Tony Vargas, renegade and drunk, and late of the Mexican Air Force from which he had been cashiered for cheating at cards, listened to the comfortable drone of the little Beech-craft with an expert ear. His eyes, slightly bleary, scanned the instrument panel for signs of trouble. None. The gas was holding up well. Tony grinned and reached for the pint bottle beside the pilot’s seat. This was one time he didn’t have to worry about the point of no return. There wasn’t going to be any return! Not unless he— Tony grinned again and drew a finger across his throat. Ugh! What they would do to him! But they would never catch him. Never.
Tony reached back to pat one of the large suitcases behind him. Mother of God! What a haul. And he — what an opportunist he was. This thing had dropped into his lap, true, but he had had the sense to see it for what it was — a chance to get rich, to be rich for the rest of his life, to travel, to live a little. So much better than flying Madame Bitch and her friends to and from her castle on the Golfo de California. Hah! Tony took another swig from his bottle and licked his lips. He let his thoughts play about the face and figure of his late employer. What a woman! And at her age, too. Just once he would have liked to—
He broke off to bank left and take a quick look at the terrain below. His instructions were to cross the Rio Grande well west of Presidio, but east of Ruidosa. Tony grimaced and took another drink. It was like threading a needle, yes, but he could do it. He had flown border patrol many times when he had been Lt. Antonio Vargas, before they — well, no point thinking of that. Soon he would be a millionaire — well, half a millionaire. It was close enough.
Timing was important, too. He must cross the Rio Grande just before dusk, low, and keeping careful watch for Ranger or Immigration planes and choppers. They were hell on wetbacks these days, the Americans. But what was most important, very important indeed, was that he reach the appointed rendezvous just before dark. He must have light enough to land. There would be no flares. Tony Vargas grinned. Flares. Hah! American gangsters did not put out flares. Tony reached back to stroke the suitcase again. How many millions of the bad stuff, the so beautiful bad stuff, had he packed into that bag in his rush? He could not guess. But plenty. And another bagful as well. For which he was going to receive a half-million good, fine, lovely and authentic American dollars!
It had been carefully explained to him, again and again, at the meetings in Mexico City. If he could get the stuff, and if he could get to the arranged rendezvous, then he would be paid the half-million. At the last meeting Tony had asked a question. The phony five-dollar bills could not be passed now — they had been interdicted, yes? Any fool who could read the newspapers or listen to the radio knew that. So what could the Syndicate do with the counterfeit after they had it?
He had gotten a pitying look and a harsh answer. The men who were buying the money could afford to wait. Twenty years if they must. The bad stuff would keep until time to start easing it into circulation again. And this time it would be done properly, professionally, not dumped on the market all at once. Tony had read the contempt in the gringo’s voice for such amateurs. But then the gringo did not know everything. Tony could have told him a few things that went on — but that was none of his business. Politics bored Tony.
He glanced at the map strapped to his knee. At the same time he saw the sun sparking on the silver snake of the Rio Grande below and to his left. Caramba! He was too early. Then he remembered, glanced at his altimeter. 10,000. That was much too high, of course, but it explained the bright sun. Dusk would be gathering on the ground as the sun went behind the peaks. Nevertheless he banked around in a circle and flew south for a time — losing altitude as he did so — just in case he had been spotted, or had popped onto a radar screen somewhere. Tony grinned and took another drink.
He got down to a thousand, banked around again, and began to skim back toward the Rio Grande. Get it over with. Through the narrow slot and into the wastes of Big Bend National Park. On his map there was traced a rough triangle bounded by Chinati Peak, Santiago Peak, and Cathedral Mountain to the north. In the center of that triangle there was a high mesa where he could land. Twenty miles to the northeast ran a main road, U.S. 90. The men who were to meet him, and pay him, had been waiting a week now. Playing at being campers. They would wait one more week, then they would leave, and the deal would be off.
The wide, shallow Rio Grande — really nothing but mud banks and trickles this time of year — glinted beneath the little plane. He was over. A bit low. He pulled her up and banked around to the northeast. Still a bit early, too. Dusk was just beginning to fall. Tony reached for the pint bottle. What matter? Soon he would be a rich man. He took a drink and put the bottle down.
“Perdition!” This was tricky flying. Nothing but gorges and canyons and peaks. Staying down on the deck was not easy. Tony grinned once more. His last grin. He never saw the jutting crag, like a great fang, that caught the wing of the little Beechcraft.
Jim Yantis, Texas Ranger, had just loaded his horse Yorick into the little van and was sliding behind the wheel of the Ranger car when he saw the Beechcraft go in.
“Goddamn it!” Jim spoke aloud— You get that way alone a lot. “Crap!”
He waited for the blossom of flame. It did not come. So the poor bastard wouldn’t be cremated, anyway. There would be something to identify. He got out of the car — Christ, he was tired — and went back to open the van. He led Yorick back down the little ramp and started saddling up. The big roan whinnied and side-stepped in protest and Yantis soothed him with a few strokes.
“I hate it, too,” he told the horse. “I know it’s time to eat, old buddy, but that’s the way the ball bounces. We got to go back in there and find out the name and identity of the clown who just killed himself.” He patted Yorick on the nose. “Besides he might not be dead, you know. You don’t like jobs like this? You shouldn’t have joined the Rangers, pal. Now git!”
It took Jim Yantis nearly an hour to reach the crashed plane. By the time he did it was dark, but a full moon was beginning to hang in the sky over Santiago to the east. From this height he could see the occasional tiny prongs of a solitary car’s headlights on Route 90.
The Ranger went through the wreckage with a powerful flashlight. The pilot was dead. There was a pint bottle of whiskey, half full, not broken. Jim Yantis whistled softly. The things some crazy bastards did—
Then he saw the money. One of the large suitcases had broken open and a slight, clean-smelling mountain breeze was riffling the packets of green bills. The Ranger picked up one of the bills and inspected it. A fiver. They were all fivers. He knelt and opened the other suitcase. Full of fivers. Realization dawned as he got up and dusted off his knees.
“Goddamn almighty,” he told the horse. “We’ve stumbled into something this time, boy. We better get back and radio in. And no use complaining about it, because we’re going to be sent right back again to stand guard until they get here.”
Jim Yantis thucked to the horse and started back over the same tortuous trail by which he had come in. Thank God for that big moon! As he rode he thought vaguely of the reason he had been in that part of the country at all. Six men — odd types to find around here, he’d been told — had sort of disappeared into thin air from the Tall Pine Inn. District Headquarters had told Jim to sort of mosey around and see what had happened to them. Well, that would have to wait now. This was bigger than six disappearing strangers!