weeks, and his rib still ached off and on. It was hurting him
right now, but he was trying to ignore the pain. "I'll spell it out for
you,
mi amigo.
The Texas Rangers have considerable power of their own,
and the proper people know where I am. If you have me shot, Mexico will have
more trouble and attention from the States than it's ever had before, and your
presidente
wouldn't like that. That's not a threat. It's just a fact. Since he is more
of a dictator than a president, I don't think Señor Díaz wants our government
getting involved down here. Even if you don't have me shot, that could still
happen due to the simple fact that you are dealing with stolen American cattle.
Now maybe you weren't even sure they were stolen, but they are, and we aim to
put a stop to it and prove that Jim Caldwell is behind a good deal of the
cattle rustling that has been taking place in west Texas."

He
picked up his wineglass and drank down what was left.

"Go
on,
señor."

John
set down the glass again. "Surely you are wealthy enough that if you never
buy another steer from Jim Caldwell, it won't affect your
ranchero.
I
know you get the cattle a little cheaper because they're stolen, or maybe you
didn't know why. But I suspect you can afford to buy your cattle the legal way,
and perhaps you would make a fine impression on Díaz if you helped me in this.
I know your
presidente
would just as soon shoot an American as look at
him, but at the same time I think he would rather not have any more trouble
with his northern friends than necessary. How long do you think you would be
able to keep all of this from being taken away from you, if you are the cause
of the American government getting involved in this? Our government hates Díaz.
You and I both know he's nothing more than a dictator. He could turn on you at
any time. Help me now, and I promise you that if Mexico has another
revolution—and you know damn well how easily that could happen—and if that
revolution threatens you and your fine sons and this beautiful
ranchero,
I
will personally see to it that you get some help. You get a message to the
Rangers, and we'll do what we can to support honest Mexican citizens like
yourself against dictatorship." He grinned then. "And you know the
kind of fighters we Texans are."

The
look of deep worry on Cordera's face eased slightly at the last statement, and
the man could not hold back a smile of his own. "And you Texans know the
kind of fighters we Mexicans are, no?"

John
nodded. "So, why fight each other? Why not work together against the wrong
that's done on both sides? The time has to come when we must face the fact that
we are neighbors, whether we like it or not, and we have to get along. You're a
smart man. Who do you think is the better ally? The American government? Or
Porforio Díaz? Men like you can support Díaz all you want, but you also know he
could decide at any time to seize what is yours. For all you know he is already
plotting a way to do just that He doesn't like any one man becoming too wealthy
and powerful. A man like you could be a threat to his power in case of a
revolution. You know he's had other opponents shot. Who is to say when he will
decide
you
are his enemy rather than his friend? If it comes to that, we
can help you take shelter in Texas, save your family."

Cordera
rubbed at his mustache and turned away, pacing for a few quiet seconds.
"It is true you would help me if I needed it? If my family should have to
flee Mexico, you would give us shelter?"

"It's
true. I'll make sure all the proper people are aware of your situation, and of
the fact that you helped us... if you decide to do so. If not, all I can do is
go back to Texas empty-handed and find some other way to prove Jim Caldwell is
the bastard I believe he is. Trouble is, that might still end up involving you,
in a much more public way, and Díaz would not like that. Do it my way, and we
can keep this very quiet here in Mexico and keep attention, especially Díaz's
attention, away from you." John could only pray his threat of Díaz taking
the man's land from him would work. He knew the only way to get anything out of
a powerful
don
like Cordera was to stir up the man's distrust of
Mexico's dictatorial
presidente
—make the man worry about losing
everything he owned.