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 Hector’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.”
“Very good, sir.”
When Clay reached the back table, the stranger stood and amicably extended his hand. The moment he did so, Clay’s perception of him as a potential business prospect changed. The man was wearing a pistol with the holster low and tied down. The skirt of his jacket was kicked back to allow a quick draw. This wasn’t normal for a businessman.