The Carpetbaggers (18 page)

"Who makes the rules here?" he asked the bartender.

The bartender gestured toward the rear. "The
alcalde
,
señor
."

The
americano
turned and came toward the table. His eyes surprised the
alcalde
; they were a hard, dark blue. He spoke in Spanish, with a trace of Cuban accent. "Does the swine speak the truth,
señor
?"

"No,
señor
," the
alcalde
replied. "All are welcome here who have the money to pay their way."

The man nodded and returned to the bar. He stopped in front of the man who had come over to his table. "The
alcalde
tells me my friend can stay," he said.

The man turned to him angrily. "Who the hell cares what that greaser thinks? Just because we're across the border, doesn't mean I have to drink with niggers!"

The smaller man's voice was cold. "My friend eats with me, drinks with me, sleeps with me, and he's not goin'." He turned his back calmly and went back to his table.

He was just seating himself again when the angry
americano
started for him. "If you like niggers so much, nigger-lover, see how you like sleepin' with a dead one!" he shouted, pulling his gun.

The smaller
americano
seemed scarcely to move but the gun was in his hand, smoke rising from its barrel, the echo of a shot fading away in the rafters of the cantina. And the loud-mouthed one lay dead on the floor in front of the bar.

"I apologize for the disturbance we have made against the hospitality of your village," he said in his strange Spanish.

The
alcalde
looked down at the man on the floor, and shrugged. "
De nada
," he said. "It is nothing. You were right. The swine had no grace."

Now, almost three years later, the
alcalde
sighed, remembering. The little one had grace, much grace — natural like a panther. And the gun.
Caramba!
There had never been anything so fast. It seemed almost to have a life of its own. What a
pistolera
this one would have made. Juárez would have been proud of him.

Several times each year, the two friends would quietly disappear from the village and as quietly reappear — several weeks, sometimes several months later. And each time they came back, they had money to pay for their rooms, their women, their whisky.

But each time, the
alcalde
could sense a deeper solitude in them, a greater aloneness. There were times he felt a strange kind of pity for them. They were not like the others that came to the village. This way of life held no pleasure for them.

And now they were drinking tequila again. How many times before they would go out like this and never return? Not only to this village but to nowhere on this earth.

* * *

Max swallowed the tequila and bit into the lime. The tart juice burst into his throat, giving his mouth a clean, fresh feeling. He looked at Mike. "How much we got left?"

Mike thought for a moment. "Maybe three more weeks."

Max rolled a cigarette and lit it. "What we gotta do is make a big hit. Then maybe we could go up into California or Nevada or someplace where they don' know us an' git ourselves straightened out. Money shore don' last long around this place."

The Negro nodded. "It sho' don'," he agreed. "But that ain' the answer. We gotta split up. They lookin' for us together. When they see me, it's like you carryin’ a big ol’ sign with you' name on it."

Max filled his glass again. "Tryin' to get rid of me?" He smiled, throwing the liquor down his throat and reaching for the lime.

Mike said seriously, "Maybe 'thout me, you could settle down someplace an' make a life fo' yourself. You won' have to run no mor'."

Max spit out a lime seed. "We made us a deal to stick together. We get enough money this time, we'll head for California."

The door opened and a tall, redheaded cowboy came in. He walked over to their table and dropped into an empty chair. "Ol' Charlie Dobbs got here in the nick o' time, I reckon." He laughed. "That there tequila'll eat the linin' off your stomach sure as hell. Bartender, bring us a bottle of whisky."

The bartender put whisky and glasses on the table and walked away. Charlie filled the glasses and they drank.

"What brings you back, Charlie?" Max asked. "I thought you were headin' up Reno way."

"I was. But I run into the biggest thing ever I saw. It was too good to pass up."

"What kinda job?" Max asked, leaning across the table.

Charlie lowered his voice. "A new bank. You remember I tol' you I heard las' year they were minin' for oil up in Texas? I decided to pay them diggin's a visit on my way north." He poured another drink and swallowed it quickly. "Well, they found it all right. It's the craziest thing you ever saw. They sink a well down in the groun' an' instead of water, up comes oil. Then they pipe it off, barrel it an' ship it east. There's oil all over the place an' that bank's just bustin' with money."

"Sounds good to me," Max said. "What's the deal?"

"A local man set up the job but he needs help. He wants two shares, we get one share each."

"Fair enough," Max said. He turned to Mike. "What do you think?"

Mike nodded. "When we pull the job?" he asked.

Charlie looked at him. "Right after the new year. The bank is gettin' in a lot of money then for new diggin'." He refilled all the glasses. "We'll have to start tomorrow. It took me three weeks to ride down here."

MAX PUSHED HIS WAY INTO THE SALOON BEHIND Charlie Dobbs. It was crowded with oil-miners and cowboys and the dice table and faro layouts were working full blast. Men were standing three deep around them waiting for a chance at the games.

"What'd I tell you?" Charlie chortled. "This is a real boom town all right." He led the way down the bar to where a man was standing by himself.

The man turned and looked at him. "You took long enough gettin' here," he said in a low voice.

"It's a long ride, Ed," Charlie said.

"Meet me outside," Ed said, throwing a silver dollar on the bar and walking out. He glanced quickly at Max as he passed.

Max caught a glimpse of pale gimlet eyes without expression. The man seemed to be in his late forties, with a long, sandy mustache trailing across his lip. There was something familiar about him but Max couldn't place it. There was only the feeling that he had seen him before.

The man was waiting outside the saloon for them. He walked ahead and they followed him into a dark alley. He turned to face them. "I said we needed four men," he said angrily.

"There's another man, Ed," Charlie said quickly. "He's layin' up just outside of town."

"All right. You got here just in time. Tomorrow night — that's Friday night — the president and the cashier of the bank work late makin' up the riggin' crews' payrolls for Saturday. They usually get through about ten o'clock. We get them as they come out the door an' hustle them back inside. That way, they can open the safe for us; we don't have to blow it."

"All right with me," Charlie said. "What do you think, Max?"

Max looked at Ed. "They carry guns?"

"I reckon. You afraid of gunplay?"

Max shook his head. "No. I jus' like to know what to expect"

"How much you think we'll get?" Charlie interjected.

"Fifty thousand, maybe more."

Charlie whistled. "Fifty thousand!"

"You'll drift over here one at a time. Quiet. I don't want no one to be lookin' at us. We'll meet in back of the bank at nine thirty sharp." Ed looked at them and they nodded again. He started to walk away, then came back. He peered at Max. "Ain't I seen you someplace before?"

Max shrugged his shoulders. "Mebbe. I been aroun'. You look familiar to me, too."

"Maybe it'll come to me tomorrow night." He started to walk down the alley.

Max watched him until he turned into the street. He turned slowly to Charlie. "There's somethin' about that man. I got the feelin' I should know who he is."

Charlie laughed. "Let's go. Mike'll be wonderin' what happened to us."

* * *

"Set yourself!" Ed whispered hoarsely. "They're comin'!"

Max pressed tightly against the wall near the door. On the other side of the doorway, Ed and Charlie were waiting. He could hear the sound of two men's voices as they approached the door inside the bank.

They all moved at once as the door opened, pushing it inward with sudden force.

"What the hell's goin'— " a voice said from the darkness inside. It was followed by a thud, then the sound of a body falling.

"You keep your mouth shet, mister, if you want to keep livin'!" There was a frightened gasp, then silence. "Git them into the back room." Ed's voice came harshly.

Max bent swiftly and pulled the fallen man along the floor toward the back. There was the sound of a match behind him and then a lamp cast a tiny glow in the back room. He pulled the man into the room. He slumped and lay still when Max let him go.

"Check the front door!" Ed hissed.

Max ran back to the door and peeped out. The street was quiet and deserted. "No one out there," he said.

"Good," Ed said. "Let's get to work." He turned to the other of the two men. "Open the safe."

The man was in his late fifties. He was staring at the man on the floor with a horror-stricken look. "I— I can't," he said. "Only Mr. Gordon can. He's the president, the only one who knows the combination."

Ed turned to Max. "Wake him up."

Max knelt beside the man. He turned his face. The head looked peculiar, the jaw hung slack. Max looked up at Ed. "Ain't nothin' goin' to wake him up. You caved his head in."

"My God!" the other man said. He seemed almost ready to faint.

Ed stepped around to front of him. "I reckon you're goin' to have to open the safe, after all."

"B  but I can't," the bank clerk said. "I don't know the combination."

Ed hit him viciously across the face. The man fell against a desk. "Well, learn it, then!"

"Honest, mister," he sobbed. "I don't know it. Mr. Gordon was the only one. He was— "

Ed hit him again. "Open that safe!"

"Look, mister," the man begged. "There's over four thousand dollars in that desk there! Take it and don't hit me any more, please. I don't know the combination— "

Ed moved around the desk and opened the center drawer. He took out a package of bills and stuffed it into his jacket. He walked around the desk and stood to front of the kneeling bank clerk. "Now, open the safe!" he said, hitting the man again.

The man sprawled out on the floor. "I don't know, mister, I don't know!"

When Ed drew his foot back to kick him, Max touched his shoulder. "Maybe he's tellin' the truth."

Ed stared at him for a moment, then lowered his foot. "Maybe. I know how we can find out fast." He gestured at Max. "Get back on the door."

Max walked back through the bank to the front door and looked out again. The street was still deserted. He stood there, quietly alert.

Ed's voice came to him from the back room. '"Tie the bastard to the chair."

"What are you gonna do?" the bank clerk protested in a weak voice.

Max walked back and looked in the room. Ed was kneeling in front of the potbellied stove, stirring the poker in the live coals. Charlie straightened up from tying the clerk and looked at Ed curiously. "What're you doin?"

'He’ll talk if this red-hot poker gits close enough to his eyes," Ed said grimly.

"Wait a minute," Charlie protested. "You think the guy is lyin', kill him."

Ed got to his feet and turned on Charlie angrily. "That's the trouble with you young ones nowadays. You got no guts, you're too squeamish. He can't open no safe if he's dead!"

"He can't open it if he don't know the combination, either!"

"You don't like it, scram!" Ed said savagely. "There's fifty thousand bucks in that there safe. I’m goin' to git it!"

Max turned from the door and started back toward the front of the bank. He had taken about two steps when he was stopped by Ed's voice, coming from the back room.

"This’ll work, believe me," Ed was saying. " 'Bout ten, twelve years back, Rusty Harris, Tom Dort an' me gave the treatment to an ol' buffalo-skinner an' his squaw— "

Max felt his stomach heave and he reached for the wall to keep from falling. He closed his eyes for a moment and the scene in the cabin came back to him — his father hanging lifelessly, his mother crumpled on the floor, the orange glow of the fire against the night sky.

His head began to clear. He shook it. A cold, dead feeling replaced the nausea. He turned toward the back room.

Ed was still kneeling in front of the stove. Charlie stood across the room, his face white and sick. "The ol' miser had gold stashed somewhere aroun' the place. Everybody in Dodge knew it— " Ed looked up and saw Max, who had crossed the room and was standing over him. "What're you doin' here? I tol' you to cover the door!"

Max looked down at him. His voice was hollow. "Did you ever git that gold?"

A puzzled look crossed Ed's face.

"You didn't," Max said, "because there wasn't any to start with."

Ed stared at him. "How do you know?"

"I know," Max said slowly. "I'm Max Sand."

Recognition leaped into Ed's face. He went for his gun, rolling sideways away from Max. Max kicked the gun from his hand and Ed scrambled after it as Max pulled the white-hot poker from the fire. Ed turned, raising the gun toward Max, just as the poker lunged at his eyes.

He screamed in agony as the white metal burned its way through his flesh. The gun went off, the bullet going wild into the ceiling above him, then it fell from his hand.

Max stood there a moment, looking down. The stench of burned flesh reached up to his nostrils. It was over. Twelve years and it was over.

He turned dully as Charlie pulled at his arm. "Let's git outa here!" Charlie shouted. "The whole town'll be down on us in a minute!"

"Yeah," Max said slowly. He let the poker fall from his hand and started for the door. Mike was holding the horses and they leaped into the saddle. They rode out of town in a hail of bullets with a posse less than thirty minutes behind them.