Читать книгу Trail of Blood and Bones: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 5

LEFT TO HIS OWN DEVICES, Slade relaxed comfortably with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, and gave himself over to thought. He wondered if his hunch that somewhere in the neighborhood of Brownsville he would contact Veck Sosna was a straight one. It was indeed based on sound reasoning. With all northern Mexico seething because of his depredations and the rurales, the very efficient Mexican mounted police, storming on his trail, it seemed logical that he would slide across the river into Texas till things cooled down a bit.

And there were plenty of pickings in the country surrounding Brownsville. To the north and west were big and prosperous cattle ranches. And there were stage lines, and the transcontinental railroad not far off. Also the narrow-gauge road that had been built from Brownsville to Port Isabel.

All of which spelled opportunity to a shrewd and enterprising bandit leader; and Veck Sosna was both.

He wondered uneasily if Brownsville and its environs might not be in for a reign of lawlessness similar to that inaugurated by Juan Nepomuceno Cartinas years before. Cartinas had terrorized the section and had even raided Brownsville, and held the city captive for forty-eight hours.

Veck Sosna, he believed, was as capable as Cartinas and had the same ability to attract daring and ruthless followers.

Veck Sosna! graduate summa cum laude of a great university, who could write Ph.D. as well as M.D. after his name. A mad genius who had somehow taken the wrong fork of the trail. El Halcón versus Veck Sosna! A saga of the West that would be talked about for many a year to come.

Well, if Sosna had any such notions in mind it was up to him, Slade, to thwart the sadistic devil. Although the wily outlaw leader had so far always managed to elude capture, Slade had already more than once smashed his organization and sent Sosna himself high-tailing to fresh pastures.

“Twice I figured he was dead, and he wasn’t,” he told his unresponsive coffee cup. “And twice he managed to wriggle out of my loop when I felt sure it was tight around him. Oh well, the hellion’s luck can’t hold out forever, I hope.”

With which he dismissed Sosna from his mind for the moment and concentrated on his surroundings, which were calculated to quicken the pulses of a young man who had spent most of the past month in the saddle, and with no time for diversion.

Now the bar was crowded with a colorful gathering. The card tables were occupied, a roulette wheel spun gaily, the faro bank was going strong. A good orchestra played soft music and there were a number of pretty señoritas on the dance-floor.

“It is fiesta, a feast day,” remarked Amado Menendez as he paused for a moment at Slade’s table. “Many people from the other side of the river join in the celebration.”

Inconsequentially, Slade recalled that it was the morning after just such a celebration in Matamoros, aided and abetted by citizens from across the river, that Cartinas had swept into Brownsville where the town folk were placidly sleeping off the effects of the hilarious night’s entertainment. It didn’t seem likely that history would repeat itself, but Veck Sosna was more unpredictable than Cartinas had ever been.

Oh, the devil with Sosna! Slade again put the disturbing side-winder out of his mind and vowed to keep him out the rest of the night, discounting the fact that Sosna himself might have something to say about that.

As Slade was debating a whirl on the dance-floor with one of the attractive señoritas, Estevan, the young man Amado sent to try and gather information returned. His dark hawk face was impassive, but Slade thought the glitter of his black eyes was more pronounced.

However, he did not glance in Slade’s direction, nor did he approach Amado. Instead, he found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. A few minutes later he sauntered to the dance-floor where Slade shortly saw him dancing with one of the señoritas, a tall, nicely formed girl with curly hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing in the sunlight. Apparently he had learned nothing. Slade directed his attention elsewhere. He ordered more coffee and had nearly finished the cup when a girl paused at his table. Glancing up he saw it was the very attractive young lady with whom Estevan had danced.

“Will the señor dance?” she asked. Her eyes met his and he seemed to read more than was spoken in their depths.

“Why not?” he smiled, and rose to his feet. They approached the floor and Slade encircled her trim waist with a long arm. Walt Slade liked to dance, and he could dance. So could the girl. And soon he was thoroughly enjoying himself. But as they drifted gracefully through a momentarily open space she spoke, her voice little above a whisper, her lips hardly moving.

“After the number, take me to your table and order wine,” she said. “It will give me the excuse to linger. I must speak with you.”

Slade nodded his understanding and after the number was finished led the way to the table. Amado himself came hurrying in with a bottle of wine. He filled the glasses with a flourish, glanced meaningly at Slade and with a low bow departed. As she raised her glass, the girl laughed gaily and nodded, as if in answer to some quip; but words fluttered through her laughter.

“Estevan feels sure that the man you seek was here in Matamoros in the early afternoon. At El Toro on Rio Street near the river, where the rivermen drink. His friend works there, on the floor, and she remembered the man, for he was not one easy to forget. Tall, almost as tall as yourself, and broad, with eyes that seemed to burn. A handsome man, she said, but—a woman’s intuition, perhaps—evil. She said there were five others with him and that they remained for some time, drinking and talking. She watched them ride out of town by way of the Camino Trail.”

“Which runs west,” Slade interpolated.

“That’s right,” the girl replied. She laughed again and raised her glass, but her eyes, which in contrast to her hair, were blue, slanted sideways toward the bar.

“Estevan thought it best not to come to you or to Amado, for in here there are often eyes that see and ears that listen, and he felt that the less heard and the less seen the better.”

“He was right,” Slade agreed. He shot her a searching glance.

“You are not Mexican?” She shook her head.

“No, I’m a Texan,” she replied. “My father married Amado’s sister. My parents died, not far apart, two years ago. Amado sent me to school and when I got back to Brownsville I wanted to go to work. As you know, the day when women allow their relations to support them in idleness is fast drawing to a close. So after considerable argument, I persuaded Uncle Amado to let me work here, on the floor and helping him in various ways. I’m Dolores Malone.”

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed in comical dismay. “Black Irish and Spanish, with a dash of Yaqui thrown in for good measure, I suppose. No wonder Amado allowed himself to be persuaded; he’s a prudent man of good judgment.”

She laughed merrily and Slade realized what a pretty girl she was.

“Oh, it’s not so bad as all that,” she protested. “I’m not such a firebrand as my name appears to indicate. Really I’m quite meek, and rather timid.” El Halcón did not appear impressed.

“Do you live with Amado?” he asked. She shook her curly black head.

“No, I live in Brownsville, with Amado’s younger sister, who is a widow; her husband was killed during one of the uprisings a few years back.

“I’ll have to be getting back to the floor,” she said, adding softly, “will I see you again?”

“You will,” he replied, with an emphasis that heightened the color in her cheeks. She cast him a smile over her shoulder as she tripped back to the floor. Slade’s eyes followed her with appreciation.

She had handled the situation adroitly, he thought. It was customary for her partner to buy the girl a drink after each number; she would sit the next one out with him. Just as it was a routine practice in the Matamoros cantinas for the girls to circulate among the patrons between numbers. Her pausing at his table would cause no comment.

Estevan had played his hand well, too; were there someone in the place who took an interest in the movements of El Halcón, a communication from the young Mexican would have been noted, and perhaps read aright. Slade did not believe that Veck Sosna had one of his men stationed in the cantina, but if he had learned by some chance that the man he considered his nemesis was present, it was not beyond the wily devil to do just that. Sosna was the essence of the unpredictable.

He ordered more coffee and for some time sat smoking and studying the crowd, and not a man passed in or out of the swinging doors that he did not note. Finally, he came to the conclusion that if there was somebody around who took an interest in his movements, he was certainly keeping well under cover.

It was still not so very late, but Slade was tired after a long day in the saddle, with very little sleep the night before. Besides, the place was growing noiser by the minute and he felt that a little quiet wouldn’t go bad.

“I think I’ll call it a night,” he told Amado, who paused at the table for a minute. Lowering his voice, “Thank Estevan for me, and thank you, too. You both did me a big favor. Incidentally, Dolores is a smart girl.”

“And a trial to her old uncle,” Amado sighed. “One word from me and she does just as she pleases. But she is nice, don’t you find her? And beautiful?”

“Both,” Slade agreed heartily. Amado chuckled. “Sleep well,” he said. “Tomorrow I see you.”

Slade caught Dolores’ eye and waved to her. Then he left the cantina and repaired to his room in the posado, opening the door with the key Amado provided.

It was quiet and peaceful in the room, a welcome relief from the cantina’s hullabaloo. The radiance of the late moon streamed through the east window. The other window opened onto the river, which glowed silver in the wan light. Without bothering with the lamp, he drew a chair to the window and sat gazing across the stream at the lights of Brownsville on the far shore. Below was the wharf, against which the black bulk of the small steamer, the Bravo, loomed. The gangplank was lowered, but there was no sign of life aboard the vessel. Only one wan light showed, doubtless in the captain’s cabin where very likely a lone deck hand or perhaps the skipper himself stood watch, while the rest of the crew celebrated in town.

The muted strains of music drifting through the cantina’s back windows were soothing, its babble of voices but a drowsy hum. Slade began to really enjoy himself as he pondered the information Estevan garnered. He wondered if Sosna had doubled back on his tracks and was headed west again. However, he thought it unlikely. A few miles west of the town was a ford which could be negotiated by horses when the river was low, as it was at the moment. Quite likely the cunning outlaw preferred to slip across the river via the ford rather than by way of the bridge from Matamoros, where such a band would be conspicuous. Well, he’d cross to Brownsville himself tomorrow and see if he could pick up the trail.

As he gazed dreamily at the star dimpled water, his eyelids grew heavy, and he was just about ready to call it a night and go to bed when something within his range of vision snapped him wide awake again.

Stealing slowly across the wharf was a group of men, six or seven in all, it appeared. Slade watched them slow their gait even more as they neared where the Bravo was moored. They halted, seemed to gaze earnestly at the boat. Then they crept forward again, headed for the gangplank. Just who and what they were, the Ranger wondered.

Some of the crew coming back from town? Possibly. But why that stealthy approach? To all appearances they were anxious to avoid detection, especially by somebody who might be watching from the Bravo. Slade grew very much interested. He stood up, moved back from the window a little and scanned the terrain about the wharf; it was devoid of life other than the crouching group that had now reached the gangplank.

At the foot they hesitated for a moment, then went up it swiftly. On the deck were tall stacks of hides, bundled and awaiting unloading; the group vanished in their shadow, reappeared, heading for the captain’s cabin in which a light glowed.

As was usually the case with the small river steamers, the captain’s cabin was a deck house. In deference to the heat, the door stood open. The group went through it with a rush.

A sound split the silence—a clatter as of an overturned chair, a gurgling cry, then silence.