Scorpion (17 page)

The gunman picked his way among the rocks. Once, he slipped, fell to one knee and dislodged a handful of pebbles into the creek. He checked the mouth of the cave and saw nothing but the horses and a ribbon of smoke curling out from the opening. Angel held his pistol beneath his serape to keep the weapon dry. Rivulets spilled from the brim of his high-crowned sombrero. He licked his lips and continued up the hillside, anxious to have the señora and Alacron under the gun. Rincón should have stayed, Angel thought. The mestizo was a coward. He had no use for men who lacked courage. No use at all. It was time he and Raúl were rid of the likes of Mariano Rincón. High time indeed.

Angel reached the cave and carefully entered the chamber. The loud, peculiar sound of the rain pattering against his sombrero instantly ceased. Funny, he hadn’t noticed the noise before. The mestizo’s warning nibbled on the periphery of his thoughts. Supposing Alacron had heard? Angel dismissed the notion and started past the two horses, who stirred as he approached.

The animals shifted their stances and swung their heads to watch the stranger with round-eyed suspicion. The crackle of the campfire and the flickering light dispelling the storm’s gray gloom lured Angel onward. He rounded the geldings, reassuring them with a touch of his hand. He had always been good with horses and had gentled many of Najera’s wild stock. But where was the gold or glory in breaking horses? Angel brought up his pistol. He hesitated, inhaled, then darted into the center of the chamber and brought the pistol to bear on a rumpled blanket, a discarded shirt, a pair of woman’s riding boots. Mariano Rincón’s final warning suddenly reverberated in Angel’s mind.
He will hear you and you will die.

The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked and a hasty glance toward the rear of the chamber revealed the man and woman Angel Perez had come to kill. Josefina was only half dressed; she wore canvas pants and clutched a shirt to her naked bosom. She was barefoot as well. Quintero’s widow was a study in confusion and alarm as she peered over Alacron’s shoulder.

Ben McQueen was shirtless. In the firelight his muscled torso gleamed with perspiration. His trousers were hitched around his waist with a wide leather belt from which dangled a pouch containing powder and shot and a spare cylinder for the Patterson Colt he was aiming at the intruder outlined against a backdrop of rainfall and mist-shrouded ridge.

“Scorpion …” Angel hissed, and his gun hand snapped up.

Ben fired, and the gun boomed loud as a cannon in the cavern. The bullet struck Angel in the shoulder and slammed him back into the rain. He lost his footing and tumbled down the slope. Ben followed the wounded man out from the cave. The downpour pelted him, washing the dye from his muscled physique and from his hair. Ben spied Angel about twenty feet farther down the hill. The gunman was smeared with mud and had struggled to his knees. He was trying to bring his pistol into play with his left hand now, for his right arm hung useless. The pain of his shattered shoulder fueled his efforts.

Ben picked his way down the hillside, and by the time he reached Angel’s side, the rain had for the most part washed away his disguise. Angel’s jaw dropped and his gaze hardened.

“A gringo!” he said through clenched teeth. The gun in his left hand swept up. Ben’s well-placed kick sent the pepperbox spinning from the gunman’s grasp. He placed the smoking, blued-steel muzzle of his Patterson Colt against the wounded man’s temple and thumbed the hammer back. Angel grew pale, and fear replaced the pain in his eyes. He began to tremble as he beheld his own death.

For what seemed an eternity, the tableau held. Then Ben changed his mind. He grabbed Angel by the front of his serape, hauled him to his feet and, putting his face close to the gunman’s, spoke in a hushed but ominous voice.

“Get out of here!
Comprende?
Don’t look back. I give you your life … for the last time. Ride north, south, I don’t give a damn. But keep riding, away from Saltillo, away from Ventana, and away from me.” Ben contemptuously released his hold. Angel staggered and momentarily lost his footing as Ben turned his back on the humiliated young man and started up the hillside.

Angel blinked back tears of rage, his shoulders sagging, his breathing coming in coarse and ragged gasps.
Driven off like a whipped dog! No! Not again! The shame was unbearable.

“You bastard gringo!” he screamed. “It is not ended. One day we shall meet again. And I will kill you. Do you hear me? I swear on the grave of my mother, it is not finished between us.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Ben said. He turned and shot Angel Perez between the eyes. The gunman’s body flopped back and slid a yard, then rolled down the slope and came to rest in Turtle Creek. A trace of silt, caught by the runoff, washed into the dead man’s gaping mouth.

Ben holstered his revolver and returned to the cave. When he entered the chamber, he found Josefina dressed and obviously in a hurry to be on her way, no matter what the weather. She drew back as he approached. The woman seemed afraid of him, as if he were the dead man in the creek below. Ben tried to hold her, but she retreated from his outstretched arms.

“You shot him. In cold blood. Like swatting a fly. It didn’t even bother you. What kind of man … who are you?” She shrank back toward her horse.

Anger flashed in Ben’s eyes, and he caught her by the arm and forced her to face him. “I am no one. A blank. The scorpion when you need me to sting. I am the man who lay with you on that blanket, and there is no going back from it.”

He released his hold, and she turned and bit her lower lip, suddenly embarrassed by her own weakness and wrapping herself in regret for everything that had occurred. He was the man who had saved her life. Who was she to pass judgment on him now?

“Look,” Ben gently added, “Josefina …” But the words failed. She had seen too much death. He looked down at his hands and then left her side to stare through the lessening downpour at the crumpled body lying in the creek. Ben gasped. Images suddenly assailed him. Bodies tumbling. Men dying. Ned Tolliver waving and then disappearing into the trees. Screams and gunfire and horses breaking loose and running free. For a brief second fear had a chokehold on his heart, then the moment passed.

The dead man in the creek had left him no choice. Ben wasn’t about to live his life watching his back trail for the likes of Angel Perez. He did what needed to be done. He lifted the medal that lay against his chest. Just a coin, a silver coin, scratched with the initials of George Washington. Realization struck him like a slap in the face. Another fragment of memory. He grasped for more, tried to capture the thoughts and missed, and yet what was left was a sense of purpose, a feeling … no … more than a feeling … a knowledge that he came from a family whose offspring were always ready “to do what needed to be done.”

Ben pulled on his shirt, caught up his hat, and returned to the horses. The animals stamped and tossed their manes, anxious to be free of the cave and the acrid stench of powder smoke. He glanced aside at Josefina, who lowered her gaze.

“I don’t know what … I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Ben replied. “You found what you came looking for.” He glanced down at the glowing embers. Without fuel, the fire wouldn’t last. But the blaze had served its purpose, it had warmed them throughout the storm. Now was not the time or place to ask for more.

I
T WAS SAID OF
Ned Tolliver he’d gamble with the devil if the stakes were high enough. In lieu of “Old Scratch” he’d found Valentin Najera, much to the chagrin of Lucker Dobbs, who couldn’t help but be alarmed at the way Ned was winning. Serena Montenez, the proprietress of the Casa del Noche, had warned the Texans that the general was a poor loser and apt to seek retribution against those who caused him displeasure. Dobbs dabbed the perspiration from his thick, ugly features with a soiled bandanna and glanced across the courtyard at the wall, with its row of jars whose grisly contents were common knowledge. He had witnessed, Najera’s treatment of the dead Rangers firsthand, and had no desire to experience the same fate as the comrades he had betrayed. The brooding ex-patriot noted that Najera’s personal guard, eight soldiers armed with sabers and pistols, were scattered around the courtyard, dozing peacefully. But there was no doubt a single command from
EI Jefe
would snap them into action.

Seated at the table were the general and Ned Tolliver; Carlos Navarro, the mayor of Saltillo; and Emilio Granados, a local haciendado who had brought horses and cattle and left them with his vaqueros outside of town at the main encampment. Granados’s rancho was about half as large as Ventana, but he had been stricken with patriotic fervor and willingly joined the Army of Coahuila, for which he had been accorded the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. Both Navarro and Granados, weary from three and a half hours of liquor and bad luck, had folded after the general’s deal, abandoning the “field of battle” to the former Ranger and Valentin Najera. The general had been losing steadily since midnight. It seemed Tolliver could do no wrong. Every card he needed came his way no matter who dealt. The current hand was no exception.

“Sorry, General,” Tolliver said as he laid three queens faceup on the table. A broad self-satisfied grin crinkled his face. Easing back in his chair, Tolliver shoved his wire-rimmed spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose. “Three lovely ladies … for your pleasure.”

Najera stared down at his own hand. He had been certain three tens would recoup his losses. The general cursed beneath his breath and glared at Tolliver as the Texan arranged his winnings in three neat stacks; an assortment of Spanish coins, currency, and Valentin Najera’s latest wager, a pouch containing an assortment of gold nuggets that the general had personally recovered during a clandestine and solitary visit to Turtle Creek.

“You are a most fortunate hombre. Lady Luck has smiled upon you,” Najera said.

“Not luck. You take too many chances,” Tolliver replied, his narrow-eyed stare hidden behind the glint of lantern light off the lenses of his spectacles.

“A man who does not take chances cannot lead or command the respect of his men,” Najera replied, leaning back. Marita had been seated directly behind the general ever since her paramour had moved the game outside and away from the smoky interior of the cantina. She immediately leaned forward and began nibbling his ear. He brushed her away as one would a troublesome insect. Marita pouted, tossed her head like a wild colt and stalked out of the courtyard, long black hair trailing in the breeze. “That is the difference between us, I think,” Najera added, “and why you will never be any more than what you are at this moment.”

“Seems like the difference between us is that I have this here stack of coins in front of me that once belonged to you.” Ned grinned. “And what I am, General, sir, is winning, which suits me just fine.”

Dobbs groaned and gulped the pulque he had brought out from the cantina. The fiery liquid did little to placate his misgivings; still, false courage was better than none at all. He allowed his hand to drop to the butt of his Patterson Colt as he eased back into the shadowy corner where the low wrought-iron railing joined the wall of the Casa del Noche. The intricately designed railing separated the courtyard from the
mercado,
devoid of merchants now, as the hour was approaching a quarter past one in the morning. The amber glare of the oil lamps failed to reach where Dobbs took up position. If trouble developed, it was every man for himself. Ned Tolliver was on his own and partnership be damned.

“Easy on the gun, gringo.” Dobbs recognized the stuporous voice of Raúl Salcedo. The gunman was seated before an open window where he could keep watch on the entire courtyard and, most especially, the general’s back. The aroma of chili and freshly warmed tortillas trailed Raúl’s quiet warning through the open window.

Dobbs allowed his hand to sweep past his gun. “Ain’t no need to get riled, Mex. I’m just scratching my ass.” The turncoat Ranger clawed at the seat of his britches and flashed a broken-tooth grin. Dobbs shifted his stance and made a show of stretching and yawning.

“Reckon I’ll catch me some shut-eye.” Dobbs caught a glimmer of lightning off to the northwest. “Storm coming.” He shoved clear of the wall, touched a hand to the brim of his hat, and nodded to the silhouette in the window. “Reckon I’ll mosey on home.”

Tolliver and Dobbs shared a jacal a few blocks off Market Square. They had chosen not to bed down in the hotel or one of the bordellos, as neither of the americanos wished to announce his comings and goings to Najera’s guard. Tolliver’s poker winnings were the first real money either man had seen, although Najera kept assuring them both they would be paid for their recent treachery. Tolliver trusted no man. If Najera should decide he no longer needed the service of the former Rangers, the two men wanted at least a chance to slip away from the town unnoticed.

Raúl wasn’t about to let the man out of his sight until the general had finished with both of the Texans.

“I think you had better return to the side of your compadre,” Raúl said, punctuating his advice by cocking the twin hammers on a double-barreled percussion pistol gripped in his right hand. “Sit with him in the light where I can see you. Perhaps you will bring him luck, eh?”

“Younker, you got a habit of getting on a man’s nerves.”

Raúl merely leaned forward, allowing Dobbs to see the menacing twin barrels of the gun he held. It was a heavy-bore weapon, probably .54 caliber, from what Dobbs could tell. The gun packed enough punch to cut a man off at the waist, even one with as much of a gut as Lucker Dobbs.

“Reckon I ain’t as tired as I thought.” Dobbs did as he was ordered. The big man lowered his weight into a chair at a table alongside the one occupied by Ned Tolliver and Valentin Najera.

Mayor Navarro nodded to the americano then lifted his clay mug and scowled to find it empty. He set the mug aside, licked his dry lips and tried to remember just how much he had drunk. Ah, but his head felt as if it were stuffed with straw, and the immediate past hidden behind a blur of cards, pulque, and tobacco smoke. Granados reached for the cards, it was his deal, but the general caught the haciendado’s wrist and pulled his hand away from the deck.