The Alamosa Trail Page 7

  “Won’t two pairs beat a full house?”

  “No, you idiot!”

  “Oh. Well, then, I guess I just don’t understand the game that well,” Frank said innocently.

  The others around the table laughed uproariously, not sure whether Frank was telling the truth or if he was perpetrating a gigantic hoax on Jensen.

  Frank started to pick up the money. “Gentle men, it’s been fun, but now I must go—”

  “Just a minute! Hold it! Where do you think you are going? You aren’t leaving the table with those winnings.”

  “Then I guess I really don’t understand the game,” Frank said. “I thought we were playing for keeps.”

  “We are playing for keeps,” Jensen sputtered. “But if you play with me, you don’t walk away without giving me a chance to get even.”

  “Is that a fact? Then remind me never to play with you again.” Frank began stuffing the money into his pockets.

  “Better do somethin’, Jensen. That feller’s gettin’ away with your money,” Perkins teased.

  “It’s your money, too,” Jensen said.

  “Not anymore it ain’t. Now it’s all his. And truth to tell, if I can’t get it back I’d rather the stranger have it than you.”

  Perkins’s declaration was followed by even more laughter.

  With his pockets now bulging with money, Frank started toward the bar. In the meantime, in a move unnoticed by nearly everyone, Jensen made a slight signal to a man who was standing near the rail at the overhead landing.

  Jensen might have thought that he gave the signal unnoticed, but Jim saw it. When Jim looked up, he saw someone on the upstairs landing pointing his pistol at Frank.

  “Frank, look out!” Jim shouted.

  Jim’s warning was barely in time. Frank dived to the floor just as the upstairs gunman fired. The bullet punched a hole in the floor beside Frank’s sprawled form.

  Realizing that his target had been warned by the man standing at the bar, the gunman swung his pistol toward Jim, squeezing the trigger as he did so. His bullet crashed into the mirror behind the bar, leaving jagged shards to reflect grotesquely twisted images of the events taking place before it.

  Frank was not the only person who had dived to the floor. By the time the gunman had fired a second shot nearly everyone else in the saloon was on the floor, behind chairs, or under tables. The only one who was still standing upright was Jim Robison and by now he had his own pistol out. His first shot rang out just over the top of the gunman’s third shot. The gunman’s third shot smashed into the bar, splintering the mahogany. Jim’s shot caught the gunman in the middle of the chest. Startled, the would-be assassin dropped his pistol, then put both hands over his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood spilling through his fingers. He reeled for a moment, fighting hard to stay on his feet. Losing that battle, he pitched forward, smashing through the rail. Falling to the floor below, his body did a half flip on the way down before crashing belly-up through a table.

  “You all right?” Jim called to his cousin.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” Frank answered.

  The shooting drew a crowd, not only from those who were already in the Border Oasis, but from the rest of the town as well. For the next few minutes a steady stream of curious poured in through the front door. One of the first to arrive was the sheriff, and he saw Jim standing at the bar with his pistol in his hand.

  “You want to put that way, mister?” the sheriff asked.

  When Jim looked toward the sheriff, he saw that the lawman was holding a pistol on him.

  “Anything you say, Sheriff,” Jim said, slipping his pistol back in its holster.

  “Now are you the one who did this?” the sheriff asked, taking in the body with a nod.

  “I reckon I am.”

  “He didn’t have no choice, Sheriff,” the bartender said. “It was self-defense.”

  “That’s right, Sheriff,” several others said, quickly. “Creech fired first.”

  The sheriff thought for a moment, then put his gun away. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Robison. Jim Robison.”

  The sheriff looked at the shattered mirror, the splintered bar, the smashed table, and the broken railing hanging in pieces from the overhead landing.

  “Must’ve been one hell of a fight. Looks like more bullets were fired in here than were used at the Alamo.”

  “Only four shots were fired,” one of the saloon patrons said.

  “Only four? Someone want to tell me what happened?”

  About five people started speaking at once, each eager to give his own account of the battle.

  “Hold it, hold it!” the sheriff said, interrupting the babble. He looked at the bartender. “Did you see it, Ned?”

  “Yeah, I seen it.”

  “All right, suppose you tell me what happened?”

  “Creech took one shot at this man,” Ned said, pointing to Frank. “When Robison called him on it, Creech swung his gun around and took another couple of shots at him. Robison shot back.”

  The sheriff looked down at Creech’s body, then up at the smashed railing, then over toward the bar.

  “You got him with your first shot?” the sheriff asked.

  “I was lucky,” Jim said easily.

  “Wasn’t luck at all,” the bartender said. “I seen it. You was cool as a cucumber.”

  “What started the fight in the first place?” the sheriff asked. “I mean, all of you say Creech fired first. What I want to know is, why?”

  “Now that I don’t know,” the bartender replied. “There wasn’t no words spoke or nothin’. Leastwise, not in here. Could be they had words somewhere else before.”

  “You know this man?” the sheriff asked Jim.

  “Never saw him before in my life.”

  The sheriff looked over at Frank. “What’s your name?”

  “Frank Ford.”

  “What about you, Ford? Why did he shoot at you? Did you know him?”

  Frank shook his head no. “Like my cousin said, we don’t know him.”

  “The two of you are cousins?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then that tells me why you was willin’ to take a hand in this fella’s fight,” the sheriff said. “But it still don’t tell me why there had to be a fight in the first place.”

  “Ask the gambler there,” Jim said. “Jensen gave Creech the signal to dry-gulch Frank. I saw it and yelled a warning. That’s when Creech started firing.”

  “What? Why, that’s preposterous!” Jensen shouted angrily.

  “Anyone else see this signal?” the sheriff asked. “What about you, Ned? Did you see any kind of a signal?”

  “I didn’t see no signal,” Ned said. “I don’t know why Creech started shootin’. All I know is, he was the one who fired the first shot.”

  “You know how Creech was, Sheriff. He always was a bit strange Maybe he just went loco or somethin’. If this here fella hadn’t killed him, no tellin’ how many of us Creech would’ve shot,” one of the other patrons suggested.

  “Yes, including me, a totally innocent by stander,” Jensen insisted.

  “Creech worked for you, didn’t he, Jensen?” the sheriff asked.

  “What? No, he didn’t work for me. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Funny. I seem to recall you usin’ him as a bodyguard.”

  “Well, I would use him from time to time, but only if I was in a big game where there was a lot of money involved,” Jensen insisted. “He didn’t work for me regular. And certainly not for this game. Why, this game was for a pittance. I hardly thought it necessary to hire a bodyguard.”

  “The last pot was for nearly four hundred dollars,” Perkins said. “That’s hardly a pittance.”

  “That may be a large pot to you, Perkins, but I have played for thousands of dollars,” Jensen said haughtily.

  The sheriff stroked his chin for a moment, then looked over at Jim. “Mr. Robison, everyone seems to back up your
claim that it was self-defense, so I don’t aim to arrest you. But as far as Jensen sendin’ a signal, well, don’t nobody else seem to have seen that, so I reckon we’ll just have to let that drop.”

  By now the undertaker had arrived and he was bending over to examine to corpse.

  “Welch, get the body out of here,” the sheriff said to the undertaker. “It ain’t good for business.”

  “The city will pay for it?” Welch asked.

  The sheriff nodded in the affirmative, then he looked toward Jim and Frank. “Didn’t have no trouble till you two boys showed up. You planning on staying in town long?”

  “Just overnight,” Jim answered. “We’re meeting someone here tomorrow.”

  “Someone local? Who is it you are meeting?”

  “Clay Allison.”

  There were several gasps and exclamations of surprise at the mention of the famous gunman’s name.

  “Look here,” the sheriff asked, his eyes narrowing. “You two aren’t planning on shootin’ it out in my town, are you?”

  Jim laughed. “Sheriff, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but dumb isn’t one of them. I don’t plan to go up against Clay Allison in this town, or any other. We’re just going to discuss some business, that’s all.”

  “Uh-huh,” the sheriff responded. It was obvious that he was still suspicious of Jim.

  “Well, you and Clay Allison go on about your business. But just so’s you know, I plan to put on a few extra deputies to keep a watch on you.”

  Chapter 7

  Clay Allison once wrote an indignant letter to the editor of a Missouri newspaper. The paper had published a story that accused him of fifteen killings.

  I have at all times tried to use my influence toward protecting the property holders and substantial men of the country from thieves, outlaws, and murderers, among whom I do not care to be classed.

  It was noted by all who read the letter, that Allison had not actually denied the killings.

  His reputation for savagery was validated when he rounded up a handful of friends to lynch a rancher who had been accused of killing his own infant daughter. The rancher had been arrested and was in jail, awaiting the outcome of the investigation, but Allison needed no investigation to reach his conclusion.

  Under Allison’s leadership, the rancher was hauled out of his jail cell, taken to a nearby slaughterhouse, and lynched. Then Allison beheaded the corpse, stuck the rancher’s head on a sharpened stick, and took it to the next town, where it was put on display behind the bar of his favorite saloon.

  He once killed a man who was standing at a bar because the man fanned his face with his hat. Allison’s defense was: “He was fanning his face with his left hand, and it wasn’t a warm night. I believed the man was attempting to distract me so he could draw his pistol and kill me.” The court bought his argument and ruled the killing as a justifiable homicide.

  Even as Jim, Frank, Barry, and Tennessee were waiting in El Paso for Clay Allison, the notorious gunman was some twenty miles away at a livery stable in Le Mesa, New Mexico, seeing about his horse.

  “Feed him well tonight, Mañuel,” Clay ordered. “I have to ride over to El Paso tomorrow to conduct some business.”

  “Sí, senor,” the Mexican liveryman replied.

  “I’ve been looking for Hector Ortega. Do you know where he is?”

  “I think maybe you will find him over at the cantina. I did not see him there, but I think that’s where he will be.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Clay started toward the Mexican side of town, he walked not on the sidewalk as most pedestrians would, but in the middle of the street. Choosing such a path meant he had to be particularly watchful for wagon and horse traffic, as well as for horse droppings, but this particular habit made a surprise ambush from behind a building less likely.

  As soon as he crossed the railroad tracks into the barrio, the texture of the town changed as drastically as if he had left one city and gone to another. Here, among the small adobe buildings that housed the Mexicans and their families, the nights were darker, for only the cantina was well-lighted. The other structures were either awash in total darkness or barely illuminated by burning embers of mesquite or fat-soaked rags. That was because few could afford candles and fewer still, kerosene lanterns.

  There were no hotels in the barrio and no restaurants. The largest building was the cantina, and from inside that brightly lit edifice, Clay Allison could hear someone singing, accompanied by a guitar. Clay spoke no Spanish, so he had no idea what the song was about, but it did have a lilting melody that he liked. He once made the observation that those who sang Mexican music had to have a very good voice because of the trills and warbles of the wide-ranging melodies.

  Although the church was the center of all social life in the barrio, the cantina ran a close second. Here, a man could eat, drink, and if so inclined, meet whores. Although the putas would meet their customers in the cantina, they generally carried on the trade from their own houses. In many cases the whores had children who were comfortable with their mother’s occupation simply because they knew of no other existence.

  Most of the putas’ customers were Mexican workers who couldn’t afford—or have been welcomed by—the Anglo whores. However, many of the customers were American—some attracted to the women because of their dusky beauty, others because a Mexican whore cost less than half as much as an Anglo.

  Generally, if an Anglo man visited a cantina, it was for that purpose and no other. Therefore, when Clay set foot inside the door he was immediately met by one of the women. Hiking her skirt up above a shapely leg, she put her foot on a chair, her elbow on her knee, then leaned forward to put her chin on her hand. Such a pose not only showed her leg, but accented her curves and displayed a generous amount of cleavage.

  “I am Carmine,” the woman said.

  Clay didn’t answer. Instead, he stood just inside the door, surveying the room.

  “Senor, you do no need to look for another,” Carmine said. “I will be your woman”—she paused for a moment, then flashed a big smile—“for the right price.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not looking for a woman,” Clay said. “I am looking for a man named Hector Ortega.”

  When he said Hector’s name, two men stepped away from the bar. Like nearly every other Mexican in the place, they were wearing high-crowned, large-brimmed sombreros. They were also wearing pistols, and one of them had a rather large knife protruding from a sheath that was strapped diagonally across his chest.

  “Gringo, why do you look for Senor Ortega?” the one with the knife asked. The inquiry was more of a challenge than a question.

  “I reckon why I want to see him is my business,” Clay replied. His reply was equally challenging.

  “I think maybe we will kill you. And then it will be nobody’s business,” his other challenger said.

  At those words the guitar music suddenly ended on a jarring chord. All conversation in the cantina stopped as well, and everyone stared at Clay and the two who had confronted him.

  Clay fixed his adversaries with a cold, mirthless smile. “If you hombres are planning on doin’ anything, let’s get to it,” he said in a calm voice. He moved his hand slightly, so that it hovered just over the handle of his pistol.

  At that moment the back door opened and Hector Ortega, who had been outside visiting the tocador, returned to the cantina. He was still tucking his shirttail into his trousers when he saw Clay Allison and the two men from the bar bracing each other. He saw, also, that the cantina had grown deathly quiet.

  “Senor Allison, welcome, amigo!” he said expansively. Smiling and extending his hand, he started toward the American. As he walked by the two men who had confronted Clay, he spoke to them in Spanish, from the side of his mouth.

  “Los absurdos! Ustedes desean ser matado? Ésta es Clay Allison.”

  The two “foolish ones” blanched visibly.

  “Senor Allison, we did not know you were Hecto
r’s amigo,” the one with the knife said. He extended his hand but, pointedly, Clay turned away from him, motioning to Ortega to step out front so they could hold a private conversation.

  “Have you heard from the people down in Durango?” Clay asked once they were outside.

  “Sí. The horses are ready.”

  “Good. Tomorrow, we’ll ride over to El Paso. By then Robinson and Ford will have put together an outfit to go after the horses with you. I’m putting you in charge, Ortega.”

  “Gracias, senor.”

  “Now, they’re probably not going to like that,” Clay said. “I mean, you being Mexican and all. But I figure it’s your country and your language, so by rights, you should be the trail boss. All I’m asking is that you do a good job for me.”

  “Do not worry, senor. We will bring all the horses back in good shape,” Ortega promised.

  “I figure you will. Otherwise I wouldn’t hire you.” Clay looked back toward the front of the cantina. “I’m going back over to my side of town now to have supper. I’d appreciate it if you would watch my back till I’m out of here. I’m not sure I trust those two hombres inside.”

  “I will watch out for you,” Ortega said.

  Returning to the American side of town, Clay went into the Longhorn Restaurant. As he stepped inside the door he was met by the café owner. “Mr. Allison,” the proprietor said nervously. “Do you know that gentleman over there?”

  Clay looked in the direction the proprietor indicated. There, sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, was a man who stood out from the rest of the patrons. Whereas most of the other diners were wearing denim trousers and cotton shirts, this man was wearing a three-piece suit, complete with silk cravat and diamond stickpin. Perhaps a few years younger than Clay, he also sported a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard.

  “No, I can’t say as I do know him.”

  “He has been waiting to see you. He asked that I seat you at his table. He also said I was to serve you anything you wished, because he would pay for it.”

  Clay smiled, then put his hat on the hatrack. “Is that so? Well, maybe he’s a businessman wanting to buy some horses. All right, I’ll have steak, eggs, potatoes, biscuits, butter, and some peach jelly.”