There was a sudden flash of flame from a muzzle blast and the crack of a rifle shot. A puff of dust flew up from the bedroll. Jim knew that if he hadn’t moved, he would be dead now.
Jim waited and listened. Finally, he heard what he was listening for. Someone was walking toward the camp, moving very quietly. Jim knew then that whoever it was, the would-be killer was coming in to finish him off at close range.
He waited for the nocturnal assassin to take his second shot. When he did fire again, Jim used the flame from the muzzle blast as a target. Aiming at the upper right-hand corner of the flame pattern, Jim pulled the trigger.
He heard a grunt of pain, then the sound of someone falling. Jim waited in the darkness.
“Senor Robison,” the assailant called. The voice was racked with pain, but Jim recognized it as Ortega’s. “Senor Robison, you have killed me, I think.”
“Why did you try to kill me, Ortega?” Jim asked. Playing it safe, he still did not show himself.
“I thought it would be easier with you dead,” Ortega said.
“Easier to do what?”
“To kill the others and take your women and your herd. Oh, my belly. It hurts. I have never felt such a pain. You shot me good, Senor.”
“Why did you turn on us, Ortega?” Jim asked, calling from the dark.
Ortega took a few more wheezing, gasping breaths. Then the sound stopped.
“Ortega?”
There was no response. Slowly, Jim moved through the darkness toward the place from where he had heard Ortega’s voice. When he got close enough, he could see the Mexican lying on his back. His pistol was on the ground beside him, and both hands were folded across his belly, as if trying to hold back the pain. His eyes were open, and though they reflected light from the moon, they had a glassy, lifeless look about them. Moving closer still, Jim nudged Ortega with this foot. Then he knelt beside him for a closer look.
Ortega was dead.
Chapter 19
It was evening of the following day before Jim reached civilization. The night creatures called out to each other as Jim stood looking toward the small Mexican village. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing in silver the little town that rose up like a ghost before him. A couple of dozen adobe buildings, half of which were lit, fronted the town plaza. The biggest and most brightly lit building was the lone cantina at the far end of town.
Inside the cantina someone was playing a guitar, and Jim could hear the music all the way out in the hills. The guitarist was good, and the music spilled out a steady beat with two or three poignant minor chords at the end of each phrase. An overall, single-string melody worked its way in and out of the chords like a thread of gold woven through the finest cloth. Jim liked that kind of music. It was a mournful, lonesome music, the kind of melody a man could let run through his mind during long, lonely nights watching over a herd.
Jim was somewhat hesitant about riding into the village. Although his outfit badly needed beans, rice, bacon, salt, and coffee, he didn’t want a repeat of what had happened to them at Escalon. On the other hand, if he didn’t get some supplies soon, they would all starve before they got out of Mexico.
He checked his pistol. It was loaded and slipped easily from its sheath. Then, clucking at his horse, he began riding slowly toward the town, being especially alert as he rode in.
He heard a dog’s bark, a ribbony yap that was silenced by a kick or a thrown rock. A baby cried, a sudden gargle that cracked through the air like a bullwhip. A housewife raised her voice in one of the houses. Even though Jim couldn’t understand the language, he could understand the tone, as the woman shared her anger with all who were within earshot.
Jim stepped up onto the porch of the cantina, then pushed his way inside. Because he was the only American in the place, he drew instant attention. However, if anyone had any ideas toward causing him any trouble, they didn’t show it. Instead, they gave him no more than a perfunctory glance, then returned to their own conversations. The conversations of two dozen men, speaking in Spanish, was a cacophony of undecipherable sound, though none of it seemed threatening.
“Do you have any whiskey?” he asked the bartender.
“No, senor. Tequila.”
“All right. Tequila.”
The bartender reached for a bottle and a glass, then poured the drink. He slid the glass across the bar to him.
“Dos pesos, senor,” he said, holding up two fingers.
Jim paid for his drink. “You speak English?” he asked.
“Sí, I speak English.”
“Some pards and I are trailing a herd of horses back up to the States. We need some supplies: rice, beans, bacon, flour, coffee—that sort of thing. Is there a store in town where such things can be bought?”
“Sí, senor. But the store is closed now. It will open mañana.”
“I’d like to get the stuff and start back tonight,” Jim said. “Any chance the store owner will open tonight?”
“Sí, I think he will open tonight. But it will cost more money.”
“Then I will wait until morning,” Jim said. He tossed the drink down, then tapped the glass, indicating that he wanted another. The bartender filled it, took his money, then walked away to wait on another customer.
“Senor,” a voice called.
When Jim looked toward the sound of the voice, he saw a boy of about twelve who was sweeping the floor behind him
“I can get the things you need for less money than you can get them in the store,” the boy offered.
“How much less?”
“Much less. You will see,” the boys aid.
“All of it? Beans, rice, bacon?”
“Sí,” the boy answered after each item, nodding his head.
“Salt, pepper, coffee, flour?”
“Everything,” the boy promised.
“When can I get it?”
“Tonight,” the boy said. He looked around the cantina, as if to make certain he wasn’t being overheard. “Are you hungry? I will show you where you can get a good meal. While you are eating, I will get the things you need.”
“Where will you get them?”
“I know a place,” the boy replied mysteriously. He leaned the broom against the wall. “Come with me. I will show you a good place where you can eat while you wait.”
“I was just going to get something to eat in here,” Jim said.
The boy shook his head. “No, you do not want to do that,” he said. “The food here is not so good as it is at Mamacita’s.”
“Mamacita? Your mother?”
“Not my mamacita,” the boy replied. “The café—it is called Mamacita’s.”
The idea of eating in a restaurant rather than in a cantina was very appealing to Jim.
“All right,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that. I’ll eat my supper while you get the supplies I need and bring them to me.”
“Come with me, senor.”
From the moment Jim set foot inside the restaurant, he knew he had made the right decision. The aromas were so enticing that they made his stomach rumble. He felt the contrasting emotions of eager anticipation and a terrible sense of guilt. Here he was, about to enjoy a good meal, while those he had left behind were on their last strips of jerky.
A large, smiling woman greeted him. She was wearing an apron that was dusted with flour, chili powder, and perhaps half a dozen other spices and condiments.
“Buenas noches, senor,” she said pleasantly.
The boy, who had said his name was Pancho, spoke to the woman and she nodded.
“I told her you do not speak Spanish,” Pancho explained. “If you will tell me what you want, I will order for you.”