Twisted Hills (9 page)

Dolan's men had turned from the bar, their hands grasping their own guns and stopping there, waiting, watching. Behind the bar Graft froze, his eyes widened. He wore the same shaky grin, as if he would be stuck with it for life.

“Like he told you, hombre,” Sam said quietly to Max Udall, “I do gun work. Any more questions?”

The cantina stood tense, silent. After a moment, Udall raised a hand slowly and gestured for his men to ease down. They did, a little.

“No, Jones,” Udall said in a calm tone. “I think you've answered clear enough.” He sat staring for a moment longer, then gave a chuff, glancing at Mickey Galla on the tile floor. Then he gave a chuckle and shook his head. Along the bar, his men settled and laughed themselves. “Somebody go throw water on Mickey,” he said quietly. “See if we need to stand him up or tie him out on a board.”

His men laughed at his dark humor. Two of them walked to where Galla lay stretched out, nose crushed and already swelling beneath a mask of blood. At the other end of the bar, Daryl Dolan turned a sidelong glance to his men and eased them down as well.

“Gun work, huh?” Udall said to Sam.

“Gun work,” Sam reaffirmed, lowering his Winchester back onto the bar but keeping his hand on the stock.

“Now that we know
clearly
what you do,” said Udall, his eyes moving over Dolan and the rest of Madson's men as he spoke, “the question is, who do you do it for?”

“We were just discussing that when you came in, Udall,” Dolan said. “I already told him he's got a job with Madson.”

“Yeah, but did you say for how much?” said Udall.

“We were just getting there,” said Dolan. “So go on back to your rye, let us talk business over here.”

“You should have got there sooner,” said Udall. He turned his gaze to Sam. “If you're looking for the best pay with the best outfit, that would be us, Jones,” he said. “Our men all live longer than Madson's for some reason—healthier, I guess.”

“Don't push your luck, Udall,” Dolan cautioned. “That's something that can change any minute.”

Graft looked back and forth between Dolan and Udall.

Jesus . . . ! Here they go again!
he told himself. He gave Sam a pleading look, as if asking him to do something before they started all over.

“I just got here today,” Sam said. “I didn't know work was so plentiful.” He let his hand move away from his rifle. On the floor, Mickey Galla groaned as one of the two men took a pitcher of water from Rolo, who had hurried out from behind the bar and handed it to them.

“Like I was telling you, Jones,” said Dolan, “there's us, and there's them. Madson and Segert used to be pards. But not anymore. Now they'd like each other dead. So you best pick a side and stand there.”

“I hate to agree with Daryl Dolan on anything,” said Udall, “but he's telling you right. Stick around here doing gun work, you'll have to work for either Segert or Madson.”

Sam watched the gunman throw the water onto Galla's bloody face. Galla groaned more and rolled his big head from one side to the other. Sam looked back and forth between the two opposing factions at the bar. In the exchange of threats and arguing between the two groups, the rest of the day drinkers had vanished like ghosts. All except Sam.

All right, you're here, on the job . . . ,
he reminded himself. He'd made a good start for himself.

“I see a third possibility,” he said.

“Yeah, what's that?” Udall asked, him and Dolan both watching Sam closely.

“I might decide to go into business for myself,” Sam said.

“You'd better think it over, Jones,” said Udall. “You don't want to get off on the wrong side here. It'd be bad for your health.” He set his shot glass down on the bar, and he and his men backed away, ready to turn toward the door.

“Damn right, you'd best give it some serious thought,” Dolan said to Sam. He and his men set down their shot glasses as well. He gave Sam a dark stare.

“I already am,” Sam said, his hand resting near his Winchester.

No sooner had both groups of gunmen left the Trato Justo Cantina than Graft let out a sigh of relief that left him slumped over the bar. Elbows on the bar top, he buried his face in both hands for a moment and shook his lowered head.

“For God sakes, Jones,” he said to Sam. “You don't take on a trifling attitude with men like these—especially not in their own damn stomping grounds.” He raised his face from his hands and stared at Sam. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to be alive.”

Sam took his trail gloves from behind his belt, pulled them on and walked the few feet down-bar to where Graft stood on the other side. Graft watched him pick up an uncorked bottle of rye standing on the bar and fill a shot glass. Sam pushed the drink over in front of Graft with his gloved hand.

“Have one, barkeep,
on me
,” he said to Graft. “You earned it, juggling all those hardcases at once.”

“Hell, I don't mind if I do,” said Graft, swiping up the shot glass. “Have one yourself,
on you
,” he said, nodding at the bottle in Sam's gloved hand.

“Obliged, but no, thanks,” Sam said.

“What? You've stopped drinking on me, after all the trouble you stirred up here?” said Graft.

“No offense, but I do most of my drinking alone, somewhere quiet,” said Sam. As a rule he didn't drink a lot of whiskey; he knew this wouldn't be a good time to start.

“Alone?
Ha
,” said Graft. “Suit yourself.” He drained the shot glass in one gulp and set it down firmly. “My observation from this side of the bar,” he said in a whiskey-strained voice, “is that a man who drinks alone long enough starts to wonder how it feels to blow his own brains out.”

“My observation from
this side
of the bar,” Sam returned, “is that a man pushing against two opposing forces winds up getting himself crushed between them.”

“Well,
my my
!” Graft feigned a surprised look. He gestured a hand about his empty cantina where black blood still stained the floor tiles. “All this, and you're a
man of science
too?”

“Only in self-defense,” Sam said. He reached out with the bottle and refilled Graft's shot glass. Rolo, the bartender, appeared out of a rear supply room with a mop and a wooden bucket full of water. Sam and Graft saw him carry the bucket to the bloodstains and set it down. “You started it with your remark about suicide,” he added.

“Yeah, I suppose I asked for that, questioning a man's drinking habits,” Graft said with a sigh. He picked up his fresh drink and swished it around a little. “I don't know why I'm telling you this, Jones,” he said, “but you're looking at a whipped man here. Since these two outfits have taken themselves a slice of Agua Fría, a businessman on his own, like me, ain't got a chance.”

“Both sides are squeezing you,” Sam ventured.

“You can't imagine,” said Graft. “It was bad enough when they was all one gang, Madson and Segert both running it. Now that they've split into two gangs, it cost me and everybody else twice as much. You saw how both sides flocked here like vultures when they heard gunshots. End of the month Crazy Ray Segert and Bell Madson will both show up with their greedy hands out—charging me for having their men keep the peace. Most times it's their men causing the trouble to begin with.” His face held his bitter expression. “Soon as they got settled in good and their ranks grew, they all took to bullying the
rurales
out of town—got them all too scared to move against them.”

Sam nodded, then poured Graft another glass of whiskey.

“Once the
rurales
were too afraid to uphold the law, Segert and Madson got in with the
federales
,” Sam said as if finishing the story for him. “Told them not to worry, they had enough guns and manpower to uphold the law in Agua Fría. The
federales
took them up on it, because . . . well . . . ” He shrugged. “That's what
federales
do.”

“Sounds like you've heard this song before, Jones,” said Graft.

Playing his role as a hardcase, Sam said, “I've heard it, I've sung it.” He stared intently at Graft. “Haven't played it for a while, but I remember all the words.”

“Then what the hell am I confiding in you for?” Graft said. “Making those scalp hunters pay for my mirror doesn't make you any different than these other ham-handed sons a'—”

“Watch your language, Graft,” Sam said, cutting him off. “You don't want to call me a name you'll regret. I'm the one who can get you off the spot you're on here.”

Graft eyed him.

“Oh . . . ?” he said. “How's that?” He sat with his hand wrapped around his fresh glass of whiskey, feeling the strength of it calming his chest, easing the jitters that the two groups of gunmen had stirred in his guts.

“Set me up a table in the front corner there. I'll keep down trouble long as I'm here.”

“Oh?” said Graft. “Are you doing this for your health? Or what is it you get for it?”

Sam gave a shrug.

“A third,” he said. “It's probably less than you're paying these vultures. I'll keep down the trouble. You won't need these men.”

“A partner, for a
third
!” said Graft. “No damn way.” He shook his head vigorously. “Besides, you've already come near giving me one a' them
heart attacks
I've been reading about. I don't think I have the constitution it would take to be your partner.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam said mildly. “I made the offer—you turned it down. I'll decide which one of these outfits to work for and throw in with them. Maybe I'll be the one who comes here to collect.” He stepped sideways, picked up his Winchester from atop the bar and turned and walked toward the door.

“Damn it,” said Graft. “Wait up, Jones. What's your hurry?”

Sam stopped and looked back at him.

“Come on back,” Graft said. “I want to hear what kind of game you're talking about here.”

Sam didn't walk back right away. Instead he stood still and gave Graft a dead-serious look. “Call it
no-peep
poker,” he said. “I won't turn over my cards until I see the pot's right.”

Graft considered it, then said, “All right”—giving in a little—“I'll make the pot right.”

“A third,” Sam said firmly.

“A third it is,” Graft said, “but only if you get Segert and Madson out of my pocket, and
keep
them out.”

Sam walked slowly back toward the bar.

“How do I explain a new partner to Segert and Madson?” said Graft as Sam laid his Winchester back up on the bar.

“You won't. I'm a
silent
partner,” Sam said. “Nobody's going to know except you and me. I'll keep down any trouble that flares up here in the Fair Deal, and you'll tell me all about Agua Fría, what goes on here and who makes it happen.” Sam would have struck up such an exchange for free just to have someone keep him abreast of the town's comings and goings. But he knew that Graft would suspect a gunman working for free.

“We've got a deal,” said Graft. “But why are you so interested in Agua Fría and the gunmen running it?”

“I want to know all there is to know about these two gangs,” Sam said. “They're neither one going to like hearing that you don't need them to keep down trouble.”

Graft nodded; it made sense.

“I'll tell you anything I know about them, or anything new I hear,” he said. He thought about matters for a moment. “Holy Joseph,” he added. “I hope you're not about to get us killed.”

“I'm hoping that myself,
partner
,” said Sam. He leaned an elbow on the bar. “Tell me all about Crazy Ray Segert and Bell Madson. What's their game?”

•   •   •

Moments later, when the drinking crowd began to venture back into the Fair Deal, Reuben Grafton turned the bar over to Rolo. For the next hour and a half, he and Sam continued their discussion in the stockroom over Graft's battered wormwood desk. Most of what Graft told Sam came as no surprise, but it was good to know that the two gangs he intended to shut down were the ones responsible for the recent string of robberies and murders that had taken place along the border.

As Sam listened, he recalled the words of the dying outlaw, Curtis Rudabell, when he'd said,
“My kind of people . . . have taken over Agua Fría.”

And here it is,
Sam reminded himself, hearing Graft give him the barkeeper's-eye view of the two thriving outlaw gangs and the stranglehold they held on Agua Fría.

Both Segert and Madson used to be partners. Now they were two separate gangs. They robbed banks, payrolls and trains, and neither side hesitated to kill anybody who tried to stand in their way. Both gang leaders had the kind of money it took to own the
federles
in this part of the hill country, he'd told Sam. What their money couldn't buy, their gunmen could take by force.

“Their only formidable enemy this side of the border is each other, Jones,” he said. He paused, watching Sam's face intently, then said, “They will kill you without batting an eye, once they see you're costing them money.” As he spoke, Sam saw him growing doubtful. “What the hell?” he said, throwing up his hands. “This is loco. We'd best forget the whole idea.”

“Don't get cold feet on me, Graft,” Sam said.

“But they will kill you, Jones,” he said. “Damn it, are you daft, man?”

“Like I told you,” Sam said, “I'm tired of eating jackrabbit and rattlesnake—”

“Right, I know,” said Graft, cutting him off. “And I'm sick of being squeezed dry by these jackals. Pay no attention to me. I just got a blast of cold air up my back. Go ahead, do like we said. Clean this mess up.” He took a deep, calming breath. “I reckon the bright side is, if they kill you, I won't owe you nothing.”

Sam gave a slight wry grin.

“That's the spirit,” he said. He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up with his Winchester in hand. “Have you heard any whisper about a robbery going bad for one of them a few weeks back?”

“Yeah,” said Graft. “Word is Segert lost a couple of men to a lawman after a bank robbery, while they were coming back across the border through Nogales.” He looked at Sam closely.

“One lawman?” Sam asked.

“So I heard. What's that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Sam said. “I just heard some talk is all—I like to know all I can about how tough these hombres are. If one lawman took two of them down . . .” He let his opinion trail.

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Graft said. He gave a slight grin. “Not only did the lawmen stop their clocks, but Apaches stole their bank money and
scalped
one.” He gave a dark chuckle. “How damn tough is that?”

Preston
Kelso.

“Did he die?” Sam asked, knowing that it was Rud-abell, not the Apaches, who had the stolen bank money.

“Naw, he's still alive—if you call it living,” Graft said. “The monks have him at their hospital. Got his arrow holes plugged up and got his head covered with worms.” He winced, looking up at Sam. “Have you ever seen a maggot bonnet?”

“Can't say I have,” Sam replied.

“The monks could charge money to show that poor bastard if they would. Go by and take a look,” Graft said.

“I'll do that,” Sam said, turning, walking toward the door.

“So, I'll see you around tonight?” said Graft.

“Yep,” Sam said, stopping, opening the door. “Have Rolo set up my corner table. Any trouble flares up in the Fair Deal, I want to be the first to see it.”

“You got it,
partner
,” Graft said, lowering his voice a little. He sat back and relaxed as Sam stepped out and shut the door behind him.

•   •   •

In the infirmary, a young man in white peasant clothing came running up to the priest, his leather sandals slapping loudly on the stone-tiled floor.

“Padre Octavia, come quickly!” he shouted, seeing the priest step into sight from around a stone column in order to investigate the approaching noise. “One of the gringos has gone crazy!”

“I have told you not to use that word in my presence, Juan,” said the young priest as he caught him by his thin shoulders and held him in place. He shook him as if to calm him down. “Which of the
americanos
are you talking about?”

Before the young Mexican, Juan Mera, could answer, a shrill maniacal half laugh, half scream echoed from a hallway leading to the infirmary. Following the strange hysterical shriek came the blast of a gunshot.

“The one with the gun!” Juan said as if on cue. Another shot resounded from the direction of the infirmary.

Father Octavia crossed himself quickly and squeezed the crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck.

“Sante Madre,”
he whispered, stung by the realization it was he who had given Kelso the big Colt Dragoon. “I have done a foolish and terrible thing,” he said under his breath.

“
Padre
, he is coming!” said Juan in terror, hearing the ravings of a lunatic announce himself closer along the hallway. “What must we do?”

“Run!” said the priest. “He is drunk and wild on mescal! Find Señor
Segert's pistoleros and send them here quickly. This man works for Segert.”

“But you,
Padre
!” Juan said, even as he turned toward the front door of the church. “What about you?” He hesitated for a moment.

“I must intercept him before he harms someone! Now go, Juan,” said the priest. “I am under God's
protección
!”
He gave Juan a shove.

Juan raced away and burst through the front doors into the afternoon sunlight, and into the arms of the Ranger, who had heard the gunshot as he walked along the street toward the hotel.