The war wagon a gatling.., p.16
The War Wagon (A Gatling Western #5), page 16
“I speak English,” the man said with a very heavy accent. “I am Lieutenant Manolo Angeloz of the Coahuila State Militia. The Governor and his lieutenants are dead, my superiors here are dead, so I am in command here in Coahuila.”
The lieutenant was very young, wore a waxed mustache, and had a slight caste in his left eye. Somehow the slight walleye gave him the look of a department-store dummy. Gatling couldn’t decide if he had plenty of nerve or was just plain dumb.
“What do you want?” Gatling repeated.
“To inform you that you have no right to be here. You have invaded Mexican territory, violated Mexican sovereignty, and you must return to the United States without delay. I see you have captured Juan Nepomenceno Cortinas. You will hand him over to me, along with his daughter, who is also a criminal.”
All this was said in a pompous voice; Gatling guessed this Angeloz was copying the voice and gestures of someone of importance much older than himself.
“I can’t do that,” Gatling said. “I’m taking Cortinas back to Texas to be tried for the murder of Ranger Captain Leander McNelly—that’s him lying there—among others. You can’t have him and don’t try to take him. You don’t have the men or the heavy guns to do it. You’re rid of Cortinas, you have your town back. A few of Cortinas’ may be still around, but you can handle them. We don’t want to fight you or you us. We’ll be heading back as soon as we bury Captain McNelly. I think it’s a fair arrangement, and think on this. President Diaz will be pleased to see the end of Cheno Cortinas. You had a hand in his downfall. Of course you did.”
“Very well,” the lieutenant said, but not too quickly. “But you will leave after you bury the captain.”
“And after the British rifles have been destroyed,” Gatling said. “You must know about the rifles. Governor Zelaya paid for them, but the money will be returned. To destroy the rifles is why we came to Coahuila. It must be done, Lieutenant.”
“Very well. You have rid us of Cortinas, so we must be grateful. My men will begin to collect the British rifles. What else?”
“Help me get Captain McNelly’s body into the car,” Gatling said. “Then see if you have handcuffs and leg irons for the prisoner.”
“You are not taking the woman?” Lieutenant Angeloz asked. “If you are taking the father, then why not the daughter? She too is a dangerous criminal.”
“Let me think about it,” Gatling said.
Chapter Thirteen
THEY BURIED MCNELLY as soon as it was light. Gatling dug the grave, and he had to work at it because the ground in the town cemetery was baked brick hard by the summer sun. No words were spoken over the grave. Coahuila had no parson and all the priests had been killed. Gatling, who had no religion, left it up to the colonel, but he had nothing to say. Lieutenant Angeloz, who was guarding Cheno with a squad of men, was shocked by this irreverence, but he didn’t offer to do the honors.
The coffin was a plain pine box, no paint, no brass handles. Gatling thought it suited McNelly well enough. Handcuffed and leg-ironed, Cheno watched from the edge of the graveyard. Peggy Santos stood beside him. Her smoke-streaked face had no expression on it. Cheno had not been wounded, but his lungs were seared by smoke and he coughed violently every few minutes. His face was blackened by smoke and his red beard was singed. He had lost his hat and his sparse hair was plastered to his skull with sweat. He looked old and beaten, nothing like the old fearless Red Robber of the Rio Grande.
The War Car stood nearby; the colonel had driven it close to the grave. Its doors were open and the motor was ticking quietly. If trouble kicked up they could be behind the guns in seconds. But Gatling didn’t expect any trouble. The people of Coahuila had seen enough bloodshed and were glad to be rid of Cheno. So was Lieutenant Angeloz, though he still pretended to be indignant at Gatling’s highhanded behavior.
Gatling and the colonel used a rope to lower the coffin into the grave. Then the colonel held the light gun ready while Gatling shoveled dirt on top of it. He filled the grave and slapped the top of it flat with the spade. They didn’t bother making a cross. Lieutenant Angeloz had promised to put up a gravestone as soon as he could. “Captain McNelly died liberating us from the bandit,” he said. “He will have a fine gravestone, I promise you. It is the least we can do for him.” The lieutenant was emotional and sounded sincere, but Gatling knew he couldn’t count on any gravestone. It didn’t matter a damn.
They took McNelly’s gun belt and boots before they put him in the coffin. The town scavengers would hardly dig up the body for a shirt and a pair of pants.
Gatling didn’t look forward to the long journey back to Texas. He didn’t want to take Cheno back to be hanged, but he felt he owed McNelly, who had turned out to be a pretty good man. Apart from that, he didn’t want to turn Cheno over to Lieutenant Angeloz, who might or might not have him shot. Cheno was a wily old bastard; there was always a chance that he would live to raid and murder again. Gatling didn’t think of himself as a champion of law and order—the world was full of killers and always would be—but he remembered the poor old prospector Cheno had roasted alive, and that was enough. One act of savagery could stand for all the crimes Cheno had committed. He could testify to that; he had been there. But he was taking Cheno back because of McNelly; that’s what McNelly had wanted to do, so it would be done. Just the same, it would be a chore. Cheno would have to be kept in irons all the way, even when they took him out of the War Car to piss and crap. He would probably get his health back before they were halfway to Texas and then, old or not, he would be dangerous. Worst of all, he would start to talk, threatening and wheedling, and they could hardly keep him gagged twenty-four hours a day.
The colonel was against the whole idea; he argued for shooting Cheno as soon as they were all clear of the town. “What does it matter how he dies as long as he’s dead?” the colonel said. “Justice will be served and that’s the point, isn’t it? Why can’t you be sensible?”
Gatling knew the colonel was right, but refused to change his mind. He said, “McNelly wanted to see him hang. Now so do I.”
“I think that explosion must have softened your brain,” the colonel said. “In my opinion, taking him back is ridiculous and unnecessary. But I’ll defer to your lunatic wishes.”
They were lifting McNelly’s body into the coffin at the time. The town undertaker had fled, so they did everything themselves. Now they were finished with the burying and were on their way back to town. Gatling walked with the others; the colonel followed with the War Car. Peggy Santos wasn’t shackled because the lieutenant finally decided that she had committed no crimes but had remained with her father out of loyalty, a precious thing to Mexicans, and he made no objection when she dropped back to talk to Gatling, who didn’t feel like talking to her. The sun was already hot and he wanted a bottle of beer more than pointless talk.
“Do you have to take him back?” she said. “You know they’ll hang him like a common criminal.”
“They’ll hang him whatever he is,” Gatling said. “I wouldn’t do it if he hadn’t killed McNelly.”
Behind them the War Car rumbled over the deeply rutted road. One more stop to take on water for the motor and then they’d be on their way. They had already smashed every Lee-Enfield rifle they could find. Some were missing, but that didn’t matter. The colonel could report that the bulk of the British rifles had been destroyed.
“Was McNelly such a great friend of yours?” Peggy Santos said.
“No friend at all.”
“Then why?”
“My own reasons.”
“Have you no pity for an old man?” Peggy Santos said. “Cheno fought for what he believed in.”
“Not lately,” Gatling said. “I saw him roast a harmless old man over a fire. And he’s done nothing but kill since he came back here. It’s time he was stopped for good.”
“Then let the lieutenant shoot him. There is some dignity with a firing squad. A soldier’s death is better than a rope. Back in Texas they will make a mockery of him. They may lynch him before he comes to trial.”
Gatling was getting tired of her arguments, but no matter what she said he wasn’t about to change his mind. He understood how she felt; it had nothing to do with him. “No more talk,” he told her. “It’s been decided. Just be glad you’re out of it. You’d have been killed sooner or later. Take my advice. Go back to Father Guzman and his good works.”
She cursed him and walked the rest of the way with her father and his guards. They went through the town to the plaza, where there was a pump. The colonel said they could probably make it back to Texas with what water they had, but why take the chance when they didn’t have to.
Gatling pumped up water, filling jerry cans while the colonel sat behind the one-pounder, ready to open fire at the first sign of trouble. Townspeople watched from a distance, but nothing happened. Done with pumping, Gatling got behind the one-pounder, giving the colonel cover while he checked the motor and pronounced it as good as ever. It was time to leave.
“We’ll take him now,” Gatling told the lieutenant, who was standing by the prisoner. The colonel was at the controls and Gatling was at the door, ready to pull Cheno aboard. The lieutenant’s men were dragging him forward when Peggy Santos pulled a derringer from her boot and shot him in the back of the head. She threw the gun away. Cheno died instantly and the guards let the body drop. Lieutenant Angeloz had his revolver out, but all he did was shrug and put it back in its holster. Peggy Santos stood there not saying anything. The colonel looked over Gatling’s shoulder and said, “Good Lord! She killed her own father!” But Gatling knew he was pleased. Now the return journey would be a lot easier.
“That finishes it, I think,” the colonel said, getting back behind the controls. “Secure the door, old man, and let’s be gone from this sinkhole.”
“What will happen to her?” Gatling asked the lieutenant, who was staring at the body.
“I don’t know,” Lieutenant Angeloz said. “I could charge her with murder. But is it murder to kill a murderer? I do not intend to charge her with anything. Señor Gatling, I don’t want her here. It is too complicated. All I want is to restore order. As a favor—as a great favor to me—take her with you. I want nothing more to do with the Cortinas family.”
Peggy Santos looked up at Gatling. “Take me with you. I saved your life once. Now you can help me. I won’t give you any trouble. I killed my father because I loved him. I couldn’t bear to think of him being jeered and mocked back in Texas. I’ll take your advice and go back to Father Guzman. Somebody will kill me if you leave me here. Please take me with you.”
Gatling turned to the colonel, who was twitching with impatience. “You hear all that, Colonel?”
“Goddamn it! Yes, I heard it. I’m for leaving the crazy bitch, but she didn’t save my life, so it’s up to you. Take her or leave her. But if you do take her, hide the bloody pistols. I don’t want to be shot in the back. Make up your mind, will you, and do it fast.”
Gatling pulled Peggy Santos up and slammed the door. The War Car moved off.
About the Author
Peter J. McCurtin was born in Ireland on 15 October 1929, and immigrated to America when he was in his early twenties. By the early 1960s, he was co-owner of a bookstore in Ogunquit, Maine, and often spent his summers there. Additionally, McCurtin and his second wife shared their home in Ogunquit with a dog that also happened to be part wolf.
McCurtin’s first book, Mafioso (1970) was nominated for the prestigious Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award, and filmed in 1973 as The Boss, with Henry Silva. More books in the same vein quickly followed, including Cosa Nostra (1971), Omerta (1972), The Syndicate (1972) and Escape From Devil’s Island (1972).
1970 also saw the publication of his first “Carmody” western, Hangtown. Carmody’s exploits set the tone for most of the westerns McCurtin was to write over the next two decades. His view of the frontier is harsh and unforgiving, a place where a man with any sense looks to his own safety, and to hell with everyone else. McCurtin’s westerns are fast, violent and chauvinistic, but the violence and sex are seldom overtly explicit. McCurtin further distances his protagonist from other stock western anti-heroes by recounting the series in the kind of hard-boiled first-person style normally associated with the private-eye genre.
Peter McCurtin died in New York on 27 January 1997. His westerns in particular are distinguished by unusual plots with neatly resolved conclusions, well-drawn secondary characters, regular bursts of action and tight, smooth writing. if you haven’t already checked him out, you have quite a treat in store.
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