West of Tombstone (10 page)

‘Of course. If they brought anyone else in at this point they'd have to split the gold another way.'

‘That is so,' Carmalita agreed. ‘And if there were ten men instead of three, it would draw attention. A band of men that size would alert people that trouble might be arriving. Cameron,' the girl said, revolving her cup on its saucer but never sipping the coffee, ‘two of the men, Willie and Slyke – I did not know that was his name – the one with a head like an egg, no hair even on his face – are staying in rooms at the cantina.'

‘And Stony Harte?' Cameron Black asked, and astonishingly the girl blushed and turned her eyes down in shame.

‘They are at my mother's house. Las Colinas is my home, as you know. And it is my sister's. My mother is very old and she is nearly blind, half deaf, quite infirm. It is so sad that Emily has told my mother that Stony is her Americano husband. My mother feels a little sad because my sister has married a
gringo
; if she knew the truth of what Stony is, I believe it would be her death.'

‘I understand.'

‘When Emily and her “husband” come home from a business trip – buying horses is what they say, selling them in Mexico – they bring presents for Mama and Emily hugs her and Mama is so happy, glad that her daughter has everything she needs.' Carmalita hesitated. ‘She does not know that Stony Harte is a robber, a gunman. She does not see the way he treats Emily. How he beats her and curses her and calls her names.'

‘Emily takes it?'

‘She takes it, covers her bruises and crawls back like a beaten bitch.'

‘I understand now, a little more, why you hate Stony,' Cameron replied. ‘And all the time, does he—?'

‘Yes, of course!' Carmalita answered. ‘All the time he takes every chance to try to grab me, threaten me, tell me how beautiful I am, how much gold he would give me.' Her face finally lifted and although she had not been crying, Cameron could see the hidden tears in her eyes. His resolve was growing stronger. He himself had been shot, left for dead, imprisoned, but somehow that had already begun to fade from memory. He had survived.

But the heartbreak in Carmalita's voice was much more touching than his own sorrows. He did not believe for a moment that he was strong enough to best a hardened killer like Stony Harte, but he had resolved that he was strong enough to
try
.

‘It's better to go after the two in the cantina first,' Cameron said, after a long period of thought. ‘Do they drink enough to muddle their thinking?' He recalled the ‘white lightning' the gang members had had at the hideout cabin. Raw spirits, as close to pure alcohol as could be distilled.

Carmalita told him, ‘They get drunk, flirt with the girls, try to start fights and sometimes fall down on the cantina floor. The owner does not care – they spend money very freely. Always in gold.'

‘I wonder what Stony thinks of that?' Cameron mused.

‘I can tell you. Listening at their bedroom door, I have heard Stony tell Emily that he was going to ditch the two of them. I don't understand that word in that sense, but if it means what I think it does, Slyke and Willie will never get their share of the remaining gold. He gives them just enough to stay drunk on.'

‘That makes sense from Harte's point of view. And, by the way, the word means to leave someone on the side of the road, in a ditch.'

‘That is what I thought,' Carmalita said, with a seriousness that almost made Cameron burst out laughing. She again bit at her underlip as she pondered the real gravity of Harte's deviousness. A sincere, strong and yet childlike woman she was a refreshingly bright strain of some new blossom in Cameron's eyes, and in his heart. He chased his boyish thoughts away. Who was he, after all, even to hope for such a woman to stand with him? He, himself, was an escaped convict, a penniless desert coyote going nowhere – unless Tombstone with the vague and menial prospect of gaining a job as a muleteer could be called
somewhere
.

‘We'll eliminate those two first,' Cameron said.

‘How?' Carmalita asked.

‘I don't know. But Stony alone is still only one man. We'll take care of Willie and Slyke some way.'

‘Murder!'

‘Carmalita,' Cameron Black said, extending his hand across the small table, ‘I cannot murder. Thank God I am incapable of that act.' She took his hand and her grip was warm, gentle and yet still strong. She was that sort of woman. ‘But we will find a way. Let's think a little more about it.'

One thing still bothered him deeply. ‘Emily. She won't want to leave Stony. What are we to do, kidnap her? You know you can't convince her in minutes – you must have tried that.'

‘If it must be done,' Carmalita said, with the determination of a child-woman, ‘I will kidnap her! I will not let my sister be turned into a whipped dog.'

And that was all there was to that. At least in the quite-resolute Carmalita's mind. Before he told her what he had in mind for the outlaws, Cameron looked deeply into her Spanish eyes and said frankly, ‘Carmalita, you must understand one thing: I am not Robin Hood or Jesse James either.'

Their hands still touched and she squeezed his slightly. ‘I know that … this makes you better, you see, Cameron Black. You know you are not invincible and yet you are willing to try despite your doubts and fears. For me. This makes you better than they were. You, Cameron Black, are a
man
.'

Their plan was risky, but both knew they could not hope to snatch Emily from Stony Harte's grip if all the while they had to watch their backs for the two other Harte gunmen who might appear at any time. The decision they came to was not one Cameron Black liked, but he admitted it was the likeliest ploy toward success.

It all centered on Carmalita and her desirability. Slyke and Willie both knew her, of course, if by sight alone, and once they were in their cups, they were bound to have their lower instincts aroused if it seemed Carmalita was a woman of promise. That was the part of the plan Cameron did not like. In fact, it revulsed him, but if there were any way to lure one of the gunmen away from the cantina crowd and keep him off his guard, this was it. It was difficult to imagine any man spurning Carmalita's advances, and one in a drunken state would give no thought to the possible hazards beyond his own desires.

‘I don't like it,' Cameron said one more time.

‘
I
do not like it,' Carmalita said simply. ‘Is there another way?'

‘Not that I can think of,' he answered unhappily.

‘Then, we look to the goal and not to the method.'

There was no way to plan against all contingencies. There were too many variables. What they intended to do was remove Slyke and Willie Durant from the scene long enough so they could be sure of facing Stony Harte alone. Not that he alone was not enough of a challenge, but the odds were better nonetheless. All of it was to be done long after darkness fell, the closer to midnight the better. By then, as was their custom, Stony's henchmen should be well in their cups and Stony himself asleep in Emily's bed. Carmalita's mother would also be asleep at that time – Cameron meant to cause her no more distress than necessary.

The day slogged past in hot white lethargy. The flies buzzed around the room. Children played in the streets, pursued by happy dogs. Cameron dozed stiffly in the wooden chair, his folded arms growing cramped. Each time he opened his eyes, however, there was Carmalita, awake and alert, looking through the curtains or glancing expectantly at the door to her room. He watched once as, weary with concern and grief over her sister, she leaned her fist against the wall and placed her forehead against it. Her shoulders trembled slightly with a sob, but she shook herself out of the mood and began straightening the already tidy room with nervous efficiency. She was a strong woman, and a bold one, this Spanish girl, and Cameron felt guilty about the pangs of doubt he held. Doubts of his own ability to rescue the situation. She had so much confidence in him, and yet he was forced to consider if he was up to the task.

The slanting sunbeams took on a more horizontal angle and then were devoured by purple dusk. Cameron still pretended to sleep although he needed to be up and moving. The waiting was enervating. There was no clock in the room, but he knew it was still too soon to make their try. He rose stiffly and walked to the window, staring out at the pueblo. Lamps and candles went off at intervals and there was the singing of the cicadas, the chirping of the crickets announcing the night's entry.

‘Shall we go?' he asked Carmalita, who had placed a dark shawl across her shoulders and she nodded.

‘I can't endure waiting any longer.' She glided rather than walked to him and placed a heavy object in his hand. ‘I don't know if this is in fine order, but I thought it was a good thing for you to have. It was my father's.'

It was an ancient Walker Colt, heavy and old-fashioned, the model they used to call a ‘horse pistol' because it was carried on the pommel of a saddle, being too heavy for a man's holstered leg. It had been kept in good repair, and recently oiled, it seemed. ‘It will do what it was designed to do,' Cameron said, examining the .44 revolver.

He thrust it behind his belt and drew a deep breath. ‘I like none of this, Carmalita,' he said, looking down into her hopeful eyes.

‘Nor do I, Cameron Black, but we will do what must be done.'

They went out into the boisterous corridor of the cantina.

Below, men drank, smoked, shouted, gambled and cursed. A woman's shrill laugh rang out above the rumble of the male din.

With gestures, Carmalita urged Cameron Black into the storeroom at the foot of the stairs where all was silent and dim. Poking around as she moved away, he found a spool of waxed twine on a workbench. It was strong enough to do their work if Carmalita's plan did not fail. Hoisting himself onto a crate Cameron Black decided that it could not fail. What man would not accompany her wherever she asked him to? Cam didn't like to think what nasty, spidery thoughts could crawl through the mind of the gunman. He sat, alert with nervousness, and waited.

The cantina was alive with the whirl of dancers and the roaring laughter of the drinking men. Carmalita was not troubled by it. She had taken the upstairs room a long time ago when it became obvious that Emily would return frequently to her home with Stony Harte. She hated that man and needed to stay away from her mother's house. Mostly the men who came to the cantina just drank too much and acted like silly boys. She paid them no mind, and she was afforded courtesy.

But on this night her slashing eyes were alert to every gesture and face. Both of Harte's accomplices were there, though widely separated. The bald man, Slyke, stood at the bar, foot on the brass rail, hat tilted back. His partner, Willie, the one with the badly mangled nose sat in the far corner, holding a girl she knew only as Alicia on his lap. Now and then Alicia would try to rise and escape, but Willie kept her there by force, laughing at each attempt.

Which one? It did not matter, Carmalita decided. She had been steeling herself for this moment all day long. Now, like an actress confident in her role, she walked to the long, scarred bar and positioned herself beside Slyke who looked up at her with pleased surprise.

‘Hello, doll!' Slyke said, adjusting his hat over his bald head. ‘I seen you around here, haven't I?'

‘I work here,' Carmalita answered. ‘I live here.'

‘Is that so?' Slyke said, drinking a shot of whiskey. His very words, blatant in their implicit meaning caused Carmalita's body to tense; her stomach seemed to shrink and grow hard. There was too much at stake to show any fear or doubts. She placed a falsely bright smile on her mouth.

‘That is so,' she answered, and she could feel Slyke's eyes disrobing her.

‘Well, well,' the gunman said. ‘Nice we could talk. Would you like something to drink?' He leaned nearer and Carmalita could smell his reek. His entire body smelled something like a badly rotted tooth. She tried her smile again; it was almost painful to do so as the badman continued to watch her with glazed yellowish eyes. But Slyke saw only what he wanted to see.

‘I do not like what they serve,' Carmalita told him. ‘I only drink Madeira.'

‘Is that so? Well, where can we get some of that, doll? I'll buy you some!' he said, growing expansive, and too obviously drawing a twenty-dollar gold piece from the pocket of his jeans. Carmalita felt herself seeming to shrink again. How could any of these women live like this and have any self-respect! How could Emily …?

‘I have a good bottle of wine in my room. Upstairs,' she said, gesturing with her head. ‘I don't know if you would like Madeira.…'

‘Doll,' Slyke said, tugging the brim of his hat even lower with a wink, ‘I like anything you like.'

Glancing around the room, a movement Slyke probably took for caution but which Carmalita actually used to turn her eyes away from the slug of a man, she answered as she had practiced, ‘Well, just for one drink, it might be allowed, sir.'

Slyke's grin threatened to separate his face into different spheres as he tossed down the last of his whiskey and motioned with his hand.

‘Let's go. Later we can decide what's allowed.'

And Carmalita was still smiling brightly as she swirled her skirt once and led the gunhand toward the staircase. Her only thought was:

Let this work!

EIGHT

‘There's nothing to it,' Cameron Black was thinking as he watched the cantina from the storeroom, the door open only an inch or so. Grab the man from behind, club him down. He won't know what hit him.

It didn't go so simply.

The first sounds he heard were Carmalita's heels clicking against the wooden floor. Then came the shuffling of boot leather. He caught a glimpse of the man's face in the poor light. It was Slyke. She had chosen Slyke first. Cameron slipped the horse pistol from behind his belt and hefted the heavy, ancient Walker.