The Deputy - Edge Series 2 (25 page)

‘It is most odd, is it not,
senor

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Edge was conscious the heavily beaded leader of the bandits eyed him curiously, clearly not interested in idle conversation.

‘May I ask you a question?’

‘You can ask, feller.’ Edge took out the makings and began to roll a cigarette.

‘Did you see from some way back the sign that somebody came this way on foot?’

‘Sure did.’

‘I thought a man of your experience would see this. I, too. I thought at first that perhaps they were each resting a horse in turn?’

‘It seems they weren’t doing that.’

‘
Si,
they were not. There is another question, if I may?’ He had taken out a cigar and now lit it.

‘Why not?’

‘Ever since you brought in those three horses, it seems to me you have been preoccupied?’

‘I ain’t ever much of a talker.’ Edge sealed the cigarette.

‘Your own horse – the one our mysterious
amigo
kept for himself?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It was special to you, that animal, I think

‘Was and still is special.’

‘A horse among horses, eh?’

Edge shook his head. ‘Just an ordinary bay gelding, feller. No better nor worse than this mount rented from the Bishopsburg livery stable that I’m riding now. But he was mine and he was taken off me.’

‘
Si,
none of us likes to have our horse stolen. But it seems almost as if getting the animal back is more important to you than recapturing Jose Martinez? And bringing to justice the men who killed Sheriff George North?’

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Edge lit the cigarette. ‘You don’t have any cause for worry, feller. When the time comes I’ll see to it my priorities are right. I’ll do the job I’m hired on for before I get around to the horse trading.’

The Mexican was perplexed. ‘Horse trading,
senor?’

‘You heard it right,
amigo.
I get my horse. And the man who stole him from me gets dead.’

143

CHAPTER • 16

_________________________________________________________________

IT WAS shortly before sundown when they reached the border separating Texas
from Chihuahua. The international boundary marked above the muddy, gently sloping shore on the north bank of the broad, slow running Rio Grande by a large dark hued rock crudely painted with sun bleached white lettering that proclaimed:
MEXICO – UNITED

STATES.
An arrow pointed to south and to north under the name of each country. It was a well used crossing, the river here not too deep for most of its width and the horses had little difficulty making it to the south bank: needed to swim for just a few yards in mid-stream between the flanking shallows.

The posse ate a bacon and grits supper and bedded down in a small stand of mixed timber just behind a narrow strip of shingle beach. And if anybody but Edge realised that his and Ted Straker’s badges counted for nothing on this side of the river – which here was called the Rio Bravo – nobody raised the issue.

He wondered only briefly if this was because such a comment would likely invite reference to the disturbing fact that Alvarez and his men were now back in their native country where they were wanted criminals. Certainly the Mexicans were more subdued than usual the next morning as the posse continued to track identical sign to that they had followed during yesterday afternoon and evening over similar, largely barren terrain to the north of the river.

It was Alvarez who broke a lengthy silence as they moved toward the southern end of a shallow, broad, gently curved ravine when he announced: ‘Soon,
amigos
, we will see the village of San Luis. Which I think is perhaps where those we follow have been headed?’

Straker asked: ‘You people know this part of the country well?’

The bearded, squint eyed Mexican shrugged and his men muttered dejectedly until the pitted faced Paco Diego answered grimly: ‘We all come from an area west of here. In the mountains, close to the ferry crossing where the woman was kept and Francisco Gonzales murdered his
compadre.’

He spat forcefully to the side.

‘To the west of here,’ Zamorra repeated. ‘But we passed this way when we came up to Texas. And we rode wide around San Luis for we knew it had a Federale post.’

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There was more embittered low toned talk among the grimacing men. And Straker looked at Edge who lit a freshly-made cigarette and tossed away the dead match when he suggested:

‘When questions start to get asked I figure we have to tell it like it is to the Federales?’

Bishopburg’s new sheriff asked Alvarez: ‘What makes you think they brought Martinez to San Luis?’

Alvarez re-lit a half-smoked cigar that had gone out some time ago. ‘The Martinez family has influence in this part of the country. In many other parts, too, but San Luis is the only
pueblo
of any significance for many miles in all directions.’

‘Okay.’ Straker sounded harshly determined. ‘I go along with Edge. We’ll tell the truth about why we’re here and what we want. So if you and your people don’t plan to play it that way I guess we’ll have to go it alone.’

The four Mexicans discussed it disconsolately among themselves in their own language and were still undecided how to respond when the group emerged from the southern end of the ravine and saw the problematical community ahead of them. From this distance it was just a huddle of dark coloured, mostly small buildings, indistinct in the morning heat shimmer.

Alvarez spoke in English to cut across what was being said: ‘We will ride into San Luis with you,
amigos.
But if there is an attempt to arrest any of us we will not submit without a – ‘

Edge broke in: ‘That place doesn’t look big enough to have much of a Federale presence, feller.’

Si,’
Diego agreed.

There were echoes of the affirmative throughout the group as they rode closer, the horses still moving over the day old tracks of four people on foot. But since the posse had crossed the river they had seen no sign that the man riding Edge’s gelding had come this way. Other riders had used the trail in both directions but not in the immediate past. San Luis was as unprepossessing at close quarters as it had appeared to be from a distance. Just a score or so of element stained adobe buildings, most of them surrounding a plaza, all of them single story so that the truncated bell tower of the church dominated the community.

There was no sign of life as the newcomers rode on to the plaza but plenty of evidence it had been a much livelier place recently: probably just last night. Because brightly coloured bunting draped many of the building facades and hung from the weather 145

pitted and bird limed statue of an imposing man in military uniform that stood on a plinth in the centre of the square. And several bottles, whole or broken, were scattered in the dust, myriad glass shards glinting in the morning sun.

There was a cantina, a general store, a livery stable, a Federale post and a few houses for the people who eked out some kind of subsistence living in San Luis: the name proclaimed by a sun bleached, leaning-over sign on the north side of the plaza. As they expected, the tracks they had followed all the way down here from Bishopsburg were no longer discernible in the confusion of sign on the hard packed surface of the dusty square beyond where they reined in their horses: directly across the plaza from the church beyond the statue. Where they remained silently tense as they swept their suspicious gazes over the surrounding buildings while their hands remained close to holstered revolvers or booted rifles.

Then a sudden burst of sound erupted from within the church and Straker and Zamorra half drew their Colts. But an instant later it was recognised as the innocuous sound of many voices raised in singing a familiar hymn. Raucously discordant for the first few seconds until the congregation, unaccompanied by an instrument of any kind, achieved a degree of harmony.

Straker cursed softly as he and Zamorra allowed their hands to drop away from their revolvers but Straker, along with Edge, remained poised to draw while the Mexicans crossed themselves and murmured words of thanks.

‘You think there is something wrong?’ Diego asked when he noticed the uneasy attitudes of the two Americans.

‘That ruckus in the church could be cover for some kind of trap,’ Straker rasped. But after several stretched seconds while the hymn singing continued and no movement was seen in the doorways or at the windows of any building around the plaza, Straker showed Edge a sheepish look and drew a slight shrug in response. Then they all raked their untrusting gazes to where an emaciated, yellow furred dog emerged from around a corner of the cantina off to their left. The animal first raised a back leg against an upturned bucket then went lazily to flop down in the shade of a nearby wall, showing no sign it was aware of strangers.

‘It all looks quite normal, does it not?’ Alvarez asked. ‘What do you think?’

Straker pointed toward the Federale post at the south-east corner of the plaza, three buildings down from the cantina in front of which the dog was sprawled out on its side. It was the second largest structure in San Luis after the church, with a flagpole out front, the 146

Mexican flag hanging limply from the top in the hot, unmoving air. He glanced at Edge and said:

‘It’s common courtesy for peace officers outside their jurisdiction to pay their respects to the local law. If the rest of you want to lay the dust at the cantina, we’ll see you there later.’

‘I’m for doing so, that is for sure,’ the youthful Sanchez said eagerly and spat a stream of dark hued saliva.

Edge asked of the new sheriff of Bishopsburg: ‘I guess that
we
means you want to have me along?’

Straker reminded sourly: ‘That deputy’s badge pinned to your chest means you’re a peace officer out of his jurisdiction.’

Edge nodded and the two Americans started their mounts forward and had angled halfway across the plaza, were passing the statue of the dour faced military officer, when somebody broke from the quartet heading toward the cantina and came to join them. This was the tall and gaunt featured Ricardo Zamorra, his invariably surly expression a match for that carved on the features of the statue when he responded to Straker’s quizzical frown.

‘For myself,
senor,
I would much rather be drinking beer in the cantina with my
compadres.’
He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘But Raul thinks we should not spread ourselves too thinly until we are certain of what the situation is here in San Luis?’

Edge and Straker exchanged a brief expressive glance, both of them suspecting Zamorra had actually been told to make sure the Americans did not try to negotiate a deal with the local Federales that excluded Alvarez and his men: or included them as part of a double cross trade off.

Straker allowed flatly: ‘Sounds to me like good thinking.’

Edge shrugged. ‘No sweat, feller.’

There was a hitching rail out front of the cantina and the Mexicans tethered their horses and the three spare animals to it. While the mangy dog rose wearily and skulked off when the trio at the Federale post made do with the base of the flagpole to secure their horses and then pushed open the door.

Saw the small office beyond, that was unoccupied, was furnished with two rickety desks facing each other from either side of the fusty room, a battered chair behind and in front of each of them. A closed door in the back wall that like the other three was bare of any kind of decoration, maybe led to cells or the living quarters of the men who ran the post.

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On the desk to the right was a dented kerosene lamp with a cracked chimney, a scattering of dog-eared papers, a humidor and a stand-up calendar showing the date of three days earlier. Around this the dirt floor was littered with tobacco ash, crushed cigar butts and dead matches. On and around the other bare topped desk was a layer of dust that had been undisturbed for a long time.

‘Just the one guy works here it looks like?’ Straker suggested as he and Edge surveyed the scene from the threshold of the office.

Edge nodded and glanced along the shadowed south side of the deserted plaza toward the church. ‘A feller who’s as religious as everyone else around here it seems like?’

Straker snarled suddenly: ‘Hey, you leave that alone, mister!’

Zamorra had advanced into the office and gone to the cluttered desk. Now he froze in the act of lifting the lid of the humidor and glowered toward the doorway as he complained defensively: ‘But there are at least a dozen or more in here!’