The Chicanery of Paco Ibañez Read online

  ‘That’s possible,’ Wilde said with a grim shake of the head.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Tom Crane said, unperturbed, ‘but think about this. You downed two Mexicans, but two got away. After that short gunfight they most likely crossed the river, rode up the west bank and got here ahead of you. If that’s so – and you’re right about the outlaws’ location – then you’re in danger the moment you step outside this door.

  ‘But here’s something else, something you may not appreciate. I like your story. It’s big, and by God it’s got romance: poor Mex peasant claws his way out of the fields to raise an army and reclaim Texas. That’s the stuff history’s made of. It’s big and I’m impressed – but I have to tell you, it’s a load of bull. Ain’t going to happen, and I’ll bet my boots Paco Ibañez knows it won’t happen. There’s something else afoot, fellers, and, if you can stay alive, you’ll find out I’m right. But….’

  ‘But?’ Thornton Wilde said.

  ‘But you’ll have to do it the hard way,’ Crane said, ‘because if this damn Mex’s plan, racket, get-rich-quick scheme or whatever the hell it is, lives up to its promise – then it’s way above my head.’

  The sun had gone down behind the western mountains. Outside the marshal’s office the plank walks were in deep shadow, the only illumination coming from oil lamps hanging from iron brackets that were spaced too far apart to be of much use. Pools of yellow light indicated their positions – but between those positions there were narrow alley-ways and enough darkness to hide a dozen men holding sharp blades or drawn guns.

  ‘We haven’t eaten since I don’t know when,’ Thornton Wilde said, ‘and I’m damned if I’m going to stand here dithering when my rumbling belly’s telling everyone exactly where I’m at.’

  ‘There’s a café up the street, over on the other side,’ Bogan said, teeth gleaming as he grinned in the darkness. ‘The doc’s surgery is round the corner. I also saw a livery barn not too far away and, if we’re going after Señor Ibañez, I need a horse.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Wilde stepped down into the dusty street and, with Bogan close behind, headed for the far plank walk. Out in the open, under the stars, he felt exposed but safe from a surprise attack. There were few people about anyway, most of the noise he could hear was coming from the saloon, and already he could smell the rich aroma of fried beef and onions. Or maybe that was his imagination.

  So he was lost in thought, still trying to make up his mind on what he’d eat and how many cups of hot coffee he’d need to wash it down, when he stepped up onto the opposite plank walk – midway between two of the flickering oil lamps – and immediately grunted with shock as a heavy object came swinging out of the darkness and thudded with tremendous force against his skull.

  ELEVEN

  They had stepped out of the nearby alley, two shadowy figures wielding clubs, lurking behind them two dim shapes bearing weapons with the sinister gleam of cold steel.

  In that first assault, Wilde was saved only by the thickness of his Stetson and his attacker’s wild haste. Nevertheless the blow was sickening. It slammed down on the still tender swelling raised by the butt of the outlaw Ryan’s six-gun in the Cedar Creek jail. Muscles turning to water, the starlit night spinning nauseatingly around him, Wilde sank to one knee. Clamping his teeth against the urge to vomit, he ducked his head away from a second, vicious blow. The club slammed against a timber upright. The man cursed in Spanish. The club sprang back from the hard wood. Instantly the man turned that natural recoil into a clever backhand swing at Wilde’s jaw. Wilde ducked. The club whipped off his Stetson, searing his scalp like red hot iron. He let his body go limp, flopped to the boards then rolled off the plank walk into the street.

  He landed heavily on his back. As he shook his head he heard the thunder of boots, grunts of effort, the meaty smack of bone on flesh and knew Gord Bogan was locked in fierce combat.

  Then his attacker jumped off the plank walk.

  He leaped high and came down with bent legs, intending to stamp Wilde into the dust. As the man’s boots touched his chest, Wilde rolled to his side. He felt high heels snag on his vest. The man’s feet were plucked from under him. He fell sideways with a startled roar.

  Wilde’s desperate roll took his upper body under the plank walk. Dust rained down on him from between the boards. He was lying in filth. He spat, flattened his hands on the littered ground and twisted to look for his attacker. Like a cat, the man was springing to his feet. Feeling the strength flooding back into his body, Wilde used his hands as a pivot and swung both straight legs in a wide, scything sweep.

  He aimed high. His boots slammed into the man’s groin. His shriek was a high-pitched wail. He went down as if cut in two by a shotgun’s blast, lay doubled up and groaning.

  But what now? Wilde thought as he squirmed his way from under the plank walk. Two with clubs, two with cold steel of one kind or another. Those two held back because the plan must have been to kill the lawmen silently. That hadn’t worked, so….

  He came to his feet, rocking as he was hit by a wave of dizziness. For good measure he kicked the downed man in the head. The groans of agony snapped into silence.

  Wilde stabbed a hand for his six-gun.

  His holster was empty.

  Scalp prickling, he looked towards the plank walk.

  He was in time to see Gord Bogan grab a man’s wrist and wrench the straight arm backwards against the timber upright. Bone snapped. The man screamed. A wooden club clattered to the boards.

  ‘Behind you, Gord,’ Wilde roared.

  Bogan, the Texas Ranger, was well aware of the danger.

  The man with the broken arm sagged against him, knees buckling. Bogan gripped him by his upper arms and held him limply upright, using his body as a shield. Even as he did so, a pistol cracked from the alley.

  Temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash, Wilde heard the bullet thump into warm flesh. When next he looked, Bogan had released his now mortally wounded human shield. The dying man fell in a crumpled heap to the plank walk.

  But now both the hidden backup men had emerged from the alley. The cold metal of their six-guns gleamed in the weak lamplight. Bogan backed away, half crouching as he went for his six-gun. In the street Wilde dropped to his knees, fumbling blindly for his unconscious attacker’s six-gun as he watched the unfolding action on the plank walk.

  He saw Bogan execute a clean, fast draw as the ambushers’ six-guns spat flame. But the Texas Ranger was backing away. Wilde opened his mouth to yell a warning. He was too late. Bogan’s heel rolled on the edge of the plank walk. As bullets whistled over his head, he fell backwards. One of his out-flung arms cracked against the timber upright. His six-gun flew from his hand. He crashed into the street.

  That fall saved his life, was the thought that raced through Wilde’s head – and in the same instant he discovered that the man he’d kicked senseless was not carrying a gun.

  With a sense of impending disaster, Wilde stopped his fumbling and stood up. He saw Bogan climb painfully to his feet, stumble backwards, desperately shaking his head.

  The two men from the alley walked to the edge of the plank walk. In the shadows cast by broad hat brims their dark eyes glittered. Both men lifted their smoking pistols.

  Out in the street, the two unarmed lawmen were caught cold.

  Four shots rang out in rapid succession. At the same time a door crashed open and light flooded the street.

  ‘Quit that goddamn shooting,’ a voice roared. It was the voice of town marshal Tom Crane. As his cry died away, there came the thud of racing footsteps as he ran across from his office.

  At the same time, shadows fell across the plank walk higher up the street as bodies crowded into the saloon’s open doorway and curious drinkers craned their necks to watch the action.

  The action was over.

  On the plank walk, the two gunmen were lying motionless alongside the dead man with the broken arm, their six-guns fallen from lifeless hands. Out in
the street, Thorn Wilde and Gord Bogan were forlorn figures, isolated, unsure – halfway to being utterly bewildered, and feeling unutterably stupid.

  It was Bogan who recovered first. He looked at the dead men. Swung around. Touched Thorn Wilde’s shoulder, and nodded to tell him there was someone behind him.

  When Wilde turned around, he was staring at his son.

  ‘I got bored, so I slipped out when Merryman wasn’t looking,’ Lucas Wilde said, pale-faced. And then, as Tom Crane raced up, panting, he grinned and lifted the six-gun that had saved their lives.

  ‘Lucky for you I did.’

  The man whose job it was to remove the dead from the scene of gunfight or tragedy was a carpenter named Ben Driscoll who drove a ranch buckboard that also served as an undertaker’s carriage. He was one of those who’d poked their heads out of the saloon. His curiosity had been mercenary: the town paid him a small fee when his services were required.

  Always prepared, he had driven to the saloon in his buckboard. Ten minutes after the gunfire had faded into silence, the three dead men had been carted away to the town’s funeral parlour, and the man who had attacked Thorn Wilde and would be walking awkwardly for the next week or so was locked in a cell.

  For the lawmen passing through El Paso, and for Tom Crane, the night was far from over. Lucas Wilde had another tale to tell.

  Keys jangled as Crane hung them on their peg in his office. Gord Bogan, at the marshal’s bidding, was over at the stove pouring coffee into tin cups. Lucas was sitting down, stiffly, clearly in pain, but bright eyed and – in Thorn Wilde’s opinion – too damn excited for a man recovering from a gunshot wound.

  ‘I took a wander around when I walked out of the doc’s,’ Lucas said. ‘I know Gord needs a horse, so the most natural place to go on the way down here was the livery barn.’

  Crane hooked a haunch on the corner of desk, sipped his coffee, and nodded.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The hostler’s an old man—’

  ‘Will Craig,’ Crane said.

  ‘—and I could hear him snoring in his office. I guess he sleeps like the dead, because there’d been a whole lot going on he’d missed.’

  ‘Like what?’ Thornton Wilde said.

  In reply, Lucas looked at Bogan.

  ‘There’s a grey horse in there, if you want it, Gord. No saddle-bags,’ he said with a meaningful glance at his companions, ‘but the man that horse belonged to sure has no more need for it.’

  ‘And who would that be?’ Crane said, looking mystified as he sensed the other men’s immediate grasp of the situation.

  ‘Marshal Reb Tindale, of San Angelo,’ Lucas Wilde said. ‘I walked into that livery barn and down the dark runway and he damn near kicked me in the teeth. Unintentionally, of course – that poor feller’s hanging by his neck from one of those big overhead beams.’

  TWELVE

  Meg Morgan, the woman who owned the café, had been drawn from her bed by the crackle of gunfire and the subsequent squeak and rattle of Ben Driscoll’s buckboard as he carted away first three, then a fourth body. Gord Bogan stayed behind chatting to her and Tom Crane when the Wildes walked up the street to stable their horses. When father and son returned it was to discover that the plump, cheerful café owner had been sweet-talked by the lean Texas Ranger and was about to open up and cook a meal for the three lawmen from out of town.

  Tom Crane, after crossing the street to check on his prisoner and inform the dazed Mexican that he’d be questioned the next day, went home to his wife.

  ‘What we’ve got to do in a hurry,’ Thornton Wilde said, an hour later as he pushed away his empty plate and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, ‘is come up with a plan.’

  ‘Before that,’ Meg Morgan said, plump and flushed, ‘what you do is promise to slam this door when you leave. There’s coffee out back. The stove’ll die out of its own accord, one of you fellows can blow out the lamps. Me, I’m off home.’

  The door clicked behind her, shutting off their profuse thanks, and they listened to her feet thudding on the stairs at the side of the building that led to her living quarters. Another door banged.

  ‘It’ll need to be one hell of a plan,’ Gord Bogan said into the silence that followed. ‘We must’ve stumbled onto something big, because I’ve never had so many men try to plug me full of holes in one day.’

  ‘No,’ Thorn objected. ‘It needs to be a plan, but a simple one, because there’s just one objective.’

  ‘Find Paco Ibañez,’ Lucas said.

  ‘Right. We locate him,’ his father said, ‘then we ask him what the hell’s going on.’

  Bogan grinned. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Nothing like straight talking.’

  ‘But there is the small matter of Allman, Ryan and Jago and Christ knows how many angry Mexicans.’

  ‘So we get Ibañez on his own,’ Thorn said.

  ‘That’s explains what we’d like to do, but doesn’t tell us how we go about it. How we do it constitutes the plan – and so far we haven’t got one.’

  ‘As Texas Rangers, we operate to our own rules, Pa,’ Lucas said, winking at Bogan. ‘That means without scruples. So tomorrow morning we talk to that Mex over there in the jail, and we force him to take us to his leader.’

  ‘Force how?’ Thorn said.

  ‘You wait outside,’ Lucas said. ‘Then what method we use is up to us.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘I guess that’s a no. You don’t approve.’

  Wilde pursed his lips as he stared into his coffee.

  ‘Crane would object to brutality in his jail. And tomorrow’s a long way off. What I’m concerned with here is our understanding of what’s going on. For example, this business of taking over Texas. The more I hear it mentioned, the more crazy it sounds.’

  ‘I’m looking at the facts,’ Gord Bogan said. ‘One is we know Paco Ibañez is after a heap of cash. Two is, we know he’s using Texan outlaws to do the dirty work. My guess is he’s duping them; I don’t believe in a Texas takeover. But I stick by what I said earlier: we’re onto something big.’

  ‘If it’s not big this side of the border,’ Lucas said, ‘how about over there in Mexico? You think Ibañez is using American money to finance a poor Mexican’s dream of immense riches?’

  ‘What I think is, we won’t know the truth until we talk direct to Ibañez.’ Bogan grinned. ‘But like your pa said, we’ll begin pursuing that aim in the morning.’

  ‘Right now, I’m more confused by the minute,’ Thornton Wilde said. ‘I guess that’s my age,’ he said, draining his coffee. ‘Let’s get out of here and find something strong to drink before we bed down.’

  It was after midnight. The saloonist behind the bar was a tall, dark man with bushy sideburns and slicked-back, oily black hair – a contrast in styles. He was standing back against the ranks of bottles, picking his teeth with a splinter of wood and stoically hiding his impatience as he waited for the lone drinker at the bar – a Mexican wearing a colourful sombrero and a blue serape around his shoulders – to drain his glass.

  When the lawmen walked in he rolled his eyes, pulled out a battered turnip watch and squinted at the time.

  ‘A half-hour, no more,’ Thornton Wilde said to placate him, doffing his Stetson and letting his thinning grey hair inform the man that he should defer to age and wisdom. ‘Flying bullets tend to dry a man’s throat. A beer apiece should send us to our beds content.’

  ‘If we had a bed,’ Bogan said. ‘You given that small problem any thought? I don’t intend paying out for a hotel room, and I can’t say I fancy sleeping in an empty cell.’

  ‘I had a scout around when I spotted Tindale’s horse in the livery barn,’ Lucas said. ‘There’s a good loft, with plenty of straw. If you don’t mind bedding down with rats for company….’

  Silence settled over the saloon, broken only by the saloonist as he noisily poured beer into three glasses and set them before the newcomers. In almost the same movement he swep
t the empty glass from in front of the Mexican, then glared at him. The man shrugged expressively, cast a hard look in the direction of the lawmen then walked away shaking his head.

  The door banged behind him hard enough to shake the building, an act of retaliation that caused the saloonist to smirk.

  The three men at bar sipped their warm beer, elbows on the worn timber bar, each involved in a spell of silent pondering. Thornton Wilde had no idea what the others were thinking, but he couldn’t help feeling that Gord Bogan was right: they were on the edge of deep involvement in something big, but whatever it was it was not the takeover of the state of Texas. That story was a clear fabrication.

  OK, Wilde thought, that story was being used to hide the truth, but there was no doubt that Gomez was using the outlaws, no reason to suppose he wasn’t following orders given by Paco Ibañez. But if the Texas takeover story was a load of bull, why did they need to imagine something bigger was going on, something more complicated? Why not keep it simple? Like Crane had pointed out, it could be no more than a poor Mexican peasant called Paco Ibañez – aided by a couple of ruthless compañeros – using his wits and a bunch of gullible Texan outlaws to make himself a lot of money. What was wrong with that idea?

  Well, just the one thing, he thought: Lucas and Gord Bogan were also following orders, and for the Texas Rangers to be involved it suggested something deeper than a Mex peasant and half-a-dozen bank robberies.

  ‘What kind of dealings do you two have with the boys back in Austin?’ Wilde said softly. ‘The big boys at ranger HQ, are they always straight with you?’

  ‘We’re not privy to their innermost thoughts,’ Lucas said, ‘but that’s OK because they tend to give us free rein.’

  Thornton pulled a face. ‘All that means is how you do the work is down to you. The Texas Rangers’ prime role when they were first organized was fighting off the Comanche and the Apache.’ He grinned at Lucas. ‘The saying at the time was they “ride like Mexicans, shoot like Tennesseans, and fight like the very devil”. I guess things are still the same, but nowadays they’re frontier fighters, so they’re combating lawlessness among raiding Native Americans – and Mexicans.