Death in Gold Page 6

  Moments passed: Jed lowered the rifle: reversed it and slid it back into its place. It was Whitey Coburn.

  The lean albino slowed as he came closer, hand stroking his animal’s neck and mane, steadying it now. He rode directly to where Herne was waiting and lifted his right leg from the stirrup, jumping to the ground before the horse had come to a standstill.

  “What in hell’s name’s after you?”

  Coburn grinned: “Not a damned thing!”

  “You mean you got fed up with that mount of yourn an’ you’re drivin’ her into the ground for the sake of it.”

  “No. Just felt like lettin’ her have her head, that’s all.”

  “Okay. What’d you find out?”

  Coburn drew breath heavily and squatted down on his haunches; for a moment he let his head flop forward, white hair tumbling around it. Tell you, I didn’t like the feelin’. Not one little bit. Small town but she’s full to overflowin’ with folk. Too many Mexes walkin’ round with guns all over ’em and mean looks on their faces.”

  “Hell,” Herne interrupted, “it is Mexico. What d’you expect to find?”

  Coburn looked up at him. “I know that, Jed. But there were just too many of ‘em. Like they was waitin’ to start their own damned revolution or somethin’. We get ourselves in trouble in that place an’ more’n’ a hundred guns goin’ t blast us from there to eternity.”

  Herne nodded. His friend had been around enough to be able to sense out trouble when it was in the offing. And since the men he was supposed to be meeting were waiting for him in the middle of that same trouble, that made things more than complicated.

  Whitey was right, though. No sense in riding in with a sizeable sum of money in U.S. dollars – especially when folk knew that was what you would be toting.

  “What d’you reckon, Jed?”

  “Reckon we’ll have to get them to ride out of town and meet us. That way we’ll be more likely to control what goes down.”

  “How we goin’ to do that?”

  Herne pointed past the trail Coburn had taken back from La Rosita. “There’s a road goes in along of the Salado. We’ll send us in a message, arrange a meeting with them. They can come to us, drive the wagon out towards the higher ground where the river forks to the north east.”

  “Suppose they won’t? Suppose they don’t believe the message?”

  Herne shrugged: “If’n that happens we’ll think again. But I don’t see no reason why they shouldn’t ride out − not if they want that money bad enough. It’s not as if they got a whole lot to lose.”

  Coburn stood up and stepped across to his horse, loosening its girth and preparing to pull the saddle free and rub the sweat from its body.

  “I sure ain’t got no better idea,” he said. “An’ anything keeps me from shootin’ my way out of that town suits me fine.” The weathered face shifted into a wry smile. “Damned if I didn’t kill me enough Mexes for one week.”

  He turned away from Herne and Jed watched the narrow, powerful back as it leaned slightly forward over his horse. For some reason he could neither pin down nor begin to understand with any clarity, it was suddenly as if he was looking at a man he no longer knew, as though the person in front of him were a stranger.

  Late afternoon. Even the lower parts of the mountain range were obscured. Herne and Coburn sat on either side of a small fire, watching the flames lick round the bottom of the enamel coffee pot. Whitey was chewing his tobacco and turning his head to one side every now and then so as to squirt a stream of brown liquid on to the ground.

  Herne leaned forward and lifted the pot from the fire with his gloved hand. He poured the dark coffee into two battered tin mugs and passed one across to Coburn. The steam rose from the surfaces of the coffee and became mingled with their breath.

  “Sit round here much longer an’ we’ll be froze to death. That or it’ll be too dark to see anyone comin’.”

  “Maybe that’s what they’re bankin’ on.”

  “Could be. We gonna sit here and find out?”

  Jed drank from the mug and flinched as the hot coffee burnt the back of his throat. “We’re goin’ to find out right enough, only we ain’t goin’ to be sittin’ here doin’ it. Soon as we done finished this, we’ll shift back up into them trees an’ wait there.”

  Coburn nodded and sipped at his drink. “Uh-huh. An’ if no one comes at all?”

  “Let’s worry ‘bout that later.”

  When they were ready, they moved upwards on the slope, leaving the last of the fire to burn. Their horses were still tied close by and there were enough of their things down by the fire to draw in anybody interested.

  They had only been in the shadow of the trees for fifteen minutes when they heard hoof beats.

  “One.” said Herne quietly.

  Coburn nodded and edged away to the left, drawing his gun from its holster as he moved. Herne rested his right hand on the butt of his Colt and stayed where he was, eyes peering down into the steadily darkening distance.

  The rider materialized, coming slow and careful; a rifle was already in his hand, resting at an angle across the saddle pommel. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, the edges of which curled upwards and round. From one side a tall black feather stuck up above the top of the hat and was silhouetted against the background.

  He reined in his mount thirty yards from the fire. Waited. From their hiding place, Herne and Coburn waited also. Moments later the man began to step softly forwards, trying to make as little noise as possible with his boots on the rough ground.

  Quiet as he was it was easy to pick out the sound of pistols being cocked. First one, then another. Triple clicks from the direction of the trees. Too well spaced apart for comfort.

  The Mexican hesitated. Knew that his horse was too far away, the trees too far also. Realized that the rifle in his hands would be no good without a target to aim at − whereas the fire was close enough to illuminate himself.

  He raised the rifle slowly, holding it sideways towards the darkness of the trees, fingers well away from the trigger. Then he let it fall to the ground. It landed butt first, bounced once and was still.

  Two shapes stepped from that dark simultaneously.

  “Don Vincento?”

  The Mexican shook his head.

  One of the Colts jerked at him, asking more.

  “I come from him.” The voice was steady, its owner unafraid.

  Herne came down towards the fire, showing his face. Coburn moved round in a curve, watching the Mexican from the rear at the same time keeping an eye on the trail he had used. He might have friends close by.

  “You are Herne?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is good. Don Vincento sent me to you. He wishes to meet you.”

  “That’s fine. I sent for him to come here.”

  The Mexican allowed a smile to appear at the edges of his wide mouth. ‘Si, Señor Herne. Si. But Don Vincento is a careful man. Just as you are yourself.”

  He glanced hastily over his shoulder to check the whereabouts of Herne’s companion.

  “So what does he say, your Don Vincento?”

  “Tomorrow an hour before the middle of the day. Five miles south of La Rosita. Take the road beyond the town. There is a place where the river swings to the east. The land is flat. There are no hills and …” He looked behind Herne meaningfully.”... no trees. Don Vincento will be there with the goods you are to purchase. He says to remind you to bring the money with you when you ride. You and your amigo.”

  Herne nodded and put up his gun; he stepped swiftly forward and picked up the rifle from the ground, handing it back to the Mexican.

  “Tell him we will be there.”

  “Si, Señor. I will do this.”

  The Mexican turned and walked back to his horse, trying not to stare at the other American’s white hair showing clearly in the dusk. That, too, would be something to tell Don Vincento. There had been rumors of such a man, fast and deadly with a gun. A man without feeling,
without compassion.

  And now he had met Herne, also. The one they called Herne the Hunter above the Rio Bravo del Norte.

  Only two, but such a pair!

  He smiled once more as he pulled himself up into the saddle. Don Vincento would think of a way. He always did.

  What Don Vincento did decide on was a fine welcome. Not one but two wagons. A strong fire with a spit erected over it on which a side of beef was turning and roasting. Round the sides of this, heavy black pots bubbling with deep red chili beans. A long rough-wood table and chairs.

  And eight armed men.

  Yes, it was a fine welcome.

  Herne and Coburn exchanged glances as they made their way towards the camp, set close to the steadily flowing river. They noted the rifles, the pistols, even a couple of sabers doubtless taken from the Mexican army.

  The two men dismounted and allowed strange hands to lead their horses away to the line where the other mounts were tethered. One of the Mexicans got up from a chair at the center of the table and extended both hands in their direction.

  “Amigos! Is good to see you!”

  He strutted round the table towards them, head held backwards at an angle so that his pointed beard jutted out before him like the prow of a ship. His stomach protruded from underneath the cross of his ammunition belts, resting on the thick leather of a third belt at the top of his pants. Coburn was reminded of the fighting cock he had shot the head off in the cantina.

  ‘Señor Herne! You and your friend are welcome.” He swept one arm behind him. “You will eat with us, no?”

  Herne shrugged. “How ‘bout our business?”

  “Ah, señor, first let us celebrate our friendship. We have a saying, the man who eats meat with another will not spill his blood. Come!”

  He walked back to the table and Herne and Coburn had little alternative but to follow. Besides, the smell of the food was making the juices of their hunger flow.

  They sat opposite Don Vincento and watched as he shouted to his men and gestured towards the river. Two of them hauled in a rope that was fixed around the top of a thick pole. The surface of the water broke and a crate of wine rose up, splashing and glistening.

  “Even in this weather, the wine she is good cold.”

  He smiled and showed four gaps in the top of his teeth, several of the others black with decay. A hand stretched sideways and a bottle was placed in it, already opened. He set the neck to his mouth and swallowed hastily, then belched loudly.

  “Is good to taste before offering to one’s guests, yes?”

  He poured wine lazily into the glasses in front of Herne and Coburn, his hand seemingly unsteady, the dark red liquid running on to the already stained table. He called two of his men and told them to sit down, pouring wine for them, then shouting for another bottle.

  “This is Diego, this Jose. They are my – your expression I think is right hand men, no?”

  Herne nodded and drank some of the wine. It was rough, strong, biting at the back of the throat, the roof of the mouth. Instantly, Don Vincento leaned forward and refilled his glass.

  The Mexican’s eyes shifted to Coburn. “He is your right hand also, yes?”

  “Sure is. Isaiah Coburn.”

  “Señor Coburn, I think we have heard a little of your exploits. Even here in Mexico.”

  He offered Coburn his hand but the albino ignored it, staring at it as though it were contaminated. Herne sensed the tension mount around the table. Diego and Jose both sat further back, freeing their gun hands so that they were ready for action.

  Herne drew the Mexican leader’s attention. “Don Vincento, you have the goods with you? The ones we have come to buy?”

  Don Vincento pointed towards the wagons, splashing the wine from his glass as he did so. “Si, Señor Herne, all is there in crates and ready for you to take across the border. You have the money?”

  Herne patted his coat with his left hand. “It’s here, right enough. All five thousand dollars of it.”

  The Mexican’s hand opened and the glass fell to the table and smashed. His mouth clamped tight shut, the dark eyes narrowing in his round face.

  His companions at the table let their glasses alone, turning inwards to face the two Americans. Coburn and Herne allowed their hands to shift to the edge of the table, close to their guns.

  Around them, the other Mexicans appeared to be carrying on with the preparations for the meal.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  The words came from between the gaps in the man’s teeth, hissed out like the venom of a snake that finds itself betrayed.

  “Five thousand.”

  Herne stared back at him. That’s what I said.”

  “Then there is no deal.”

  “That was what we were given. The amount we was told.”

  The Mexican’s tongue showed between his lips, rounded and pink; the pupils of his eyes were still, like small, hard stones. “The arrangement, she was for twice that. Ten thousand of your American dollars.”

  Herne whistled softly and glanced at Coburn. The albino was sitting quite still, silently assessing their chances in the event of a sudden flare up.

  Herne reached inside his coat, making the action slow and deliberate, not wanting to trigger off something that might yet be avoided. He pulled clear the envelope he had been given by Floyd Toomey and dropped it on the table between himself and Don Vincento.

  “Take a look.”

  A comer of the envelope began to darken as a pool of wine on the tables soaked through it. Don Vincento looked down and grabbed at it tearing the flap open. His hands greedily counted the crisp new notes. He looked quickly at Herne, then pushed the bills back inside the envelope and threw it back down on the table.

  “Where are the rest?”

  Herne tensed: “There ain’t no rest.”

  “We were prom…”

  Herne’s fist thumped down on the table. “That was how it was given to me. I ain’t touched that damned envelope since Toomey give it me. He said you’d agreed on that price. That was between you an’ him. My job was to see the money exchanged for those damned pots an’ take ’em back. And that’s what I aim to do.”

  His voice was loud and clear. Everyone was looking at him now. The only movement that of the river on its way from the high mountains to the north.

  Don Vincento pushed his hands down on the table and stood up, his stomach pulled in tight, anger evident in his stance. He moved his left hand nearer to one of the pair of pistols he wore at his side.

  And then he belched.

  And then he smiled.

  He clapped both hands across his stomach and broke into a harsh, grating laugh. “So, that is the way it is señor. The way of business. We thought for ten thousand .of your dollars. That would have made us very happy, would have bought many arms. Your employer has cheated us; he has cheated you also.” Don Vincento’s head moved to one side and he roared with laughter again. His head leaned forward over the table. “I tell you something, Senor Herne, these goods you take back to New Orleans. They are worth maybe five hundred dollars. Nothing.” He clapped his hands. “You bring me five thousand dollars. So. Is not as much as I would like. But…is still good, no?”

  He clapped his hands again and called for more wine. “You will drink with me. Both of you. Put this money back in your coat until we have eaten. Then we shall make our exchange. We shall enjoy the meat together, yes? We shall be friends. Don Vincento and his Americano guests.”

  Herne and Coburn drank from their glasses and then Herne took up the money and pushed it back inside his coat.

  “You spoke of buying arms,” he said to Don Vincento. ‘My friend said there were many men in town, many guns. There is a reason for all this?”

  The Mexican nodded. “Our country is torn. We have a President, Lerdo de Tejada. To the south of Mexico he is a good man. There the people thrive. But…here in the north everything is poverty. Lerdo wants us to live in a wasteland. And why?” He paused and
looked at Herne and Coburn. Neither spoke.

  “I will tell you why. Because he is frightened of you Americanos. He wants a wilderness between himself and attack from above the border. That wilderness, she is our land.”

  The eyes were narrowing once more; the voice becoming tighter, more dangerous.

  “General Porfirio Diaz, he will lead us to the share of the power that should be ours. We will bring riches to the north with our own blood.”

  He swept the shattered glass from the table with his arm and raised a wine bottle to his mouth and drank deeply. “Come! Let us eat!”

  The Mexican who wielded the knife had only one eye: where the right one had been there was now a vivid scar, wrinkled across its center where the skin had knitted untidily together. This did not prevent him from slicing the meat with precision. The charred outside sent a strong smell up to the nostrils; the man’s mouth visibly watered as he carved. Popping slices on to the tin plates that his colleague held ready.

  Don Vincento had taken his own large portion first and passed on to receive a ladleful of steaming beans from another of his followers.

  Now it was Herne’s turn.

  The meat fell across the plate, its ends overlapping the edges. Three, four, five thick slices. The one-eyed man looked up at the American questioningly.

  Herne shook his head: “Uh-huh. That’s fine.”

  He passed on towards the pot of chili beans. The man ladled on two portions which spread over the meat, filling in the spaces around it.

  The man called Diego stepped across in front of Herne, coffee pot in one hand, empty mug in the other.

  “You want coffee as well, señor?”

  “Sure.” He stood, plate piled high with food in his left hand, and watched as the Mexican poured the coffee into the tin mug he now held in his right. Diego stopped when the liquid was less than half an inch from the top then stepped smartly aside.

  Don Vincento was facing Herne. He no longer had food or drink in either hand: just his two guns.

  “Now, Señor Herne, we shall take your five thousand dollars. After we have killed you...”