Nate Coffin's Revenge (15 page)

Rolling, rugged hills, and rocky streams of south Texas slowed our progress. Through a combination of single-minded determination and unspoken resolve, we covered more ground in one day than I could have imagined possible.

My diligent, eagle-eyed partner found the track a few hours into the run, and held to it like an angry badger until the light gave out again. My admiration for Boz and his unsurpassed skill grew with every passing minute. We camped on the banks of a shallow creek off the Rio Hondo that night. Inviting stream inspired me to take a quick bath. Stifling heat of the day gave way to a wonderfully cool evening.

Didn’t matter much. Once again, sleep came to me in fits and starts. Every time I closed my tired eyes, Dianna’s face appeared on the back of the lids. In some of those visions, she leaned close and whispered, “Changed my mind. Decided I couldn’t wait.” In others, she called my name and begged me to rescue her from the clutches of men birthed by animals and raised on blood.

At one point, I snapped awake and found myself sitting upright with a pistol in each hand. Boz called out, “You okay over there, Lucius?”

“Sorry. Wasn’t my intention to wake you as well.”

“You’ve been talking in your sleep, ole son.”

“What’d I say?”

“Well, last thing I heard was, ‘Oh, let up on me some. Nothin’ I can do right now. Swear I’ll take care of it.’Or somethin’ to that effect.”

“You must’ve been awake for a spell then.”

“Worried ’bout you, ole son. Done said you should try not to let this thing bother you so much. Meant it. We’ll arrive in Uvalde by late tomorrow afternoon. Should be able to find out something definite then.”

Rolled back into my bedroll. “Certainly hope so. You can’t imagine how bad I feel about this whole affair, Boz.”

“Given the way you’ve been actin’, think I might have some idea. Trust me, if I can lay hands on anyone who took part in Mrs. Savage’s abduction, he’ll tell us everything he ever knew—from the day of his birth to a minute before we found him. Way these kinds of bastards run off at the mouth, all we’ve got to do is hit a few saloons in town, and I’d be willing to bet things start poppin’ mighty fast.”

True to his word, Boz led us to the outskirts of Uvalde, at a little after three o’clock the following afternoon. We reined up in a stand of live oaks. Leafy, overarching shelter provided respite from an unrelenting sun.

“One of my favorite places in Tejas. Town’s widely known for its trees,” Boz said as he wiped his neck with a damp bandanna.

Poured water from my canteen over my wrists, took a sip, and ran some down the back of my neck. “They are amazing. Quite beautiful.”

“I’ve heard some even call Uvalde the City of Trees. Feller named Black laid the place out right after the Big Fight. Built a series of plazas all through town. Started out being a right peaceful place to settle. Unfortunately for the clod kickers, these days more’n a few cattle rustlers, horse thieves, pistol fighters, and murderous desperadoes call the town home.”

“Coffin must be the worst of ’em.”

“They’s two bad ’uns down here—John King Fisher and Nate Coffin. Be a right serious job of head scratchin’ to figure out which one’s the dead-level worst.”

“Appears the trail of them that took Dianna leads straight into town, ’less we’ve missed the mark.”

“Yep. Why don’t we mosey on in and rattle some cages?”

“Smoky Tiner mentioned a place called Los Lobos. Find it, we’ll probably find him.”

“Hell, I know that low-life, cow-country oasis. We’ll ride right up to it.”

“What’s your thinkin’ on this deal, Boz? Should we go in as Rangers, or remove these badges and sneak in on the sly?”

He threw his head back and chuckled. “Just be damned if I’ll take my badge off. Want each and every badman in town to know the Texas Rangers have arrived, that we’re mad as hell and on the prod, and that their lives ain’t worth a bucket of cold snake piss if they cross us.”

“Glad to hear that, Boz. Far as I’m concerned, any man who’d steal a woman for sale into the life of a Mexican whore don’t need to live any longer than it’ll take to burn the gunpowder to kill ’im.” Urged Grizz forward, and over my shoulder added, “And any of them as would help in the effort ain’t no better.”

Followed the dusty Main Street west through town. Pulled up at the first plaza we reached. Tied our animals on the northeast corner in front of a sizable building project. Sign out front informed those as could read that the city planned on a brand-new opera house once all the hammering, sawing, and such got done.

We pulled shotguns and bandoliers of shells before heading across a tree-shaded square decorated with multicolored streamers, huge batches of bright red hanging chili peppers, and piñatas shaped like a variety of animals.

Every ten or fifteen feet, a smiling, sarape-wearing peon stood behind a rough-wheeled cart set up to sell tacos, tamales, spicy smoked meat on a stick, or sweets. Overwhelming smell of cooked goods permeated the dense, smoke-filled air, and caused my empty stomach to rumble.

“Must be havin’ some sort of celebration.” I said.

Boz let out a derisive snort. “Mexicans always celebratin’ somethin’. Ain’t seen one of ’em yet wouldn’t do damned near anything for the least excuse to have a party.”

We strolled around a fountain where a number of the food sellers, and their customers, suspiciously eyeballed our arrival. Kids and dogs skittered away as we heeled it toward the Los Lobos Cantina and Saloon.

Drew up in the street out front of the rough-looking watering hole, and checked the loads in our big blasters. Then, Boz gave the hooves on several of the horses tied to hitching posts a good going-over.

He slapped the last one on the rump, nodded, and said, “Whoever rode these animals are the ones we want. Paint horse has missing nails in its right rear shoe. Been seein’ it on the trail all the way here.”

“Well, my good friend, let’s step inside and see if we can’t stir this wasp’s nest up a little. Rattle some cages. Get some attention.”

“Anyone goes for a gun, Lucius, don’t hesitate. Put ’em down quick, and don’t bother tryin’ to spare whoever might get in the way. Four barrels of buckshot should take care of damned near anything we find in this scorpion’s nest.”

“You needn’t worry yourself about me, my friend. Anyone makes a move, it’ll be his last.”

We pushed through the scruffy cantina’s batwings shoulder to shoulder. Felt like walking into a cave full of rattlesnakes. Grinning Death eased in behind us and took a place at my elbow.

12

“FOR GOD’S SAKE! DON’T SHOOT NO MORE.”

MAGNIFIED BY AN oppressive afternoon’s withering heat, the heavy odors of spilt liquor, sweat, vomit, and burning tobacco rolled over us in an odiferous wave that sought an easy outlet through the watering hole’s still-swinging doors.

Music, laughter, and general gaiety we’d heard from the street evaporated like spit on a red-hot stove lid. Pair of guitar pickers and a tambourine shaker, in a back corner, had access to a side door, and vanished as sure as fog in the sunshine. Nervous group of local tipplers, who appeared desperate for an exit, carefully pushed each other past me and Boz on their way out the front.

For several seconds, everyone still inside froze in place like animals trapped by a larger and more deadly predator. General merriment and former sense of drunken celebration quickly gave way to instant, air-thickening tension. You’d of thought they surely spied black-robed Death himself, and realized He had accompanied us inside with the intent of sizing up every man with a drink in his hand for a narrow hole in the ground.

Glanced over at the rough-cut, single-plank serving bar that rested on several wooden barrels and ran along most of the right side of an oblong room, about twenty feet across and thirty feet deep. Variety of colorfully labeled bottles, filled with amber and clear liquids, sat on a second plank-and-barrel affair used as the back bar.

Large mirror with a ragged crack, which slashed its way from corner to corner, covered part of the never-been-painted, water-stained wall behind the store of liquor supplies. Wall decorations consisted of Mexican vaquero trappings—hats, spurs, whips, and such—that hung from various nails and wooden pegs around the coarse, dirt-floored liquor emporium.

Skinny, humpbacked, hatchet-faced drink slinger threw a nasty towel over his shoulder. Studied his newest patrons like he’d found a big ole dog deposit in the middle of his floor.

Barely heard him mutter, “Help you gents?” Then he reconsidered, and gingerly backed into the farthest corner away from us and whatever action might be about to occur.

Half a dozen hard-eyed pistoleros loafed at tables arranged in a row on our left that started at the front of the room and headed to the back, where the itinerant band had been set up.

Boz whispered, “You take the first table and the feller against the wall at the middle one. I’ll take the back table and the gunny out front at the middle one.”

Barely breathed, “Gotcha,” as we moved one final step closer to the primary objects of our sharply focused attention.

All the gunmen appeared to have been cut from the same piece of coarse cloth. Dressed in rough canvas pants, covered with weathered leather chaps, most sported short-tailed, open, waist-length Mexican jackets. All wore faded cotton shirts beneath. Each man had a wide-brimmed sombrero pushed back on his shoulders and held in place by a leather thong. Except for a garish variety of still-bright colors in their choice of bandannas, a casual observer would have found himself hard pressed not to describe the bunch as looking like a pack of evil brothers.

Pair of scraggly-haired, snaggle-toothed women, in bosom-revealing party dresses that’d seen better days, scurried for the corner behind the bar and cowered in a spot of safety with their surly employer.

Feller who sported a deep, bone-white scar that ran from his hatband to his stubble-covered chin sat facing us at the middle table, and pitched poker chips into a building pot. With an air of practiced disgust, he laid a fistful of well-used pasteboards aside. Then, he plucked a smoldering, hand-rolled cigarette from between chapped lips, and assumed the manner of one bored all to hell and gone.

He flipped the smoking butt our direction. As it rolled against the toe of Boz’s boot, Scar Face sneered, “What you stinkin’ gringo law bring-gairs want in heer? Thees a private fandango. You
sabe, es stupidos
.”

Boz ignored the wiseacre; didn’t hesitate for a second. “We want all the men who rode in on the horses out front.”

“And the
americana
you boys took from a Willow Junction hotel, against her will, a few days back. We’re prepared to kill every one you sons of bitches to get her back,” I added.

Hombre at the farthest table cast a sneaky glance our direction. One eye was covered with a greasy, crusted, black leather patch, and he sported a gold tooth the size of my thumb in front of a wickedly grinning mouth. “You
pendejos
know where you are? Thees place, thees town, thees whole part of Tejas belongs to his eminence Señor Nate Coffin. We can keel you both like
cucarachas
. No harm weel come to us. You
sabe, mis amigos
?” Then, he grinned at the man across the table and, under his breath, said something that sounded kind of like
“hijos de putas.”

Boz brought his shotgun to bear on the big talker and said, “Boys, you’re not talkin’ to a pair of no-authority town lawdogs. You’re talkin’ to the great State of Texas in the persons of Rangers Randall Bozworth Tatum and Lucius ‘By God’ Dodge. Followed a group of woman-stealin’ sons of bitches right to the tables where you’re sittin’. Want the lady back. Give ’er up, or die in your chairs.”

Gringo rider, decked out in various remnants of a Yankee cavalry uniform, and who sat at the table nearest me, chimed in. “The hell with the great State of Texas and all the badge-totin’ sons of Confederates like you in it. Best take your search elsewhere, Rangers.” He spit the word “Rangers” out like he’d somehow got a chunk of horse flop in his mouth. “Don’t let them batwings hit you boys in yer slow-movin’ dumb asses on the way back to the street.”

A wave of uneasy laughter rolled from table to table at the poorly thought-out gibe. The bartender and his cadre of fallen women ducked down to the point where all I could see was their wide, unblinking eyes over the edge of the bar.

Bold son of a bitch closest to the wall, at the center table, opened the ball. Didn’t recognize him till he raised his head and I could see beneath the brim of his enormous palm-leaf sombrero. Smoky Tiner turned out to be one of those fellers who just couldn’t buy a break.

Stupid bastard popped up like a branded bullfrog, kicked his chair aside, and then went for a big Remington pistol tucked behind a red sash around his skinny waist.

Yelped, “By God I kilt ole Pinky Jiles, and now Ranger Lucius Dodge is mine, boys.”

Whipped that Remington from under his sarape and fired a thunderous shot that came near on to taking my head clean off. Thumb-sized piece of burning hot lead singed the collar of my shirt and knocked a chunk of splintered wood out of the door frame around the batwings. Any man with half a brain should know it’s a hell of a bad move to miss a man pointing a shotgun your direction.

Bet from where I stood there was no more than twelve or fifteen feet between us. Can’t till this very instant imagine how ole Smoky managed not to put one in my brain box. Have to credit God with glancing my way that fateful day.

Dropped the hammer on one barrel of buckshot that hit the stupid son of a bitch like a clenched fist. Concussion from the blast sent everyone scurrying for safety. Pressed their noses into the dirt, spittle, and puke decorating the saloon’s filthy floor. Tightly bunched wad of shot knocked Tiner backward. Splattered gouts of blood, bone, and bits of clothing all over a three-foot-round chunk in the wall.