Nate Coffin's Revenge (20 page)

“We got much farther to ride?” I asked.

“Nuevo Laredo’s across the river and down to the south a bit. We’re still a few miles northwest. Rough
pueblecito
sits directly across the river from Laredo.”

Boz threw a long, weary leg over his saddle horn, pulled makings, and set to rolling a smoke. Between puffs he said, “Whatever we do, boys, cain’t let the bucolic appearance or God-granted beauty of this slow-moving place lull us into a false sense of safety. Every burro-leadin’ son of a bitch down here’s armed and hates gringo lawmen. Especially Texas Rangers. Worst cutthroats amongst ’em is likely workin’ for this feller Bejarano.”

His blunt assessment of our situation surprised me some. “You really think so, Boz? Figured sure this would be a lot easier confrontation than the one we just had with Nate Coffin.”

“Tell you the truth, Lucius. We’d best take the time to get loaded for bear. Shotguns at the ready when we enter town— plenty of extra shells at hand. Every pistol with bullets in all chambers. None of that five-shooter, save-me-from-possibly-woundin’-myself-in-the-foot horseshit. We’re gonna need fully packed and focused firepower at every turn.”

Ox flicked a finger in the direction of my chest. “You boys might consider takin’ them badges off too.”

“Why would we want to do that?” I asked.

“Boz hit the nail right on its rusty head, Lucius. If they’s one thing folks down this way hate, with an unbridled, blood-lettin’ passion, it’s the Texas Rangers. You boys show up on the streets of Nuevo Laredo sportin’ them handmade shoot-me-right-now signs, and we’ll all be dead as rotten stumps long ’fore we can even make it to the Yeller Flower.”

Boz said, “Well, it’s gettin’ late. Don’t know ’bout either of you, but I ain’t real anxious about tryin’ this raid in the dark. We’re close enough now. Might as well rest the horses. Use some time to clean our weapons. Make sure they’re primed and ready. Given the way we look and smell, might even be a good idea to bathe ourselves in the river.”

Didn’t need much in the way of encouragement when any opportunity to bathe came up. Dragged myself off Grizz, stripped down, and fell into the Rio Grande like a dead tree. Felt much better after.

Spent the rest of that evening, and late into that night, getting prepared for the next day’s assault. Talked it over some more and decided we’d enter town from three different directions.

Lit by a flickering campfire, Ox drew a crude map in the sand, and went over various routes in an effort to make sure everyone understood how to arrive at our objective. “We’ll be a lot less likely to draw unwanted attention this way. We go in three abreast, bristling with weapons, every peon south of the border’ll know we’re comin’ within a few minutes. Have to use our watches. Work it just right. That way we can mosey through town separate and pretty much unobserved. Meet out front of Bejarano’s joint together. Then we’ll all waltz in at the same time. Really give ’em what fer.”

Boz glanced up at his friend. “Got any ideas about what we’ll find, Ox? Reckon we’re in for much of a fight?”

“You know as much as I do. Never can tell about these places. One day, the joint could be as empty as an Arizona water gourd in July. Next day, a man might have to wait outside for his turn to get drunk and fornicate. Another day won’t find an hombre who’s armed. Then again, every man within a hundred miles could be carryin’ five pistols and primed to do murder. Either way, this ain’t gonna be easy.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, Lucius, I don’t think gettin’ to the Flower will prove much of a problem. But once we’ve got Mrs. Savage in hand, gettin’ out and makin’ our way back across the river alive could well turn into a real challenge. Best prepare yourself for one blisterin’ gunfight, boys. Soon as the shootin’ starts, every vaquero in Nuevo Laredo is gonna be tryin’ his level best to kill all of us deader’n Hell at a Baptist tent meetin’.”

Our old amigo’s ominous warnings had a profoundly off-putting effect on me that night. Couldn’t sleep worth a wagonload of shucks. Even when I did manage to close tired eyes, blood-soaked dreams of terror and death filled my restless efforts at slumber. Rolled out of my lumpy bedding the next morning, and felt like someone had stood over my restless body and beat on me with a singletree from a Concord coach all night long.

Had an abbreviated meal of tough jerky and bad coffee before the sun got up good. Waded our animals across the shallow barrier between Texas and its poverty-stricken sister and pointed them south.

Came upon the edge of town pretty quick. Boz and Ox skirted on around to the west while I found a shady spot. Lit myself a smoke and waited an extra thirty minutes.

As soon as the time seemed right, pulled my shotgun from its bindings and checked the loads for the final time. Balanced it across my saddle as me and Grizz ambled our way into the rough village along a narrow, rock-hard, rutted trail that crossed a number of similar mazelike lanes. Closely hemmed in on either side by featureless, crumbling, dust-covered adobe houses set cheek by jowl, the cramped streets gave me a severe case of the creeping spooks.

Skinny, frightened dogs dressed in dull brown or mottled yellow fur appeared, showed their stained teeth, barked, and, just as quickly, vanished. Hardly any people out and about that fateful morning save the occasional big-eyed, runny-nosed child. Didn’t matter. Still got the uncomfortable feeling of being constantly watched before I reached the main thoroughfare and headed west.

Turned the corner and spotted Ox as he made his way in from the opposite direction. Within seconds, Boz appeared from the south.

We followed Turnbow’s lead. The three of us converged out front of one of the only free-standing, two-story buildings constructed from cut lumber. Painted in a bright, liquid green, trimmed in vivid pink, a blind man couldn’t have missed it. Even that early in the morning, drunken laughter and ear-piercing trumpet music poured from behind a set of bloodred batwings and into the street.

Boldly lettered sign left no doubt we’d arrived at the right place. The most realistic painted yellow rose I’d ever seen decorated a background that matched the color on the doors. Stepped off our animals and, shoulder to shoulder, headed straight for the entrance. Boz took the center spot. I was on his left, Ox on the right.

Closer we got to the entryway, the louder the music and noisy celebration sounded. Stopped a step or two away from the interior of the combination cantina and whorehouse. Nodded nervous good-byes to each other, just in case that morning’s job didn’t work out in our favor. Pushed the swinging doors back and stepped inside. Ox and I quickly peeled off and we each headed for the closest corner.

Boz raised his big popper, cut loose, and blew a washtubsized hole in the ceiling over the heads of the Yellow Flower’s stunned and bug-eyed patrons. Concussion from the blast blew out the flame of a still-lit lamp that hung behind the bar. Thick puff of spent black powder rolled through the Mexican watering hole like a dark, churning wave on a storm-tossed lake. Entire place went so quiet you could hear your own hair grow.

Noise level, before we entered, belied the number of drunken revelers inside. I stood at the end of a fancy, out-of-place, well-shined bar that fully appeared to belong in a San Francisco saloon. Took a quick head count. Came up with seven men who all looked the part of hardened gunmen. They all sat at rude tables covered with bright, multicolored sarapes.

Bartender threw up his hands and backed as far away from me as he could get. The three-man band—a guitar plucker, fiddle player, and trumpet blower—was located against the far wall. They eased toward safety behind what was left of a battered upright piano.

Boz breeched his smoking weapon, reloaded, snapped it closed, and pitched the spent brass away. Empty hit the floor with a hollow, metallic ring, and rolled toward an overflowing spittoon near the foot rail of the bar.

He threw a hot glance at the cowering drink wrangler and said,
“Habla ingles, amigo?”

Terrified man’s eyes darted from Boz to me and back again. “
Sí, señor
. A little.” Word little came out sounding like leetle.

“Where’s Alfonso Bejarano?”

“
Que?
”

Boz sounded quite a bit testier the second time around when he said,
“Donde está Alfonso Bejarano?”

Man appeared so frightened he couldn’t speak. Several times he attempted to make sounds that never came out. Finally he made the slightest of nervous motions. Lifted his shoulders as if to say, “I’ve got not a single idea on that particular subject.”

Wound up tighter than the strings on a Missouri fiddle, I shook my shotgun at the same feller and demanded,
“Donde está la mujer americana?”
Must admit it surprised me some when he raised a single, trembling finger and pointed to a spot somewhere above his head.

At the same time, the three of us shot a quick glance toward the stairs. Right quick I realized we’d have to go through every Mexican pistoleer in attendance to get where we had to go.

Took one step. Four of the hard-as-horseshoe-nails-looking carousers shoved ladder-backed chairs away from their tables and swayed to unsteady feet. Fiery, prickling sensation ran up my spine and, like an angry scorpion, found its way to my scalp. Knew in an instant they intended to fight. No backing down in those men.

As though previously agreed upon, they all went for their weapons. Do declare it was the damned stupidest thing I’ve ever seen that many people do at the same unthinking moment. Couldn’t a one of them fellers been much smarter than half his hat size.

Have puzzled over the bloody events that followed for nearly a lifetime. Even after all these years, I could not truthfully testify in any court as to who fired the first shot. Think maybe Ox led the way, but might have been Boz, or maybe one of those chuckleheaded Mexican pistoleros. Didn’t matter then and still don’t. At any rate, Nuevo Laredo’s ill-famed Yellow Flower erupted in a crescendo of general gunfire from both sides of the disagreement. Blasting sent everyone who had managed to live through the first barrage scurrying for cover behind anything at hand.

An invisible blade from six barrels of .10-gauge buckshot sliced through at least three of those Mexican gunmen like a sharpened scythe takes down sun-seared wheat. Tables, chairs, bottles, and men exploded. Flew into a spray of gore-saturated bits right before my eyes.

Quick as possible, I dropped to the floor. Lucked into a much-appreciated degree of safety behind the far end of the bar. Found I could load up, hold the shotgun around my sheltered spot, fire blindly at our adversaries, and repeat the process with little fear of being damaged. No real need to aim. Big, ole .10-gauge mowed down everything in front of its destruction-belching muzzle.

For what seemed like an eternity the continuous, unnerving, soul-shattering thunder from our big poppers, along with all the return fire from the pistols of our outgunned opponents, proved damned near deafening. Noise level led me to feel as though the vengeful hand of the true God had descended on that gaudy border-town booze locker and smacked it so hard the ceiling joists creaked, bent, and almost broke. My ears rang like cathedral bells. Dust from the ceiling, along with burnt black powder and loosened plaster, rained down on everyone.

Guess we’d got about a minute and a half into red-eyed, murderous blasting when the deadly dance started to let up a bit. Of a sudden, I heard Boz yell at me over an unimpressive series of staccato pistol shots fired our direction. Was damn near deaf from all the gunfire that’d been squeezed into the room. Against my overly abused eardrums, he sounded like a man at the bottom of an Arkansas well.

Took a second or so before I spotted him through the thick screen of vaporized blood and hanging filth, filled with death.

“You still livin’, Lucius?” he yelled.

“Not so much as a scratch so far,” I yelled back. “How ’bout Ox?”

Could barely see Boz flash a toothy grin through the haze. Boz yelped, “You couldn’t kill that man with a sledgehammer and forty whacks.”

Random shots from a single remaining opponent eventually petered out. Several minutes of near complete quiet, moans, Spanish entreaties I couldn’t understand, and weeping, led us to gamble some, stand, and survey all the carnage we’d wrought.

God Almighty, but you’d of been sorely pressed to find a single stick of formerly existing furniture still intact. Glanced down and counted the empties at my feet. Appeared I’d ripped off near twenty loads of buckshot. Given that Boz and Ox most likely put an equal amount of hot lead in the air, astonished me that anything in front of our guns had managed to escape total annihilation.

Bartender peeked out at me, motioned upstairs again, and whispered,
“La mujer americana es arriba, señor.”

Turned to Boz and said, “You boys take care of this mess. I’ll find Dianna, and we’ll get the hell out of here. Watch my back. Don’t let anyone follow me up.” They nodded, and I headed for the second floor.

Took those stairs two at a time. Landing opened into a dingy, unpainted hallway that ran from the back of the building to the front. Grit and filth from years of use decorated the walls.

Three doors located on either side of the passage faced each other like silent, hooded sentinels waiting for me to pass. A single portal remained closed—the last one on the left, before you reached a window that overlooked the street below.

As I made my way to the last entry on the left, several frightened, almost naked girls appeared. No older than thirteen or fourteen years of age, they squealed, darted from various hiding places, sprinted past me, and headed down the stairs.

Gingerly stepped up to the edge of my objective and squatted. Heartbeat and a half later, four shots fired from inside the room crashed through the flimsy wall and rough-plank door above my head.

Few seconds of quiet passed and a feller inside said, “You still alive, amigo?”