The Chicanery of Paco Ibañez Read online

  And that was where Wilde was stumped. Battling against the ache in his head, beset by images of a callow youth strutting through the town wearing a shiny badge, he racked his brains and was unable to come up with a suitable candidate. Oliver Shank was watching him with a knowing smirk. Aitken Shank was looking around the office, clearly surveying the territory which would soon be his domain. Seconds ticked by. Oliver Shank moved restlessly, opened his mouth—

  ‘I, er, I …’ Wilde said – and then, to his immense relief, a familiar tall figure appeared, ambling unsteadily past the open street door.

  ‘Gord,’ Wilde roared, as Bogan’s long shadow fell across the dusty boards.

  Gord Bogan came to a swaying halt and peered into the office.

  ‘Gord, can you climb aboard a horse, ride for more than a mile at a time without falling off?’

  ‘I guess I can, Marshal, at a push,’ Bogan said, his eyes mystified.

  ‘And can you fire a pistol without plugging yourself in the foot or any other part of your anatomy?’

  Bogan’s blue eyes crinkled, his grin was crooked.

  ‘I can fire a pistol,’ he said, ‘without hitting a barn door or the barn itself.’

  ‘Damn it, you’ll do. Get inside here. You’re about to be sworn in as deputy marshal.’

  FIVE

  Darkness was creeping across the eastern plains when Wilde and Gord Bogan rode out of Cedar Creek. Wilde was on his big sorrel, Bogan on a rangy buckskin. They pointed their mounts towards the flame-red sunset streaking the western skies, pushed on hard, and by midnight had covered more than thirty miles. That carried them close to the foothills of the Delaware Mountains, and Wilde was faced with a dilemma. He glanced across at the indistinct shape of his new deputy, riding a couple of yards behind, and flung an arm out to the right. Then, swinging his mount off the trail, he called a halt.

  ‘The way I read it,’ he said, when they had ground-tethered their horses in a patch of sweet grass and hunkered down with water bottles and glowing cigarettes, ‘is those bank robbers will be cock-a-hoop, see themselves as untouchable. That being the case, they’ll be rolled up in their blankets alongside a glowing camp-fire with maybe one of them standing guard – and he’ll be nodding off. And if our pace has matched theirs, and we keep on riding, we’re likely to overrun their encampment and find ourselves in a heap of trouble.’

  Bogan’s eyes gleamed in the faint light of the rising moon.

  ‘Isn’t catching them what we set out to do? And won’t the element of surprise work in our favour?’

  ‘We aim to catch them at a time and place of our choosing, not full dark out in the open or, worse, deep in thick timber.’

  ‘Letting sleeping dogs lie,’ Bogan said, ‘could see them slipping away like thieves in the night.’

  ‘You’re full of surprises, Gord. Got the look of a hobo, talk like a man who got himself a degree from Yale.’

  ‘Funny you should say that,’ Bogan said. ‘I studied there for a year before boredom set in. Got fed up and did exactly what we’ve been talking about.’

  ‘Slipped away?’

  ‘Upped sticks.’

  ‘For Cedar Creek?’

  ‘Let’s say that’s where I lost my way.’

  Wilde puffed on his cigarette, squinted across at the dim, Indian-dark figure sitting cross-legged with his back against the bole of a tree. Looked sober – but the man could hold his drink, and Wilde hadn’t been there when he filled his water bottle. He’d been steady on his horse, too. But many westerners were practically born in the saddle. Well, time would tell….

  ‘So what I’ve done today is what?’ Wilde said. ‘Thrown a lifeline to a drowning man? Offered a man without a future a glimmer of hope?’

  ‘It was me made me a drunk, Marshal—’

  ‘Thorn.’

  Bogan nodded. ‘I made me a drunk, Thorn, so it’s up to me to turn myself around.’

  ‘My offer came out of the blue – surprised me as well as you – but by accepting it I’d say you took a first step in the right direction.’

  Bogan’s teeth gleamed in a grin.

  ‘Maybe, but it’s one that could get me killed.’

  ‘Not by sitting here aimlessly chewing the fat. We need a plan, Gord. Any ideas?’

  ‘Let me ask you a question: how do you know we’re heading in the right direction? How do you know the tracks we’ve been following were cut into the trail by the four horses carrying those bank robbers, and not just any four riders?’

  ‘I don’t. Not for sure. But we picked them up in Cedar Creek, they’re pointing in the general direction of the Mex border and never strayed from that line, so what’s your point?’

  ‘I’m part Indian. And I know we’re following the right men, because one of them has been talking to me ever since we rode out.’

  Wilde rolled his eyes. ‘Right. You’re being guided by spirits?’

  Gord chuckled. ‘No. By a man who’s probably risking his life leaving signs on the trail I’ve been smart enough to spot.’

  ‘What kind of signs?’

  ‘Broken saplings showing white wood. Flattened grass in a place where it couldn’t be trodden on by man nor beast. A stick on the trail, looking like it’s been carelessly dropped, but pointing the way.’

  The question that at once entered Wilde’s mind was, which one of the outlaws was laying the trail? The answer he wanted – that the man assisting them was his long lost son – was something he barely dared contemplate for fear of being wrong.

  ‘So you noticed those signs, but didn’t think to share this with me? Left me with my nose to the ground struggling to follow impressions in the trail about as distinct as those made by dead leaves falling on hard sand.’

  ‘You already had your mind made up about where they were headed.’ Gord shrugged. ‘Anyway, one method’s as good as another. If we succeed in tracking down the bank robbers, who’s to say which one of us got there?’

  ‘For a drunk,’ Wilde said, ‘you come up with some pretty sobering thoughts.’

  ‘Profound thoughts,’ Gord Bogan corrected, grinning. ‘And if your remark was intended as a joke, Thorn, my advice is to try much harder—’

  He broke off as distant gunfire rattled, and somewhere on the other side of the woods muzzle flashes flickered like lightning.

  ‘I think you said he was risking his life,’ Wilde said. He spoke softly, but it was with a sense of despair for which he could find no reasonable explanation. ‘I still don’t know who we’ve been talking about, but by the sound of that I think the man who’s been showing us the way has been consigned to history.’

  And, even as he spoke, with two final, booming explosions the distant guns fell silent. To Wilde, it was the silence of the grave.

  ‘What you’re getting into,’ Gus Allman said, ‘is the beginning of one Mexican’s campaign to reclaim Texas for his country.’

  The fire was dying, the blackened coffee pot lying on its side in the dull embers. Looking through the thin veil of smoke, Lucas Wilde, the Waco Kid, could see Ryan under the trees. An indistinct figure in dappled shadows cast by the pale moon, he was once again lying on his back so that he could watch as well as listen. Waco thought he saw the surly gunman’s eyes narrow at Allman’s words, and he wondered if that reaction was out of disbelief that the lean man calling the shots would take Waco into his confidence.

  Waco’s own mind was racing. In San Angelo he had worked his way into a perilous situation in which he was encircled by dangerous outlaws who looked on him with suspicion. That act had been either courageous or foolhardy, but his assumed outlaw identity, the reputation that went with it and his conduct since joining the outlaw band had gone some way to allaying those suspicions. Now it seemed that his risky infiltration was about to pay off. By taking Waco into his confidence, Allman was tacitly admitting the kid was now a member of the outlaw band – but Waco knew that the other two men had strong misgivings, and so there was still a need for caution.

>   ‘Are you throwing dust in my eyes?’ he said. ‘Texas is part of the Union. Take on Texas, you take on the United States.’

  ‘This is no joke. All the bank robberies were masterminded by Charlie Gomez—’

  ‘All?’

  ‘San Angelo was the third,’ Allman said, ‘and in each one, Charlie Gomez was acting on the orders of Paco Ibañez. Ibañez was born into a poor farming community in the Sonora region of Mexico, but he has big ideas. His parents were murdered by a gang of marauding Texas outlaws. Grief at his loss festered, and turned into hatred of all things American, but especially Texan. He’s studied history, read extensively of the fighting in Texas back in the 1830s, and reveres the name of Antonio López de Santa Anna—’

  ‘Ibañez is modelling himself on that dictator?’

  ‘He believes that Texas belongs rightfully to Mexico. If regaining it requires a man with the powers enjoyed by Santa Anna, he’s prepared to take on that role.’

  ‘But he needs cash?’

  Allman grinned. ‘You catch on fast.’

  ‘So why you fellows? Why would a bunch of red-blooded Texans work for Charlie Gomez and a Mexican peasant intent on overthrowing their country?’

  ‘I got to know Charlie in the pen. He was serving time for slitting the throat of a man who thought he was easy meat. Did a couple of years, and in all that time he never lost touch with Ibañez. I reckon it was about then they got to cooking up this grand scheme.’

  ‘And recruited you and your friends?’

  ‘Going to Texas to raise the money to get things moving makes sense, and gives the story a wry twist: Texas helps finance its own downfall.’ He grinned. ‘It also means there’s less chance of discovery. In Texas, bank robberies are a fact of life. So Ibañez gets his cash, yet, in the eyes of Mexican authorities who would surely oppose his scheme, he’s got clean hands.’

  Across the fire, Ryan coughed, then heaved his big frame up off the grass and approached the fire.

  ‘You’re talking too much, Gus,’ he said, hunkering down and stretching out his palms to the meagre warmth.

  ‘I don’t think so. After all, we’re all in the same boat. Like it or not, Waco’s one of us. Every damn one of us spends the best part of his life on the run. Why? Because we’re all wanted by the law. That law is Texas law, the stinking holes we’ve sweated in were Texas jails. Waco asked a sensible question. My answer is, if we can line our pockets with cash and change our lives by overthrowing a government that’s given us nothing but pain – let’s do it.’

  Jago had again been listening in watchful silence. Now he cleared his throat, spat towards the dying fire.

  ‘Your thinking is way off, Gus. Sure, riding with Ibañez is the way to go, but Waco can’t be part of it. I go along with Ryan: everything changed when you were locked up in Cedar Creek, because that was when you found out Waco’s the son of a lawman.’ Lithely, he came to his feet, took a step back from the fire. ‘Waco was asking questions, Gus. I think he was digging for information for his own ends. Now I’d like to ask some of Waco – and, one way or another, his answers will settle this.’

  ‘Cool down, and back off,’ Allman said. ‘The man wants to know what’s going on. If I was in his position, I’d be asking questions.’

  Jago stared at Waco. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘You heard me tell Gus: I need to know what I’m getting into.’

  ‘You already knew that when you joined. You could see we operate on the wrong side of the law: you watched us rob the bank in San Angelo. You were happy to tag along with a bunch of bank robbers. What more do you need to know?’

  ‘At the time, nothing, and that’s why I rode with you to El Paso. But Gus and the man called Gomez talked secretively for most of the journey. Then, in El Paso, Gomez slipped away. Less than an hour later we were caught cold by Tindale.’

  Jago grinned mirthlessly. ‘What d’you reckon to that, Gus? Me, I’d say he’s trying to wriggle out of a tight situation by casting suspicion on a man who ain’t here to defend himself. Or on you. The tight situation is that he’s under suspicion himself, and I reckon the more he talks the deeper he’s digging himself into a hole.’

  Allman snorted. ‘So far he’s doing nothing but tell the truth. Gomez and me, we did do a lot of talking on that long ride. And Gomez did walk away from us in El Paso – we know why, Waco doesn’t, so it’s no wonder he’s a mite chary. The way I see it, he’s on the level, so make your point or shut up and sit down.’

  ‘On the level?’ Jago’s eyes were ugly. ‘You believe that then you’re blind or stupid, Gus. While you and Ryan have been riding with your eyes shut and your mind on all the money you’re going to make, I’ve been watching what’s been going on around me. This so-called Waco Kid has been leaving signs on the trail for his pa that make following us as easy as walking down Cedar Springs’ main street on a sunny afternoon.’

  There was a sudden, ominous silence. In the deathly hush an owl hooted, its haunting cry answered by the whinny of a horse that, in Lucas Wilde’s estimation, was close but not close enough to save his bacon. He saw Allman shoot a glance at Ryan, who had tensed as he cocked his head to listen for the sound of hoofs that would mean the pursuit was closing in. Jago was nodding, his eyes gleaming at what appeared to be vindication of his suspicions. He had moved even further back from the fire, and his right hand was like an eagle’s claw ready to snatch at the butt of his six-gun.

  ‘Think before you act, Allman,’ the Waco Kid said. ‘If sign’s been left on the trail – and you’ve only got Jago’s word for it – then either Jago or Ryan could be double-crossing you and pushing the blame onto me.’

  ‘Yeah, and who am I supposed to believe?’ Allman said. ‘You, or the two men I’ve been riding with for the past couple of years? Damn it, Waco, I’ve got to know you, got around to trusting you – thought for sure you were the hardened gunslinger who came out of nowhere to add strength to the group—’

  Ryan’s laugh was mocking. Allman glared.

  ‘—add strength, fire power, help us through the fighting that lies ahead when Ibañez makes the move across the border into Texas.’

  He stood up, swung an angry kick at the fire and sent smoking embers flying. Looked at Ryan; looked at Jago; then swung on Waco.

  ‘So, which is it? Expert gunslinger, tagged onto a bunch of bank robbers and discovered he’d become involved in a heroic revolution? Or a lawman’s son who’d got wind of what’s about to happen and figured the best, the only way of ripping up the plans, is from the inside?’

  ‘I’ve said my piece,’ Waco said softly. ‘Now it’s for you to decide.’

  Allman grimaced. ‘Jago?’

  ‘I saw what I saw: the man’s a traitor.’

  Allman hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and, as swiftly as a cat, dived sideways and rolled away from the fire.

  Waco leaped to his feet and, with the same blinding speed, whirled and drew his six-gun. His first shot cracked, kicking up dust and leaves close to Allman’s head. His second plucked at Jago’s sleeve. Then Ryan’s six-gun spat flame. Waco leaped sideways, felt the wind of the shot. He dropped to a crouch, turned one way then the other, looked frantically for a way out and knew he was up against a well-oiled team. All three men had backed away, giving themselves space and leaving him in the centre of a triangle of danger with nowhere to go. As Waco snapped a third shot, directing it at Ryan, bullets tore at him from three different directions.

  In the darkness, the muzzle flashes were dazzling. Waco was disorientated by the bright flashes of light. Exploding gunpowder crackled. Hot lead hissed close to his head. But hammering at him was the notion that if he was going to extricate himself he should take on one man, not three. Knowing he was staring death in the face, Waco took the one action that could save his life. Jago stood between him and the stand of trees where they had tethered the horses. With a fierce roar, Waco charged straight at the thin gunman.

  He ran hard, jinking from
side to side, six-gun blazing. Jago’s hat flew from his head. His eyes widened, showing the whites. Waco saw him rock backwards, undecided. Then, desperately, the outlaw threw himself sideways. He hit the ground hard. Rolling, he fought to bring his six-gun to bear on his attacker. Waco bore down on him. Hastily, Jago snatched at the trigger. The shot was wild. The bullet whined harmlessly into the trees. Grinning savagely, Waco leaped over the prostrate outlaw. He felt a hand grasp his ankle, kicked out hard then sprinted towards the horses.

  ‘He’s getting away,’ Allman roared.

  Waco heard Ryan curse, then the thud of boots and the crackle of leaves and branches. Allman and Ryan were coming after him, snapping shots as they ran. Waco was still thirty yards from the horses, but closing fast. The animals were frantic with terror. Rolling their eyes, they backed away, frantically tugging at the rope tethers. The gunfire was driving them crazy with fear but, using his head, Waco now ran straight at the four panicking mounts. He had placed himself directly between horses and outlaws. A bullet that whistled past him would almost certainly hit one of the rearing mounts. The guns fell silent.

  Ten long strides and Waco reached his horse. He always used a quick release knot when tethering his mount. Now, one sharp jerk and the reins fell free. Clutching them in one hand he flung himself into the saddle and flattened himself along the horse’s neck. He kicked hard with his heels, at the same time using soft words to urge the animal around and into the woods. Clouds were drifting across the moon, and his aim was to put solid timber between himself and the gunmen’s bullets. If he covered the first fifty yards or so unscathed he was confident that in the blackness of night he would make his escape.

  But undergrowth slowed his progress. The horse was forced to high-step, jinking left and right through the trees, sometimes backing and taking a different path when the way forward was blocked. Acutely aware of silence behind him, Waco bared his teeth in a silent grimace of frustration as he guessed Allman’s intentions.

  Instead of engaging in a futile pursuit, the outlaw would be slipping his rifle out of its saddle boot, steadying himself against a tree and attempting to shoot Waco out of the saddle.