The Chicanery of Paco Ibañez Page 7

  ‘Sure,’ Lucas said. ‘And as I’ve seen Gomez and the name Ibañez keeps popping up, the Mexican connection’s there.’ He frowned. ‘So, what then, Pa? You reckon we’re too gullible, taking everything fed to us by HQ in blind faith?’

  ‘Not always. But this time—’

  ‘All they told us was Texas money’s going missing,’ Gord Bogan cut in.

  ‘Which was true,’ Wilde said, ‘but I think it’s a long way short of the full story.’

  Lucas was still frowning, absently rubbing his shoulder.

  ‘We shouldn’t be thinking too hard about Ibañez’ objectives,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Our objective’s still the same: locate Allman, Ryan and Jago – and Gomez. Those Texans have got the cash back off Tindale, Gomez is their link with Mexico.’

  ‘Yeah, but is he?’ Wilde said. ‘As I recall, you were pounced on by Tindale because he seized his opportunity. You and Allman were left on your own when Gomez and the others slipped away for a meeting. That seems to put Gomez lower down the chain of command. It’s possible they were meeting Ibañez – but my gut feeling tells me that’s wrong.’

  ‘Yeah, I agree,’ Lucas said. ‘Remember the talk that went on just before the jail break? Ryan and Jago were arguing? Jago was saying Gomez was man in the middle and Allman jumped in, told him to shut up.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Wilde said. ‘And as there’s never been any secret about Ibañez, that suggests Jago was about to let slip a name that’s supposed to be kept secret.’

  ‘Gives us something else to think about,’ Bogan said, ‘but doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Wilde said, ‘so first thing in the morning, we start looking.’ He cast a glance in Bogan’s direction as he drained his glass and set it on the bar. ‘And we take care. Mistakes made by one – or every one of us – have left us with one man nursing a bullet wound, and me with a head that feels like a tooth going bad from the inside. Not a record to be proud of, so we’re going to look pretty damn foolish if they find us before we find them.’

  THIRTEEN

  A noise woke Thornton Wilde as the first light of day was filtering through the cracks in the roof over the livery barn’s loft. Without opening his eyes he replayed in his mind the sounds that had disturbed him, and he knew at once that what he had heard was nothing more alarming than the rustle of straw. Close by. And as straw rustling in a livery barn, he figured, was about as unusual as a cockerel crowing at dawn, he opened one eye to squint at his companions then turned over to go back to sleep.

  But he quickly discovered that disturbed sleep – for that day at least – was sleep gone for good. He lay there for perhaps fifteen minutes fighting the turmoil in his mind, then swore softly and kicked his way out of his blankets. He stood, stretched, yawned, slipped his feet into cold boots and realized that, in the semi-darkness, Lucas was doing the same.

  The long bundle of tumbled blankets that was Gord Bogan stayed stubbornly still and silent.

  ‘Leave him be,’ Wilde said softly, as he buckled on his gun-belt. ‘Let’s you and me slip down and see to the horses. With them ready to go, we can make an early start.’

  Lucas followed him to the open hatch, stood watching as his pa turned and started backwards down the creaking vertical wooden ladder with his hands gripping the worn rungs.

  ‘An early start’s no good if we don’t know where we’re going.’

  ‘The first bit’s the ride over to the jail to talk to that Mex,’ Wilde said, stopping to look down as a rung cracked ominously. ‘Waste of time, I guess; I can’t see him talking, though Tom Crane being marshal of a border town may know ways of twisting his arm.’

  He dropped the last two rungs, grunted as he landed heavily, then put a hand on the rickety timber ladder as he looked up and waited for Lucas to join him.

  ‘If we do get nothing from the Mex,’ he said, ‘it’ll be time to go looking for our friends the bank robbers—’

  And then he broke off as for the second time that morning a sound screamed for his attention. This time not the benign rustle of straw, but the unmistakable metallic click of a weapon being cocked.

  ‘Pa, behind you,’ Lucas shouted.

  Wilde was already turning, swivelling into a crouch as his hand reached for his gun. But it was too early in the day. His ageing joints, stiffened by a night’s sleep, betrayed him and a stab of pain forced him down onto one knee. The fingers of his right hand fumbled awkwardly at the worn butt, turning a fast draw into a fight not to drop the gun. As he bit his lip in frustration he was aware of Lucas dropping like a cat from the ladder, felt his son’s hand hard on his shoulder as the boy steadied himself before leaping desperately to one side.

  Then all hell let loose.

  The livery barn’s big doors were open. Three men stood spaced out across that wide opening. The early morning light was behind them. Dark silhouettes with faces lost in shadow, they had begun walking forward, advancing down the runway.

  And now their six-guns spat flame.

  The noise was deafening. The gloom was turned to a bright midday by the blazing muzzle flashes. Hot lead screamed at Wilde from three directions. Bullets whined past his ears. Splinters flew from the vertical ladder. Dirt kicked up into his face from the hard-packed earth. Desperately he came off his knees and onto flat feet, flung himself sideways, wriggled like a snake and made it to the shelter of unopened grain sacks stacked against the wall.

  He sat with his back against the coarse hemp, gasping, the stink of cordite in his nostrils. He pulled out his six-gun, poked it out and cocked his wrist backwards to fire four blind shots. Then he pulled back. Reloaded the empty chambers. Looked across the barn, across the runway.

  Lucas had made it to one of the empty stalls. Hidden from the outlaws, he crouched on the filthy straw and gave Wilde the thumbs up.

  Wilde grinned. Now the attackers were out in the open and exposed, their targets under cover and out of sight. Abruptly, the guns went silent. In the sudden quiet disturbed only by the nervous snorting and stamping of horses and the ringing in his ears, Wilde listened for movement from the outlaws, heard nothing. He tried to put himself in the outlaws’ place, and knew he’d do the same: wait out the opposition, let them make the first move. But he also knew that if he and Lucas did nothing, they were finished.

  He looked across, raised his hand with three fingers vertical, pointed to each one in turn. Lucas nodded his understanding. He grabbed the side of the stall with his left hand, held his six-gun cocked and tilted in his right, tensed so that he was a spring ready to uncoil.

  Wilde did the same, though feeling more like a spring that was about to snap. Then he lifted his left hand so that Lucas could see it, brought it down once, twice – and a much faster third time.

  As his arm whipped down for the third time, he leaped from behind the grain sacks. But as fast as he moved, Lucas was quicker. Across the way he was already out of the stall, a tall, slim figure standing with spread legs and a blazing six-gun in his fist.

  Then Wilde began shooting. He saw the three figures, much closer now, and knew with a fierce exultation that they had been taken by surprise. Shock had given the two lawmen an advantage that could be measured in fractions of a second.

  It was enough. And the closer they were, the better targets the outlaws made.

  In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the startled outlaws began returning fire. But they were too late. Thornton Wilde was slow, but fired with deadly accuracy. Two of his bullets had torn into warm flesh. Lucas was also placing his shots with skill: two men were already sinking to the ground, their bullets flying harmlessly wide as the strength leaked from their muscles. Wilde heard one of those bullets punch through the overhead boards that were the loft’s floor, and for an instant he thought of Gord Bogan lying in his blankets.

  Just like me, he thought with amusement. A sound will have disturbed his beauty sleep.

  Then he cleared his mind and snapped his gaze back to the scene in fro
nt of him.

  One man was left. Gus Allman, Wilde thought, recognizing the lean shape and long hair – a man of a different calibre from his two companions whose blood was wetly staining the dark earth. One sweeping glance to left and right had told Allman that the game was up for Ryan and Jago. Without hesitation he spun away from the action. He ran hard for the wide doors. The street was a few yards ahead of him. Wilde had no doubt that the man’s horse would be tethered within easy reach.

  He screamed out a warning. ‘Lucas, he’s gettin’ away, get after him—’

  There was no need.

  A figure appeared in the wide opening. In his hands he held a shotgun. The shotgun was cocked and levelled.

  Allman saw it. He slid to a halt, took one swift appraising look at that shotgun, at the gaping black holes of its muzzles and the steady gaze of the man holding the deadly weapon – and he dropped his six-gun and backed off, lifting his hands in surrender.

  ‘Keep ’em like that,’ Gord Bogan said, ‘and you’ll stay alive.’

  He stepped forward, and kicked the six-gun beyond Allman’s reach. Then he looked into the livery barn and grinned.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I leave you two alone for ten minutes, and when I get back you’ve started your own little war.’

  ‘That’s the way I feel,’ Marshal Tom Crane said when Allman was safely locked in a cell. ‘This may be a border town, with all the violence that goes with the territory, but I’ve seen more dead men in two days than I’ve seen all year.’

  ‘And as it’s pushing November,’ Gord Bogan said, ‘that’s quite something.’

  ‘Talking of quite something,’ Thornton Wilde said, ‘how the hell did you get out of those blankets without being seen – and where did you find the shotgun?’

  ‘I walked out earlier when you and Lucas were asleep,’ Bogan said. ‘You stirred when I made some noise getting up, but didn’t see me. I went to talk to my pretty friend, Meg Morgan, tell her we might be needing an early breakfast. When the shooting ruined a promising conversation, she dipped down behind the counter and came up with this.’

  He fondly patted the scattergun resting against his leg.

  ‘Well, dead bodies don’t worry me too much if they’re bad guys,’ Wilde said, glancing towards the door as Ben Driscoll’s buckboard squeaked up the street carrying its latest gruesome cargo. ‘What does bother me is the more men go down, the less chance we’ve got of getting to the bottom of what’s going on.’

  ‘This may be a good time to ask you to turn around and head for home, Pa. Like Tom says, you’ve got no authority here – certainly none if we cross the border into Mexico – and with bullets flying like rain in a high wind—’

  ‘In a pig’s ear I will,’ Wilde said flatly. ‘I’ll unpin the tin, put it in my pocket and you can look on me as a hired gun.’

  Lucas grinned across at Bogan and winked. ‘Brains, yes, wisdom, yes – but after what I witnessed in the livery barn you’ll never make gunslinger.’

  ‘Brains might also be a problem,’ Bogan said, deadpan. ‘Did I tell you about the time I caught your pa crawling under his desk looking for that tin badge he’s talking about—?’

  ‘Knock it off,’ Wilde growled. ‘I’m here to stay, so let’s turn our attention to the man settin’ in there looking at bars from the wrong side. He’ll be feeling a mite lonely without his pards. Could be ready to do a deal.’

  Tom Crane was stretched out behind his desk, a cigarette smoking between his fingers. He nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘There’s two of them out there, but you can forget the Mexican who clubbed you last night. He won’t talk. Allman’s a different kettle of fish. I gather he’s the man took Tindale’s saddle-bags and is now holding the cash.’

  Wilde nodded. ‘Unless he’s already handed it over to Charlie Gomez.’

  Crane shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I took a good look into that man’s eyes when I locked him up. He’s smart. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll not have been taken in by talk of a poor Mexican reclaiming Texas. And if he didn’t believe that, then he was robbing banks for what he could make for himself.’

  ‘The offer of some of that cash instead of a long spell in jail could see him switch sides,’ Bogan said. ‘He could begin by leading us to Gomez.’

  Crane pursed his lips, looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

  ‘Is that wise? Isn’t it your job and mine to see he pays for his crimes?’

  Sure,’ Wilde said, ‘but you and I know he could have slipped across the border before we had a chance to get our hands on him. The fact is, he didn’t. He’s in our hands – perhaps more through luck than good judgement – so why not use him. Make the most of a bad situation.’

  ‘My deputy did some asking around,’ Crane said. ‘The man called Gomez is well known in certain circles – though not to me. Seems one of his men was drinking in the saloon when you walked in last night.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Thornton Wilde said. ‘That close – and I saw him and did nothing.’

  ‘Oh, you did something, though it’s unlikely to ease your mind. What you did was let him listen in to your conversation. Might be a good idea to go back over what you said, recall if there was anything of importance discussed.’

  ‘Talked about sleeping arrangements,’ Wilde said. ‘I can’t see a snoopy Mexican considering that important enough for Gomez’s ears.’

  For a moment there was silence as Wilde and the Texas Rangers brooded over their near miss. Then Wilde looked at Crane.

  ‘What I haven’t brought up so far is the possibility of another man here in El Paso – a man even Gomez has to report to. We got wind of this back in Cedar Creek when Ryan and Jago were arguing. Allman jumped in pretty quick to stop him when Jago was about to let a name slip.’

  Crane frowned. ‘But not Ibañez?’

  ‘No. They’ve been quite happy talking freely about him and his big ideas.’

  ‘So … any thoughts?’

  ‘Well, you know we’ve all just about decided the Texas takeover is a cover to hide what’s really going on. I’m beginning to wonder if Ibañez is really top dog – hell, I’m beginning to wonder if the man even exists.’

  ‘Good point,’ Lucas said. ‘Those bank robbers did their talking around the camp-fire, and Ibañez came into it. But not once did I hear any one of them say they’d met him.’

  ‘But if not Ibañez,’ Gord Bogan said, ‘then who the hell is he, and what’s his game?’

  ‘And if we do get to him,’ Wilde said, ‘will we have reached the top dog, or just stripped away another layer in a multi-layered plot?’ He shook his head in disgust, then spread his hands. ‘Well, if nothing else, we do have a contact. Let’s go make friends with Gus Allman, see what that brings.’

  Crane came up out of chair and reached for the cell keys.

  ‘A word of warning, Wilde. I told you this man Allman is smart. Take what he says with a pinch of salt, because at the first opportunity he’ll work a double-cross. If you don’t keep your eyes skinned and watch your back, your first visit to El Paso could be the last you’ll ever make.’

  FOURTEEN

  To make any offers they made to Gus Allman more likely to be acceptable to a man looking at years in the penitentiary, Thornton Wilde asked for the prisoner to be released into their custody. That way, he pointed out, ‘He’ll be tasting freedom while knowing at any moment it could be snatched away from him. He’ll also be comparing and remembering: one night in the El Paso cell will have reminded him of the years he’s already spent inside, he’ll be sniffing the fresh air while making comparisons with what he experienced then and what he’s got now. Put bluntly, once on the outside a man will do everything in his power to stay there.’

  So it came about that Gus Allman rode through yet another town with his wrists lashed to the saddle horn. His long grey hair was damp with perspiration leaking from his skin more from fear of the unknown than from the effects of the hot sun. Under his stained Ste
tson he was wearing a worried frown.

  He’d not been told what was happening. This was a deliberate ploy designed to confuse and weaken the man and, as they rode out of El Paso and headed towards the river on the south side of town, it was clear to all three amused lawmen that Allman was fearing the worst.

  Perplexity was written all over the outlaw’s face. Had he finally gone too far? Had those in authority taken a long hard look at the procedure involved in arrest, trial and incarceration and said to hell with it, let’s take the easy way out and get rid of him once and for all?

  He didn’t know, couldn’t know. And when the lawmen turned the horses towards the green river-bank where waters lapped, called a halt under trees giving shelter from the blazing sun and removed his bonds, it was with a set face and nervously shifting gaze that the outlaw allowed himself to be led towards a tree and forced to sit on the grass with his back against a slender twisting trunk and his ankles lashed with rawhide.

  ‘Strange way for a firing squad to act,’ he said.

  ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking?’ Wilde laughed. ‘Matter of fact you’ve got just two choices, Gus, and a firing squad’s not one of them.’

  ‘Three choices,’ Lucas said. ‘A man died in the San Angelo bank robbery. So, depending on how the judge and jury feel on the day of the trial, it’ll be something like twenty years in the pen, or a stretched neck.’

  ‘That’s two,’ Allman said, his face pale. ‘What’s the third?’

  ‘You buy your way out,’ Wilde said.

  Allman shook his head. ‘You think I’ve still got those saddle-bags?’

  ‘Not buy with money, with information and assistance. Tell us what’s going on, point us in the right direction. You were arrested by Reb Tindale. He was a crooked lawman, and he’s paid for his folly. Ryan’s dead. Jago’s dead. Those last two deaths could be seen by the law as payment in full for the trail of bank robberies across Texas, especially as your involvement in those events is known to just a handful of men.’ He paused, let possible implications of what he had said sink in, then said softly, ‘Buy your freedom, Allman. Talk to us now, and you could ride away from here—’