Lookout Hill (9781101606735) (20 page)

Bert Cady stopped his horse beside his brother and looked Bellibar in the eye.

“We usually don’t let anybody in our fold unless they’re sent by our good friend Wilton Marrs. Were you sent here by Marrs?” he asked bluntly.

“I wish I could say we were—this fellow being a friend of yours,” said Bellibar, remembering what Saginaw Sparks and Paco Reyes had said about all of them killing Marrs, that friends of Marrs wouldn’t be welcome at Lookout Hill. This was nothing but a trap. “But I won’t lie,” he said, straight-faced. “We never heard of the man. We come here strictly on knowing the Cady reputation.”

“That’s too bad,” said Bert Cady, still pressing, trying to run his trap. “We don’t break our rules. If you don’t know Marrs…”

“Wait a minute,” said Siebert, in mock consideration. “That name does ring a bell.”

Ignoring Siebert, Bellibar said bluntly to the Cadys, “I told you I won’t lie about it.”

“It’s true. He won’t lie at all. That’s a fact,” Siebert cut in, sounding shaky. “I’ve tried to get him to. He just won’t lie—
hates a liar
, in fact—”

“Shut up, Aces,” Bellibar said over his shoulder. To the Cadys he said, “I don’t know your friend Martin. That’s all I can say on the matter.” He deliberately mispronounced Marrs’ name for good measure.

“
Marrs
,” Bert Cady said, correcting him. He turned
his eyes to his brother. “What do you think about it, Fletch? Maybe make an exception this one time?”

“This is a big job,” Fletcher Cady said. “We could use more guns, losing Bad Sharlo and Moran.”

“Yeah, not to mention Paco and Sparks being missing,” said Bert Cady. He looked at Bellibar and Siebert and said, “Looks like you two are getting ready for the biggest payroll robbery of your lives. Welcome to Lookout Hill.”

Easy John Lupo had heard the shotgun blast on his way into Copper Gully. He had exchanged his long black riding duster for a faded, striped poncho that covered the big Walker Colt holstered across his stomach. As he rode onto a nearly empty street, he saw three men carrying a body away from the rear side of the ripped, blood-splattered tent cantina. He reined his horse over and looked down and recognized the bloody face of Newton Ridge.

One more out of the way,
he told himself. He had started to rein his horse away toward the front hitch rail when he heard the harsh voice of a man walking alongside the body.

“What are you looking at, Mex?” the man said in an unfriendly tone.

Mex? Here, in his own country?

The words took Lupo aback for a moment until he caught himself and realized he was not dressed in his usual Anglo-style border clothes. Strange how something as simple as a different outer garment changed a whole people’s perception of the man wearing it.

Half bowing his head as if reminded of his lower place in the world, Lupo touched the brim of his black sombrero without making eye contact with the man.

“Nothing, señor,” he said, giving his best attempt at a peasant accent.

“Damn Mexes,” he heard the man say to the ones carrying Ridge’s body, “they’re always underfoot here.”

As he reined his horse away and back toward the front hitch rail, he recognized the half-breed, Clayton “Cold Foot” Cain, standing by the tent fly staring at him.

“
Buenas tardes,
” he said, again touching the brim of his sombrero.

The half-breed didn’t reply, but he grudgingly gave a slight nod of his head.

“I see that death has reared his ugly head on this beautiful day,” Lupo said, spinning his reins around the hitch rail. “A terrible accident, no doubt?” He gave an affable smile without lifting his head to eye level.

“Careful you don’t have a terrible
accident
yourself,” the half-breed said menacingly.

Lupo raised a hand in a show of peace and walked past him inside the big tent. He stood at the nearly empty bar waiting for the bartender, who appeared agitated at the prospect of serving an unfamiliar Mexican. When the bartender did arrive, he gave Lupo a less than friendly stare.

“Mescal,
por favor
,” Lupo said.

The bartender left and came back with a wooden cup and a straw-wrapped bottle. He stared sharply at Easy John until the Mexican took a gold coin from inside his poncho and laid it on the bar top.

The bartender examined the coin closely, then stared at Lupo again before turning and walking away.

Lupo glanced along the bar and saw the glassy eyes of the Russian staring at him: another face he recognized from studying the gunmen through the powerful lens of his binoculars, back when the Pettigo mercenary force began growing in both size and fierceness.

Touching his sombrero again, Easy John turned away from the bar and had started to a small, out-of-the-way table when he almost ran into the half-breed, who had slipped inside behind him.

“I know you,” the half-breed said.

Lupo recognized the same glassiness in Cold Foot’s eyes that he saw in the Russian’s.

“No, señor, I do not think so,” Easy John said. He tried to sidestep him, but the half-breed blocked his way.

“You’re Juan Lupo,” said the half-breed. “I saw you once in Matamoros.”

Easy John glanced around, saw the Russian stand up in interest and walk toward them.

“Aw,
gracias
, señor,” he said. “I am familiar with this Juan Lupo. He is a very handsome hombre and I am honored you think I look like him.” He shrugged. “But sadly—”

“I didn’t say you look like him,” said Cold Foot, “I said you
are
him.” His hand fell onto the butt of his holstered gun.

Lupo was a second away from dropping his bottle and cup and reaching under his poncho for the big Walker, knowing he would have to step back to do so,
as close as the Russian stood to him. But before he set himself to making his move, the Russian stopped a few feet away and stared at the half-breed.

“What is now the trouble?” he asked Cold Foot, sounding put out. “I told you it is not trouble I want to have here.” He turned his glassy eyes to Lupo. “Who are you and what do you want here?”

Lupo put away the idea of going for the big Walker. He held up the bottle and cup.

“Only this,” he said meekly, “and a chair on which to sit while I quench my thirst?”

“All right,” said Cherzi, gesturing to the table where Lupo had been headed anyway. “Have your drink. This man will no longer bother you.”

“I know him,” Cold Foot insisted, both of them in a dope-induced stupor.

“Be a nice person,” said Cherzi, raising a finger. “We are all three foreigners here.”

Foreigners here?

Lupo looked at Cold Foot, a shoulder-length single braid of hair hanging beneath his hat, a Cheyenne beaded necklace around his neck. He glanced down at his own striped peasant poncho.
Thank the saints for good Mexican dope,
he told himself.

“But he’s been called a bounty hunter,” said Cold Foot.

“So what, are you wanted?” Cherzi asked. “I have been called a Bulgarian, but what does it matter?”

Cold Foot had to think about it.

“You asked what I am doing here,” Lupo offered, lowering his tone, adjusting his meek countenance a
little now that he saw what he was dealing with. “I’m here to meet Billy Boyle and ride with him and his amigos.” He gestured his eyes in the direction of Lookout Hill. “We talked about robbing the mine payroll?” he whispered.

“I do not know what it is you speak of,” the Russian said. But his glassy eyes couldn’t hide the truth.

Lupo saw it. The time was here, just as he thought. Lookout Hill was ready to move against its neighbor, the Pettigo-American Mining Company.

“You must wait for the sheriff and his deputy to return,” said Cherzi. “They are with Billy Boyle. I am not to tell anybody anything.”

Bellibar and Siebert, the new sheriff and his deputy
…

Lupo thought about it without letting the surprise show on his face. He held the empty wooden cup out to the half-breed just to see if he would take it. He did.

“Gracias,” he said. “Maybe I should come back when the sheriff is here,” he said to the Russian.

“What about your mescal?” asked Cherzi.

“I’ll take it along with me,” said Lupo, wanting out of there while both men still saw him through a fuzzy veil. He saw that Cold Foot was not as doped as the Russian—he might yet be a problem.

Walking out of the tent with both men shadowing him, Lupo stepped up into his saddle, touched his sombrero brim and rode away. But he only rode for a mile before veering his horse into a stand of scrub mesquite and fire bush, and stepped down from his saddle and hitched his horse out of sight. Climbing atop a large rock beside the trail, he slipped a Spanish-
style dagger from his boot well, looked at it in his hand.

“
Mi
puñal
…you must not fail me on this day,” he whispered to the glittering blade. He touched his lips to the cold steel as if in a lover’s kiss. He took off his poncho and his belly rig, but shoved his big Colt down behind his back just in case and pulled his shirttail out to cover it. He crouched atop the rock and waited.

In his inebriated state, the half-breed rode along the narrow trail at a medium gallop, trying hard to clear his mind. He watched the rocky terrain for an ambush, but when Lupo made his move and leaped down from his position atop the rock, it caught Cold Foot by surprise. Even if he’d been expecting the attack, it would have done him little good, the weight of the Mexican coming down atop him unchecked.

Seeing the flash of steel in the Mexican’s hand as they both flew from the saddle, Cold Foot instinctively grasped his wrist before Lupo’s blade made its way into his chest. As the half-breed managed to offer a defense for himself, the two rolled along the rocky trail, tumbling in a rising swirl of dust.

When they stopped rolling, the half-breed rose first to his knees, then to his feet, grabbing a knife he carried stuck down in his own boot well.

Lupo came to his feet ten feet farther along the trail as the half-breed’s horse galloped on, spooked and whinnying loudly. He saw the flash of the half-breed’s
blade streak across the air between them just in time to keep him from rushing in. Crouched, the Mexican agent held himself back. The two men circled crablike. Lupo thought about the Colt behind his back beneath his poncho. He would use it as a last resort, but he wanted no noise. He needed to remain unseen and unheard, as he had been these past weeks while studying the comings and goings of the Pettigos and the Lookout Hill boys.

“I knew you were him,” the half-breed growled, still winded from the hard fall. “You never fooled me for a minute.”

“Yes, I am Juan Lupo,” the Mexican said as the two continued their slow circling stance. “I saw in your eyes that you wanted to kill me as soon as we looked at each other, but I did not understand
why.
That is why I waited here for you. I knew you would come, and I wanted to know.”

“It doesn’t matter
why
I want to kill you, Easy John,” said the half-breed. “I wanted to kill you when I first laid eyes on you in Matamoros. When I saw you ride into Copper Gully, I just wanted to kill you even worse than before.” He tossed the knife back and forth from hand to hand as they circled.

“In that case, what better way to kill each other than with the bite of cold steel, eh?” Lupo said.

“I couldn’t have said it better, Mex,” the half-breed said.

“All right, then,” said Lupo, crouching with even more deliberation, but he stopped short and straightened a little. “But as you see, I have only my dagger.” He gestured toward
the Colt in the half-breed’s holster, wanting to keep it silent too. “You have the advantage.”

“Oh, the gun,” said Cold Foot. “I almost forgot.” His bloodshot eyes had cleared considerably. He raised his Colt from its holster, examined it and cocked it toward Lupo.

It took courage for Lupo to not draw the big Walker from behind his back and end things quickly. But he held on, even as the half-breed pointed the gun at him, taking aim.

“One shot and it’s all over, Mex,” the half-breed said. “I could quit hating myself for not killing you sooner.”

Lupo felt his hand want to grab for the Walker; still, he kept held himself in control, fighting the urge.

“But I won’t do that,” said the half-breed, uncocking the gun and pitching it aside in the dirt. “I want to watch your face up close while you’re wriggling and dying on the end of my—”

His words stopped as Lupo charged at him, but he retaliated fast, launching forward in a charge of his own. Stabbing and slashing wildly at each other, the two fought chest to chest for only a second. Yet at the end of that tense second, as they backed away from each other, both stood crouched and bleeding from stabs and slashes on their blocking hands, their defending forearms, their exposed sides, their faces, their abdomens.

Ignoring his own bleeding, the half-breed gazed upon Lupo’s cuts and punctures with a gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said in a dark tone, “this is what I wanted to see.”

The two charged again. This time they didn’t back away. Instead they fell to the ground, rolling, kicking, stabbing and cutting each other relentlessly until Lupo’s dagger slipped free of his blood-slick hand. Before he could grab his dagger back from the ground, he felt the half-breed’s blade go deep into his lower side and stop against solid bone.