William W. Johnstone (15 page)

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Authors: Savage Texas

BOOK: William W. Johnstone
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“He’ll get what Monty and his pards got. I’m through drifting. Nobody’s bulling me off my land.”
“. . . ’Course, that don’t mean we can’t make a strategic retreat,” Johnny added. “Let’s herd most of the horses to the upland park where they’ll be safe out of sight. Then we go into town tonight. We’ll pick up some information and see which way the wind’s blowing.”
“Hot damn! That ain’t all I’m gonna pick up,” Luke said. “You know how long it’s been since I had me a woman?”
“Judging by the steam coming out of your ears, I’d say too long,” Johnny said.
F
IFTEEN
 
Gunfire sounded on Thursday afternoon at Rancho Grande. It came from behind the back of the hacienda, the big house.
Sam Heller and Lorena Castillo went toward it, Lorena leading the way. They walked side by side, a respectable arm’s-length of distance between them. The sun’s strong heat felt good to Sam. His left shoulder and side ached, and the soothing warmth soaked into him.
Somewhere beyond the north face of the hacienda, a pair of handguns was blasting away. Sam and Lorena rounded the northwest corner of the house. “Here is where our pistoleros practice their skills,” Lorena said.
The area behind the back of the house was a stretch of open, empty space, far removed from the corral, stables, bunkhouse, outbuildings, and the little rancheria, the handful of shacks belonging to married vaqueros with families. The space had been turned into a shooting gallery.
A tiled patio aproned the north face of the hacienda. Beyond its far edge lay a broad, grassy yard enclosed by a chest-high adobe wall covered with a white limestone wash. Behind the wall rose an eight-foot-high earthen mound that served as a kind of a bullet-catching berm, a backstop for target practice. The earthen mound showed a face of bare dirt; no blade of grass grew upon it.
The top of the wall was lined with a row of empty glass bottles, pieces of pottery, water jugs, empty flowerpots and the like. The bullet-pocked adobe wall was cratered like the face of the moon. It evoked in Sam’s mind the sinister impression of a backdrop for a firing squad. Perhaps it had been used for just that, he thought, though the wall was bare of bloodstains. Don Eduardo reigned supreme on Rancho Grande; he was the law here, wielding the power of life and death.
It was mid-afternoon. The sun hung halfway between the zenith and the western horizon. A man stood at the ornate stone balustrade at the far end of the patio, facing the adobe wall. An oversized figure in a big sombrero, he cast a long, angular shadow that slanted east.
The effect was a trick of the light, for there was nothing angular about this big bear of a man. Shaggy-haired, some of his graying locks were entwined into long, snaky braids with little bows of colored ribbons knotted into the ends. The lower half of his face was covered by a bushy irongray beard.
He stood facing the adobe wall, a six-gun in each hand, blazing away at the bottles and pottery lined up on top of the wall bordering the yard. Alternating from one to the other, he fired the gun in his right hand, then the one in his left. Each shot scored, shattering a bottle or pot.
Lorena halted where the patio edged the house, Sam stopping beside her. She moved her mouth close to his ear to be heard over the gunfire. “That is Vasquez,” she said. “Do not let his size fool you. He is quick with a gun—lightning fast. The jefe, the chief of Don Eduardo’s pistoleros.”
A boy stood facing a wooden plank table in the upper left-hand corner of the patio. A slight youth with glossy black hair and birdlike features, he was loading one of a line of pistols laid out on the table.
A door opened in the north wall of the house and a man stepped out on to the patio. He was carrying some of Sam’s gear: the mule’s-leg sawed-off rifle in its custom-made leather rig; a bandolier whose loops were filled with cartridges for the weapon; and a long, flat, dark wooden box with a suitcase-type handle.
He made brief eye contact with Lorena, inclining his head slightly in an almost imperceptible bow. Was there a touch of courtly formality there, a sign of obeisance? Or had Sam imagined it? The gesture was quick and subtle, and he was unsure of its meaning, if any.
“That is Gitano,” Lorena said, low-voiced. “Mark him well, hombre. He is one of mine. His family has served the House of Delgado, my people, since long before the Castillos came to this land. Like Alma, he was one of my retainers who came here to stay with me at Rancho Grande when I married Ramon.”
Sam recognized Gitano as the piratical-looking Gypsy from the night Lorena had doctored him. In his mid-twenties, he had straight hair, matte black, parted in the middle and reaching to his jawline. It framed a sharp-featured, dark-eyed, clean-shaven face.
Sunlight glinted off the gold hoop-ring piercing his left earlobe. The cheeks of his mahagonycolored face were pitted with smallpox scars.
He had broad shoulders, a tapering torso, lean hips. He wore a white ruffled-front long-sleeved shirt, thin black vest, black bell-bottom pants, and good boots. A scarlet sash was wrapped around his middle like a cummerbund, a gun stuck in the top of it.
The hammer of the gun in Vasquez’s right hand clicked on an empty chamber. The gun in his left also came up empty. The top of the wall was cleared of bottles and ceramics, only pieces of broken glass and potsherds remaining. Vasquez set the empty pistols down on the table so the boy could reload them.
Gitano crossed to the far end of the patio, bootheels clicking on the tiles. Vasquez glanced over his shoulder, saw Gitano coming. Saw, beyond him, Sam and Lorena.
Gitano set down Sam’s hardware on the wooden table.
Sam and Lorena climbed three shallow stone steps to the patio and crossed toward the opposite end. Vasquez turned to face them. Here was the ogre from when Sam had had the bullet pulled. He was all heavy upper body and torso, bandy legs seeming stunted by comparison.
Vasquez doffed his big sombrero in a gesture of respect. “
Buenos tardes,
Señora Lorena,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Hector,” she said.
Vasquez’s eyes glittered as he gave Sam Heller the once-over. His face split in a big, toothy grin. “Back on your feet, eh, gringo? The last time I saw you, you were flat on your back. I thought we would have to bury you.”
“Hope you’re not too disappointed,” Sam said.
“Ha ha, you make the joke, yes? That is good.”
A man exited the house on to the patio. In his mid-thirties, of medium height, he was trim, athletic, with wavy brown hair slicked back and shaped into a pompadour. His chiseled oval face featured almond-shaped moist brown eyes and an eyebrow mustache.
He wore a short chocolate-colored jacket with black frogging and trimmings, matching pants that flared at the cuffs, a pale yellow shirt with ruffles at neck and wrists, a hand-tooled brown leather gun belt with an elaborately engraved gold buckle, and a holstered gun worn low on the left-hand side. Expensive imported boots of fine cordovan leather showed off his small, narrow feet to good advantage.
Vasquez, Gitano and the boy reloading the guns acknowledged his entrance with respectful head-bows. The newcomer crossed to Sam and Lorena. He smiled from ear to ear, exhibiting a gleaming mouthful of pearly teeth.
“Senor Diego, meet Samuel Heller,” Lorena said, pronouncing Sam’s last name with the H silent: “Ay-lair.” “Senor Heller, this is Diego Castillo, son of Don Eduardo and my brother-in-law.”
Diego made no motion to shake hands, nor did Sam make the mistake of expecting him to. Sam acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of the head, not a bow but a nod.
Diego’s beaming grin remained undimmed. “Ah yes, the mysterious stranger in whose wellbeing our beloved Lorena has taken such an interest.”
“My interest is in all things affecting Rancho Grande,” she said.
“Quite so. It is a tribute to your healing skills that our guest is back on his feet so soon.”
“For which the Señora has my gratitude and thanks—as do you, Señor, for the hospitality of your house,” said Sam.
Diego made a dismissive gesture, as if brushing away a bothersome insect. “It is of no matter.”
“Of considerable matter to me, Señor. I hope to thank Don Eduardo for the kindnesses shown to a stranger.”
“I doubt that will be possible. The
padrone
is of a most retiring nature and rarely grants the privilege of a personal audience to outsiders.”
“Then perhaps you will be so good as to convey to him my deep thanks and appreciation.”
“I will endeavor to do so—when the Don finds the time to condescend to meet with me, his own son.” Diego laughed somewhat self-consciously, as though aware of having revealed perhaps too much of the Castillo family’s inner workings.
He pointedly turned his attention to the weaponry arrayed on the table, displaying a special interest in the mule’s-leg. “So this is the unusual firearm I have heard mention of! A most formidable-appearing instrument. I have never seen one quite like it. A cut-down rifle, no?”
“That’s right, Señor,” Sam said. “It’s a Winchester, the latest make. It’s a breech-loading, leveraction repeating rifle. Cutting it down makes it more compact than a carbine but with greater firepower. It can be worn as a sidearm. It’s what’s known as a mule’s-leg.”
“A ‘mule’s-leg’ . . . ?” Diego said.
“Because it’s got a kick like the hind leg of a Missouri mule.”
“Most amusing. Perhaps you would be so good as to give us a demonstration. I am sure we all would like to see it in operation.”
“If you like.”
“Please.”
Diego spoke to the boy. “Pablito, put some fresh targets up.” Near the table was a wheelbarrow whose hopper was full to overflowing with empty bottles and earthenware pots. “Mostly tequila and whiskey bottles, Señor Heller. And those are just the ones our good Vasquez drank.”
“If only I had, Señor Diego!”
“My little joke, of course,” Diego said.
Pablito carried a double armful of bottles and reddish-brown jugs to the wall. He lined them up on the top, side by side in a row.
“Some of the melons too, boy,” said Diego. Several honeydew melons stood on the table. Pablito set them on top of the wall at opposite ends, bracketing the line of bottles and jugs. The melons were a pair of pale moon faces peeking over the wall.
Sam picked up the mule’s-leg, running his fingertips lightly across it, examining it. It hadn’t been cleaned since last he’d used it. That offended his sense of fitness; he was a stickler about cleaning his weapons after use. On the other hand, he preferred that no one handle the piece but himself.
The weapon’s heft, its well-wrought metal felt good in his hands. Right. The mule’s-leg was still armed from when he’d reloaded it after the dustup at Mace’s Ford.
Pablito scampered back to the patio, getting behind the firing line.
Sam took up a stance facing the adobe wall. His left shoulder and side were hurting, but that shouldn’t affect his performance. It was against his nature to show off his skills, but sometimes it was necessary to make an impression. This was one of those times. In Texas, in the West, as most everywhere, a display of marksmanship could only resound to the shooter’s credit.
Holding the leveled weapon in both hands, he fired from the hip, working the lever and squeezing the trigger in one fluid motion again and again. Working from left to right, he cleared out the bottles and jugs one after another, each of them flying into pieces.
Spear blades of flame lanced from the muzzle, accompanied by a cloud of gunsmoke.
He saved the melon at the extreme right-hand side for last. It disintegrated in a mass of spewing pulp, rind and juices. Sam ceased firing.
Reaching into the wheelbarrow, Vasquez grabbed a bottle by the neck and heaved it into the air, sending it high and arching. Winking, glittering, it pinwheeled in midair. A round from the mule’s-leg blew it to pieces.
Vasquez used both hands to toss up two bottles at a time. Sam blew them both out of the sky.
Diego gave a sardonic little bow, lightly clapping his hands. “Bravo, Señor. Most impressive.”
Lorena’s eyes glittered, spots of color glowing in her cheeks. She felt reassured that she’d forged an alliance with the right man.
Diego arched an eyebrow. “With such skills, I wonder how you happened to be wounded at the ford.”
“Bottles don’t shoot back, Señor Castillo. Badmen do,” Sam said.
“This new Winchester is the first one of its kind that I have seen. It seems criminal somehow to mutilate it by cutting off its parts, amputating it.”
“Modified, not mutilated, Señor.” Sam unlatched the brass fastenings at the front edge of the wooden box and opened its hinged lid, folding it back. Within the bottom half of the case in special mountings were a wooden stock, a long barrel, and a telescopic sight, all fitted with attachments allowing them to be fastened onto the piece.
“A few quick adjustments and the mule’s-leg becomes a long-range, precision rifle,” Sam said.
“Most intriguing. I see that you are a specialist in your line, Señor. In this land such skills should serve you well,” Diego said.
He turned to Vasquez. “Take two guns.”
“
Sí, Señor Diego,
” Vasquez said. He picked up two loaded guns from the table and holstered them.
“Gitano—the knives,” Diego said.
“
Sí, Señor.
” Gitano reached inside his red sash. Beneath it, wrapped around his flat belly like a waist cincher, was a tall leather belt, circling him from his hips to just below the rib cage. It sported a row of vertical sheaths, each holding a flat, slim throwing knife. Gitano reached in and withdrew three shiny daggers, holding them in one hand.

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