But the darkness inside the smokehouse wasn’t as deep as that of the grave, thought Longarm. He and Coffin had survived another test, and they were still alive. They still had a chance.
Chapter 15
The night was a beautiful one. The heat of the day had begun to fade when Longarm and Coffin were taken from the smokehouse and marched toward the hacienda. A cool breeze laden with the scents of pine and wildflowers brushed their faces. Normally, the prospect of sharing dinner with a beautiful woman on a night like this would have Longarm’s brain turning to thoughts of passion.
But tonight he might as well have been dining in a nest of rattlesnakes. His muscles were taut as he and Coffin were taken down another hallway to a big dining room on the far side of the house. They hadn’t been there before.
French doors opened from the dining room onto a patio that was bordered with flower beds, and the scent of flowers was even stronger there. It was mixed with the delicious aromas emanating from the platters of food on the long hardwood table in the center of the room. Heavy chairs with high, elaborately carved wooden backs were lined along the sides of the table. Franklin Barton sat at the end, in the place of honor. On his right was Deke, to his left was Sonia. The other chairs were vacant except for one on the left side, near the far end from Barton’s place. Walt Scott sat there.
The drifter lounged in the chair, the long, slender fingers of his left hand toying with the stem of the wine glass in front of him. A cigar just like the ones Barton and Deke were smoking was between the fingers of his right hand, the red coal on its tip smoldering. Scott seemed to be at ease and completely pleased with himself.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Barton greeted Longarm and Coffin. “So nice of you to join us. Sit wherever you like.”
Longarm pulled out a chair across from Scott, but Coffin hesitated. “I don’t want to sit where I have to look at this son of a bitch,” he said with a gesture toward Scott. “We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him.”
“Probably all too true,” agreed Barton. Scott didn’t seem to be offended by Coffin’s blunt statement. A faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Just sit down, Coffin,” Longarm told the Ranger. He glanced at the other places set at the table. “Looks like you’re having even more company.”
“Some of dear Sonia’s associates will be riding in this evening,” said Barton. “I thought it would only be polite to ask them to join us once they arrive. However, if you’re worried about the delay, I suppose we could go ahead and begin dinner. After all, the sooner we’re finished, the sooner we can go on to other matters.”
Coffin sat down on the same side of the table as Scott and Deke, about halfway between the two men. He exchanged a glance with Longarm. They both knew what Barton meant. The sooner dinner was over, the sooner the two prisoners would be turned over to the outlaws with Yaqui blood in them to be tortured.
“I don’t reckon we’re in any hurry,” Longarm said dryly. “We can wait for the other guests.”
Barton puffed on his cigar and then blew smoke to the side. “Somehow I thought you might feel that way,” he said. “In the meantime, would you care for some wine?”“I could use a real drink,” declared Coffin. “Got any whiskey?”
Barton sighed. “I try to bring a little culture into the proceedings, and this is my thanks. Of course we have whiskey, Mr. Coffin. I’ll have one of the servants fetch some for you.” Barton turned and flipped a hand at an elderly Mexican man who was standing near the door of the dining room. The man nodded and slipped out of the room.
Longarm didn’t see any other servants, but there were a couple of gunmen standing guard, one near the doors that led out to the patio, the other leaning against the wall a few feet away from the end of the table where Longarm and Scott were sitting. Longarm and Coffin had been disarmed, of course, and with the two outlaws, Deke, Scott, and Barton all in the room and no doubt carrying guns, the odds were awfully high. However, they would get even higher when the Mexican revolutionaries arrived and joined them. If he and Coffin were going to at least die fighting, they would have to make their move soon. When Longarm met Coffin’s eyes for a second, he could tell that the big Ranger felt the same way.
Before either of them could do anything, the door opened again and a young man carrying a bottle of whiskey and a tray with two glasses on it glided into the room. This servant was a different one, and it was obvious that the old man had sent him to fetch the whiskey and bring it into the dining room. Longarm didn’t remember seeing the young man around the hacienda before, but that didn’t mean anything. The gang could have several of the local people working for them, doing menial tasks. This youngster wore the white shirt and trousers and rope-soled sandals of a peasant farmer, which was probably exactly what he was most of the time.
“Ah, here’s your whiskey, Mr. Coffin,” said Barton with a smile, playing the good host. “Would you care for some, Marshal Long, or would you prefer wine? I should have asked you before now.”
“That’s all right,” said Longarm. “I think I’ll have some of that wine.”
“Excellent.” Barton looked around for the elderly Mexican. “Blast it, where did Pablo go? I was going to have him pour.” With a sigh, Barton scraped his chair back and stood up. “I suppose I’ll have to do it myself.”
He took a step toward a bucket of water in which the bottle of wine sat, then stopped short as a crash of glass filled the room.
Longarm’s eyes jerked toward the young servant, who was still clutching the bottle of whiskey but who had dropped the tray containing the two glasses. They were what had shattered on the tile floor. The young man was staring, wide-eyed, in awe. His mouth moved, and he uttered hoarsely, “El Aguila! Si, it is really you!”
He was looking straight at Walt Scott.
Longarm studied Scott through narrowed eyes. Scott laid the cigar on the table, being careful not to place the burning end against the wood where it would scorch the polished surface. He was still outwardly calm, but his fingers had tightened on the stem of the wine glass. Longarm wouldn’t have been surprised if the crystal had suddenly snapped into half. Scott drew a deep breath and said to the servant, “I think you’re mistaken, son.”
“No, no, senor!” protested the young man. “I would never forget you after the way you helped us when those evil men tried to take my father’s farm on the Rio Grande. All along the river, the kindness of El Aguila is legend to the common people!”
Barton leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. His voice lashed out. “Well, Scott, what about it? Is this true?”
A lazy smile drifted across Walt Scott’s face as he said, “Reckon it is.”
That was the last lazy thing to happen for several moments.
Scott was on his feet in an instant, the long-barreled, black-handled Colts snaking out of their holsters as he pivoted toward the closest guard. He lashed out with the right-hand gun, taking the startled outlaw by surprise. The barrel raked across the man’s forehead, opening a bloody gash and stunning him.
At the same time, Coffin lunged from his chair and tackled Deke, who was also trying to get up. They went down with a crash.
That left the guard by the patio doors for Longarm. The outlaw was further away from Longarm than either of the other two men had been from Scott and Coffin. He had time to draw his gun before Longarm could reach him. Longarm grabbed desperately for the weapon as he threw himself forward. He got hold of the barrel with one hand and wrenched it aside, at the same time jamming his other hand between the hammer and the cylinder so that the gun couldn’t fire. The hammer pinched the web of his hand painfully. Longarm let go of the gun barrel with his other hand and brought his fist across in a slashing blow that caught the outlaw in the jaw.