The Chicanery of Paco Ibañez Read online

  There was a table in the area between the cells. Feeling a creeping numbness, Wilde hastily grabbed one of the chairs. He scraped it back, sat down hard. As he did so, he heard a hoarse chuckle. The older man, Gus Allman, was watching him. He’d fired up a cigarette, and his teeth were bared in a cruel grin.

  ‘You’ve got him, Lucas boy. I think you’ve just wrote our ticket out of here.’

  ‘We don’t need a ticket,’ the younger man said, the man Thornton Wilde had been told called himself the Waco Kid. His eyes were still fixed on the marshal when he said, ‘Our ticket’s booked, you know that. We’ll be out of here by sundown.’

  ‘Lucas?’ Wilde said. ‘Is that your name?’

  ‘Richard. Lucas for short. You should know. You gave it to me.’

  Wilde took a deep breath, leaned back and crossed his legs with what he knew was an unconvincing show of nonchalance.

  ‘So let me fill in some details. This time we’re talking about, this twenty years or some ago – this was in southern Texas? If so, then that would be the time my wife walked out on me with nothing but the clothes on her back. Took my son with her all the way to New York City.’

  ‘Took me: I’m your son.’

  Thornton Wilde thought about that, about the long arm of coincidence that would have been needed to make the kid’s story true, then shook his head.

  ‘No. This has to be a trick, a ruse too clever for me to understand—’

  ‘Go look in the mirror,’ the older man said. ‘Then come back and say that again.’

  The man’s words were so portentous, but at the same time so persuasive, that Wilde was shocked into silence. And it took no more than a further few moments’ thought before he was forced to tighten his lips and nod. It was a nod of acceptance, because no mirror was needed. The remarkable likeness had struck him outside the jail, the moment he got a close look at the young man – but he had not realized then that what he was looking at was the face he peered at bleary-eyed each morning when he shaved. With the years pared away. Thornton Wilde as a young Texas lawman, a hard man, fast with a gun, who had lost his wife and child because of an obsessive dedication to his job.

  The shock was immense. Mind-numbing. He understood, accepted the obvious truth in what he’d been told, but because it was too much for a man to assimilate he was pushing the knowledge into the background and trying to recall other words which, in the circumstances, were of greater importance. What had Allman said? Something about a ticket out of there? The Waco Kid – Wilde closed his eyes – Lucas had said they didn’t need one because….

  Wilde opened his eyes. His son, the son he hadn’t seen for more than twenty years, was watching and waiting.

  ‘What did you mean,’ Wilde said softly, ‘when you said you’d be out of here by—?’

  The final word went unuttered as Wilde broke off. He’d been stopped by a distant crash that he knew was the front door being kicked open. The closer sound of feet pounded across the office. Then there was another crash as the same boot hit the door between office and cell block and it burst open.

  And even as Thornton Wilde turned away from the Waco Kid’s cell and his right hand moved with lightning speed towards his hip and touched only rough cloth, he was remembering two men glancing across as they rode past the jail, and his hand reaching up to hang his gunbelt on its usual wooden peg.

  The door smashed back against the wall. Two tall men crowded through the narrow doorway, guns drawn. One, keys jingling in his free hand, swiftly weighed-up the situation and made for Allman’s cell. The other turned towards Thornton Wilde, pistol held high, dark eyes glittering with menace.

  ‘Leave him be,’ the Waco Kid called.

  The newcomer’s thin mouth twitched. He stepped close to Wilde, took a bunch of shirt in his fist, spun him bodily and rammed the muzzle of his pistol hard into the bone behind the marshal’s ear. He grinned wolfishly through the bars at the Waco Kid.

  ‘I’m not listening, friend,’ he said for the kid’s benefit, ‘because you’ve not yet earned the right to tell me what to do.’

  Allman’s cell door swung open with a metallic clang. The lean bank robber came out in a rush. He spat onto the dirt floor as the man who had freed him moved to the next cell. Again a key grated in a lock. Waco slipped off his bunk.

  ‘Wait.’

  The gunman holding Thornton Wilde snapped the command. His voice cracked like a whip. All movement stopped. In the sudden stillness he nodded towards the Waco Kid.

  ‘Why take him with us?’

  The man with the keys looked over his shoulder and sneered.

  ‘Because we need a fast gun, Ryan, and you ain’t it.’

  ‘You’re dreaming. A fancy name doesn’t make a fast gun. He comes up to us after we rob the bank, tells us he’s the Waco Kid, rides a flea-bitten nag yet expects us to believe he’s greased lightnin’ with a six-gun. Next thing we know is he’s got himself caught cold by a two-bit town marshal.’

  ‘So when we got to El Paso we should have stayed together—’

  ‘That wasn’t the way Gomez had it planned—’

  ‘Gomez had no choice. He’s the man in the middle, and you know it. He’s the link to—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Allman swung ferociously on the two arguing gunmen. The pistol bit painfully into Wilde’s neck as the man holding him jerked with shock, and suddenly Wilde became aware that the grey-haired Allman was the group’s leader.

  ‘Jago, turn that key, open the door and let him out,’ Allman said. ‘And while you’re doing that, and until we’re well out of here, keep your goddamn mouth shut. That goes for every one of you. Too much said is too much given away – and there’s too much at stake.’

  Breath hissed angrily, but Ryan, the man holding the pistol to Wilde’s ear, stepped back and watched sullenly as Jago opened the cell door and the Waco Kid walked free.

  Already moving towards the door to the office, Allman said, ‘On your way out, take your pick of rifles, shotguns, whatever you can find out there.’

  ‘But before that,’ Ryan growled, ‘we slow down the pursuit,’ and with a fierce grin he flipped his pistol, caught it by the barrel and slammed the butt into the base of Thornton Wilde’s skull.

  THREE

  They rode west, pushing hard towards the Diablo Plateau. By nightfall they had pulled a trail of dust fully forty miles and were well into the foothills of the Delaware mountains. To the north, the soaring heights of Guadalupe Peak were painted a ruddy gold by the last rays of the setting sun. Ahead of them, the rising moon already glinted white on the flat pans of the salt lakes.

  There had been no sign of pursuit, and for that Waco was taking the credit. After Ryan had downed the town marshal with a fierce blow to the head, Waco had locked him in one of the cells. The keys had gone with him when they rode out of town, and a mile later had been disposed of in thick brush choking the bed of a dry wash.

  Now, with the horses too tired to be driven any further, it was Waco who made tactful suggestions that led to a halt being called. The chosen camp was in a clearing surrounded by thick woods. A rocky bluff protected their rear, and in daylight – should they remain there – they would have an open aspect affording fine views to the east. They cooked supper over a smokeless fire. Then, with moonlight filtering through the trees, they sat around the flames and listened to Allman.

  ‘First off,’ Allman said, ‘is we figure out what to do about Tindale. Tindale’s got the cash, a total of thirty thousand bucks from three bank robberies. That’s a fact. Now, Waco was with me when we heard Tindale tell the Cedar Creek marshal he was taking that cash back to San Angelo. If that was his intention, we’ve been riding in opposite directions, but Waco doesn’t believe that – right, Waco?’

  Lucas Wilde, the Waco Kid, was sitting cross-legged close to the fire. Light from the flames flickered on the flat planes of his face, glinted in his pale-blue eyes. He was poking idly at the edge of the glowing embers with a broken stick as he w
ondered if any of these men he had thrown in his lot with had a single ounce of sense.

  ‘Tindale’s out there, ahead of us,’ he said, glancing across at Allman. ‘He had no intention of taking that cash back to San Angelo, or any other bank. When he left town he rode west, heading for the Mex border at El Paso.’

  Allman was twisting strands of his lank greying hair in his fingers, clearly not happy.

  ‘There’s something wrong, something we’re not seeing. I agree Tindale wants the cash for himself, his lust for it was in his manner, in his eyes. But the man caught us and got his hands on that money in El Paso. If he was planning on crossing into Mexico, why not throw us in jail there – in a goddamn border town, for Christ’s sake – instead of leading us on the end of a rope a hundred and fifty miles back as far as Cedar Creek? He could have saved himself, what, six days?’

  ‘His intentions were honourable, but he was fighting a losing battle with his conscience,’ Waco said.

  ‘An honourable man would have ridden with a posse.’

  ‘The seeds of doubt were there from the outset. He was playing by the rules, but he’s a greedy man; by ruling out a posse he left the door open. Once he’d picked us up he set out to take the money back where it belonged, but all the time those damn bills were burning a hole in his saddle-bags and the knowledge finally wore him down. He broke, gave up the fight and dumped us in the nearest town – which happened to be Cedar Creek.’

  Allman pulled a face. ‘So my hunch is wrong, and I should stop worrying?’

  Before Waco could answer, another voice cut in.

  ‘No. Your hunch is right, but you’re worrying about the wrong man.’

  That was Ryan, glowering darkly from across the fire. His unshaven countenance looked even blacker in the flickering light of the flames. He was reclining, propped on both elbows, his holster pulled around to the front of his thigh so that his six-gun was close to his right hand. But his position made a fast draw impossible, and Lucas Wilde allowed himself a small half smile.

  His amusement wasn’t lost on Allman.

  ‘If you’re referring to our young friend here,’ he said, ‘I think he’d be inclined to argue.’

  ‘I’d pay more attention to the protests of a donkey. I’ve already made my feelings plain. That kid waltzed up to us when we’d snatched the cash, horned in on an operation that was going well without him. Threw in a name sounds like it belongs to some fancy Englishman—’

  ‘My grandfather was English,’ Waco said.

  ‘Right, then what’s this Waco business?’ Ryan said, rounding on him. ‘A name supposed to transform you into some hot-shot gunslinger? You fooled Jago into believing you’re the fastest gun this side of the Mississippi and expect to be treated like God—’

  He broke off. Waco hadn’t moved – yet there had been a silky whisper of sound and now his pistol was out and levelled at Ryan. The butt was cold and hard and familiar in Waco’s palm. With the same economy and speed of movement he spun the pistol, let it smack cleanly into the supple leather holster and lifted his hand as if to scratch his chin. Then, as Jago stared wide-eyed through the smoke hanging over the fire and uttered a breathy ‘Jesus Christ’ and Ryan began to shake his head, Waco again made the smooth draw that was almost impossible to see.

  ‘I could waste lead clipping the lobes of both your ears, then sit back and watch the blood drip on your shoulders,’ he said conversationally, ‘but the shots would alert the pursuit – and they will come after us, mark my words.’

  ‘Who will?’

  That was Jago, the thin man with a lined face and dark eyes who had opened the cell doors and who, until now, had been silently watching and listening.

  ‘Your father will be riding after us, right?’ he went on. ‘Your father, the Marshal of Cedar Creek.’ He glanced across at Allman. ‘Does that inspire confidence? Knowing we’ve got a lawman’s son in our midst?’

  ‘I see no cause for concern,’ Allman said dismissively. ‘Chance brought them together. You heard them talking before we broke out. They hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years. And didn’t Waco stand by and do nothing when Ryan pistol-whipped his pa?’

  Jago shook his head. ‘I’m with Ryan: I don’t trust the Kid.’

  Allman studied the faces on the other side of the fire, spread his hands and turned to Waco.

  ‘So, what about that? Will it be your pa coming after us?’

  ‘Probably. No, make that a certainty.’

  Waco had been listening, pistol still in his hand, pointing to the skies. Now he pouched it, watched Ryan roll over to lie on his side in disgust.

  ‘And when your father tracks us down,’ Allman said, ‘and there’s a showdown – which side do you take?’

  ‘The side I was with when I rode with you out of San Angelo. The side I was with when Tindale caught us cold in El Paso.’ He grinned. ‘The side that’s going to make me a rich man.’

  Allman shook his head. ‘That’s only part right. The money from San Angelo is going into a big pot, and only a portion of that pot is ours. The bulk of it goes to finance a dream.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘Let’s say I hitched my wagon to a star; all of us did.’

  ‘Then if I’m to do the same,’ Wilde said, ‘maybe you’d better tell me exactly what I’m getting into.’

  FOUR

  The burly town blacksmith was needed to break into the cell holding the bruised and bleeding Thornton Wilde. He was called, perhaps inevitably, by Gord Bogan, who seemed that day to be keeping a watchful eye on the town marshal. Noticing Wilde’s unusual absence when the bunch of hard men had thundered out of town in a cloud of dust, he had gone to investigate, and raised the alarm.

  When the door to the cell finally creaked open, the blacksmith’s beefy face was streaming with perspiration, his white teeth bared in a delighted grin. Over and over he had repeated gleefully as he worked, ‘I don’t believe it, I really do not believe what I’m doing’. Now, as he led the way through from the cell block to the office with his canvas bag of tools clanking against his leg and saw the black-suited figure waiting in the marshal’s swivel chair, the merriment was switched off. He averted his gaze and hurried into the street, a muscular man escaping from an uncomfortable atmosphere created by a small man with an inflated opinion of his own importance.

  The pistol-whipping at the hands of the man called Ryan had left Wilde with a splitting headache, and it was with a feeling of foreboding that he watched the big man leave. The blacksmith had left the office door open. The early afternoon sun beat down on the street. Waves of dry, dusty heat rolled into the office. Feeling the instant prickle of perspiration, Wilde placed his big fist against his nose to suppress a sneeze, then carefully shook his aching head and turned to face his visitors.

  ‘A fine mess,’ Oliver Shank said, swivelling in Wilde’s chair. ‘I warned Marshal Tindale he was making a mistake, but he insisted. When he hears about this he’ll realize he left his prisoners in the hands of the wrong man.’

  ‘The right man being your son,’ Wilde said, and he leaned back wearily against the wall to stare with open contempt at the young man sitting in one of the hard chairs. Aitken Shank had his thumbs hooked into the armholes of his fancy cowhide vest. He toted an ivory-handled pistol in a tooled-leather holster, wore a white Stetson mysteriously unstained by sweat or dust, and at twenty years of age figured he could do a better job of town marshal than Wilde.

  ‘As of today,’ Oliver Shank said, ‘he’s the man wearing the badge. You’ve made your last cock-up. Aitken’s Cedar Creek’s new town marshal, so hand over the tin.’

  ‘First cock-up,’ Wilde said, ‘in more than twenty years of marshalling. The tin stays where it is until I’m voted out.’

  Shank shook his head. ‘In the event of a disastrous dereliction of duty I’m empowered—’

  ‘The council’s empowered, not you,’ Wilde said. ‘Your first step is to call an extraordinary meeting if you want me out of offic
e.’

  ‘I’m cutting corners to avoid what would be a pointless waste of time.’

  ‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said: you know you’d be overruled, so don’t waste my time when I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘If I say you’re out of a job—’

  ‘I’m not, and as I’m still marshal of this town that leaves decisions pertaining to law enforcement firmly in my hands. I told you I’ve got work to do. That work is hunting down bank robbers who escaped from my jail. It’ll take time, I’ll be away from town for several days—’

  ‘Leaving Cedar Creek without an officer of the law—’

  ‘No. If you want your boy to get a taste of what it takes to police a small town, I’ll deputize him here and now. You and the other councillors can keep your eye on him, see how he shapes up. Then, when I get back….’

  Wilde watched father and son exchange glances, saw the boy’s chest swell visibly, and felt mild amusement as he followed their train of thought and knew they figured that once the badge was pinned on Aitken Shank’s fancy vest it would be difficult to remove.

  ‘Good thinking, Marshal,’ Shank said. ‘Pin that badge on my boy and townsfolk will know they’re looking at the next marshal of their town—’

  ‘Deputy marshal, for a trial period.’

  Dismissing the correction with a haughty gesture, Shank ploughed on, ‘You’ve made the right decision, but as leader of the town council I must express my misgivings at your intentions. I get the impression you don’t intend to raise a posse. Going after that bunch of hardcases without the help of armed men is asking for trouble.’

  ‘I’ll take one man. A deputy.’

  ‘Your deputy’s laid low with a broken leg.’

  ‘I had another man in mind.’

  ‘Who?’