Cap fog 2, p.15
Cap Fog 2, page 15
There was, the leader of the bandidos conceded grudgingly to himself, only one course open to him under the circumstances.
‘Sit down and behave, all of you!’ Guevara thundered, lurching erect and glaring about him, but making sure he kept his empty hands prominently displayed. ‘We’re guests here, so do as Don Alberto’s man told you!’
Forcing herself to accept the pain which moving produced, despite the ministrations she had received earlier from the doctor, Rita Ansell slowly eased herself into a sitting position. Shoving off the sheet which was covering her naked, bruised, but—as she had been bathed by two of the Mexican girls on being carried upstairs—clean body, she swung out her legs to lower her feet to the floor. The room’s light was on and, picking up the wristwatch which she had left on the dressing-table when she had been summoned by Minnie Lassiter to make ready for the fight, she squinted at its face through her swollen and discolored right eye. The left was so puffed up that she could not see through it at all.
The examination informed the brunette that, although she could still hear music and other sounds of festivity from the patio, three hours had elapsed since she had fallen in a faint induced by exhaustion to lay supine on the unconscious body of Daisy Extall. While she had been given all the care and attention possible under the circumstances, she had only just thrown off the effects of her sufferings sufficiently to be able to take notice of her surroundings. In fact, even with the remembrance that she had won the fight and the knowledge of what the victory meant to help her, it was a tribute to her fortitude and strength of will that she was able to drag herself into consciousness.
The first movements Rita had made caused her to feel in torment, but she refused to yield to the impulse to lie down again. She was goaded by the belief that, as she was in a comatose state which was neither asleep nor awake, somebody had been at her bedside. When she had opened her good eye, the door was closing. While she had not seen who was leaving, she thought it was Albert Brickhouse and he had paid the visit to offer her the “position” they had discussed in the library. Feeling sure he would return, or come later if it had been somebody else, she wanted to make sure everything was ready for receiving him.
Returning the watch to the dressing-table, the brunette took her handbag from the drawer in which she had placed it. Opening it and delving inside, her fingers scrabbled in an increasingly desperate attempt to locate what they were seeking. Gasping in anxiety, she upturned the bag and spilled its contents on the bed. Her restricted vision notwithstanding, she discovered that everything was there except the most important article of all. Filled with alarm, as she had checked it was there before leaving for the fight, she wondered who had removed the small vial of poison which she had intended to administer to the financier when he came to congratulate her on her victory.
Chapter Fifteen – Guevara Wants Clint and Blood
‘Hombre, the only reason you’re losing so heavy is you’re a lousy card player. Fact being, I’ll bet you’re so stupid you couldn’t even set fire to a cube of sugar.’ Hearing Comanche Blood delivering the comment in a mocking voice, as he was walking down the stairs from the upper floor of the Hacienda Naranja’s main building, Rapido Clint made his way across the entrance hall to the open double doors of the dining-room.
What the small Texan had already seen as he was commencing his descent made him put from his mind something he had just discovered. He had been sent by Albert Brickhouse to ascertain whether Rita Ansell was sufficiently recovered from her exertions to join the guests of honor at the ‘head’ table and receive their congratulations. Although as far as he could tell, she had either been asleep or still unconscious, he had made a discovery which puzzled and disturbed him.
Confident he could leave his curiosity where the brunette was concerned until a more propitious moment, Clint gave all his attention to what was happening in the dining-room. However, having approached quickly and quietly, he did not enter. Instead, as everybody present was watching Blood and the person to whom the derogatory words were directed, he halted just outside the doors to await the developments his instincts warned him would shortly be forthcoming.
After the unconscious fighters and the bandido felled by the small Texan had been removed, a poker game had started in the dining-room despite there being music and female company available on the patio. The original players, Blood, Hank Wade, Earl Newton, Will Granger and one of the newly arrived hardcases, had been augmented by Che Orlando and el Toro, neither of whom had found the company at the head table to their taste.
Knowing his amigo’s ability as a poker player, Clint was not surprised to see that he was winning a good sum of money. Nor, as he had formed a shrewd assessment of Orlando’s character and lack of skill as a gambler, did he consider it in the least out of the ordinary that the young Mexican would be one of the heavy losers. In fact, he regarded Orlando’s chances of winning against such opposition to be on a par with that of a rat dropped into a barrel with a bull terrier. What was more, taking into account the way in which Blood’s insulting words had been framed, he guessed what might be coming. He also felt that his undetected presence could prove advantageous should his assumptions prove correct, which was why he did not enter the dining-room or go to report the result of his mission to the financier.
‘What do you mean?’ Orlando demanded angrily, speaking fluent English with a slight Hispanic accent.
‘Just what I said,’ Blood answered, placing the thin black cheroot he was smoking on the ash tray by his side and waving the hand he had been using in the direction of the tray upon which coffee had been brought for the players. ‘I’ll bet you-all don’t have sense enough to set fire to one of those sugar cubes.’
‘How much will you bet?’ Orlando challenged, his face taking on a crafty expression as he thought of how easily sugar would burn when poured on to a fire.
‘Well now—!’ Blood began, showing the kind of nervous hesitancy which a more observant person might have remembered had been simulated by him on the occasion during the game when he had been dealt a small straight flush pat hand. 53
‘What’s a matter, gringo?’ Orlando mocked. ‘Do you only make bets with your mouth?’
‘I wouldn’t say that!’ Blood replied, showing what appeared to be annoyance.
‘Then put up or shut up!’ Orlando requested in a hostile fashion.
‘All right, happen that’s how you-all want it,’ the Indian dark Texan acceded, seemingly reluctant.
‘All I’ve got here against your pile and that fancy handled sixgun you’re toting.’
‘You’re on!’ the young bandido accepted, concluding that—even with the price of his favorite revolver included—there was more money in front of his opponent than he had in his possession.
Exchanging brief knowing looks and winks, the longer serving of the hardcases watched a repetition of the way in which their employer had conducted the wager with each of them in turn on their arrival to work for him. Deducing that Blood had discovered the secret, all of them wanted to see if they could detect how it was performed. Despite showing signs of suspecting something was amiss, el Toro made no attempt to dissuade his young companion. Instead, he suggested similar precautions to those taken by all the previous victims including Clint two nights earlier.
‘All right!’ the younger bandido snarled, showing alarm and consternation when his attempt to set the sugar cube alight produced only a brown and sticky mess. ‘Let’s see you make the god-damned thing burn!’
Even before the Indian-dark Texan could make the suggestion, el Toro demanded that Orlando’s matches were used. Assenting, Blood asked for it to be lit. Taking advantage of the distraction caused by this being done, he swiftly dipped the sticky side of the cube so a small portion of the ash from the tray adhered to it. Clint had explained what would happen while they were alone on Friday. He had refrained from exposing the trick as a means of acquiring Brickhouse’s good offices. Being a vegetable carbon, the ash acted as a catalyst and, on the lighted match being applied, the cube burst into flame.
‘Is that good enough?’ the Texan asked, dropping the burning cube into the ashtray and reaching down to wipe his fingers on the front of his trousers.
‘It’s a trick, god damn it!’ Orlando shouted furiously, rising with such violence that he sent his chair skidding away behind him. ‘Well, here’s my gun!’
While spitting out the second sentence, the young bandido grabbed swiftly for the holstered revolver. However, as his hand closed about the ornate butt, it was obvious that he was not intending to pass the weapon over in payment of the wager he had lost. His thumb curled over and drew back the hammer. What was more, as soon as the Colt rose far enough to allow access, his forefinger entered the guard to depress the trigger.
Startled exclamations burst from the hardcases and they all rose hurriedly with the intention of escaping from the line of fire. Also standing up with alacrity, el Toro started to pull his machete from its sheath.
Blood made no attempt to leave his chair!
Remaining seated, the Indian-dark Texan plucked the knife—the hilt of which he had already grasped under the pretense of wiping his hand—away from its sheath. Coming up and into view, it was flung in a single blur of motion across the table.
Glinting briefly in the electric light as it sped through the air, the spear pointed blade of the knife sank into Orlando’s left shoulder at a most inauspicious moment. So swiftly had everything happened that the five and a half inch Artillery Model barrel of his Peacemaker had not quite cleared the lip of the holster when he was struck. Which proved most unfortunate for him. Shock and pain caused him to let go of the weapon. This in turn permitted the hammer to start moving before the liberated trigger could advance sufficiently to prevent its operation. There was the crash of a shot and he screamed even louder as the .45 caliber bullet tore at an angle through his right thigh. 54
Giving vent to a bellow of rage, which came close to duplicating the sound of his namesake when provoked, el Toro raised the machete and sprang towards the now unarmed man who had caused his leader’s nephew to be injured.
To all appearances, Comanche Blood had committed a grievous error in tactics!
For all that, the Indian-dark Texan was far from as reckless as he seemed!
Having seen his amigo coming down the stairs and waiting at the doors, Blood had known help was at hand!
Nor did the small Texan fail to justify his companion’s confidence!
Having drawn the big Colt Government Model automatic pistol from his shoulder holster, Clint acted in the only way possible under the circumstances. Taking the brief time required to elevate the weapon to shoulder height and at arms’ length in both hands, he aligned the sights. Firing, he sent the heavy caliber bullet into the bandido’s head.
Struck almost anywhere else, el Toro could have lived sufficiently long to carry out his intention of sinking the razor sharp blade of the machete into Blood’s skull. As it was, being killed instantaneously, the weapon flopped downwards harmlessly. He was spun in a half circle, then measured his length on the floor.
‘Gracias, Rapido,’ Blood drawled, glancing gratefully at his savior.
‘Es nada, amigo,’ the small Texan replied, walking forward with the Colt in his right hand. ‘Only I don’t reckon Cristóbal Guevara will see it that way when he finds out what we’ve had to do.’
‘Throw down your guns and get your hands high, you two sons-of-bitches!’ Victor Torreson commanded, bringing a Colt Army Model of 1917 revolver from behind his back as he stepped into the entrance hall from the library of the Hacienda Naranja’s main building. He lined its barrel in the general direction of Rapido Clint and Comanche Blood. ‘And don’t anybody else try to bill in if you value your hides!’
‘Good heavens, man!’ Albert Brickhouse gasped, moving hurriedly away from the two young Texans. ‘Whatever is possessing you?’
‘Guevara wants Clint and Blood,’ the fugitive from New York replied, as the man who had received the beating from the small Texan moved forward, also drawing a revolver, and halted alongside him. ‘That was him on the Maw Bell just now. 55 He says he’s no quarrel with the rest of us and, if we send them out, he’ll take his men away and leave us be.’
As Clint had intimated, on Cristóbal Guevara’s arrival in the dining-room with the financier and other guests to investigate the cause of the disturbance, he had been far from enamored with the sight which greeted him. Nor had his temper been improved when the doctor had informed him that, even if Che Orlando survived the injury, there was no chance of saving the shattered limb and amputation would be necessary. For all that, faced with the practically unanimous hostility of the white hardcases and presented with indisputable evidence that his nephew and segundo had been the aggressors, he had managed to restrain his all too obvious anger. Warning his men against any attempt to avenge the stricken pair, he had told them to take el Toro’s body to their headquarters for burial and had left to accompany his nephew to the hospital in Juarez.
Despite Torreson’s gloomy predictions, the night had passed without incident. However, before noon that day, every one of the Mexicans who had been on the premises had taken their departure. They had gone unannounced, in twos and small groups, leaving by alternate gates to avoid arousing the suspicions of the doubled guards, until none remained to be questioned about the reason for the mass exodus. There had been some comment when their desertion was discovered, but it did not go beyond complaints about the lack of amenities likely to be caused by their desertion. These had not eventuated. With the help of Rita Ansell— who had offered her services despite it being apparent she was still feeling the effects of her previous evening’s exertions—and men assigned to the duty by Clint, Wildersleeve had produced a lunch as good as the meals to which the majority of the hardcases had become accustomed.
On being informed that the brunette had accepted Brickhouse’s invitation to remain at the Hacienda Naranja, Minnie Lassiter had been annoyed. Receiving a hint from the financier that her peculations in the matter of the payment for the two combatants would be exposed, she had yielded to the inevitable. While displeased by the loss of Rita, who she had hoped to employ in a similar capacity to that which she suspected was intended by Brickhouse, she took consolation from the knowledge that the visit had otherwise been most fruitful.
Not only had the madame made a substantial financial profit from the money received for supplying the fighters plus her unofficial levy out of the well subscribed collection she had taken on their behalf the previous night, but she had made her peace with Rapido Clint. Taking an opportunity to speak in private with him, when he had thanked her for giving moral support against Guevara, she had started by apologizing for her behavior during their first meeting. Accepting, he had promised to give consideration to her proposal that he and Comanche Blood should join Hogan Turtle’s organization when their period of employment with Brickhouse was terminated.
Torreson’s warnings about the cause of the flight of the Mexican domestic staff notwithstanding, the afternoon had passed uneventfully until five o’clock. Then, while Clint had been telling those of the guard force not already on duty about the precautions he wanted taken during the hours of darkness, one of the lookouts from the main gate had arrived with disturbing news. A large body of well-armed bandidos had put in an appearance. They had advanced cautiously until selecting cover which would allow them to completely surround the building. Among their other weapons were three Colt Model of 1898 machine guns, showing they were in deadly earnest. Despite being obsolete, the latter armament would at least counter and could possibly nullify the support offered by the defenders’ more modern Brownings.
When the telephone had rung, Brickhouse had raised no objection to Torreson’s offer to take the call.
Nor had Clint!
Now the small Texan could see he had made a deadly serious mistake.
It was one which seemed likely to cost the small Texan and his amigo dearly!
Although Blood had the Holland & Holland .375 Magnum sporting rifle across the crook of his left arm, he could not hope to be granted sufficient time to turn it into alignment before the man who had joined the New Yorker opened fire at him.
Swiftly as Clint could draw and use the big Colt automatic, particularly as Torreson had cocked the hammer of the double action manually, he knew he could not do so fast enough to save himself from being shot.
‘You heard me!’ the New Yorker snarled, remembering what he had been told was to be the fate of the two Texans and therefore wanting to deliver them alive to Guevara. ‘Drop those g—!’
‘You bastard, Torreson!’
Having been handing around cups of coffee, Wildersleeve shouted the words and, dropping the tray, lunged forward. Such was the concentrated fury and hatred expressed by his tone and demeanor, that he took everybody—especially the man to whom he had spoken—by surprise. Reaching the New Yorker, he grabbed hold of the Colt by the barrel and began to pull at it.
Snarling out a startled and alarmed profanity, Torreson tried to wrench the weapon free. In doing so, his forefinger tightened on the trigger. With the hammer fully cocked, the pressure required to open fire was much less than when making use of the double action, self-cocking mechanism. As the Colt roared and flung its bullet into the center of the valet’s chest, he was pitched backwards. The muzzle had been so close that the fiery blast of the discharging powder singed the front of his normally spotless white shirt.
Much of the urgency behind Torreson’s actions had sprung from a frightening realization of what exactly was implied by Wildersleeve’s intervention. Sure enough, as the valet was reeling away, he discovered that Clint had not hesitated before starting to try and capitalize upon the diversion. Raw fear of the consequences bit into the New Yorker and he desperately began to turn back his deflected weapon.
