Renegades Page 9

  It wasn’t his problem, he reminded himself. He could ride on any time he wanted to. But he liked the Tollivers, he was intrigued by Roanne Williamson, and he found himself respecting this savage old aristocrat at whose table he sat. It sounded to him as if someone might be playing both ends against the middle, setting Tolliver and Almanzar at each other’s throats for some unknown purpose. Nothing good could come of that.

  Besides, when you came right down to it, he was curious about what was going on around here, Frank decided, and he was at a stage in his life where he could afford to indulge his curiosity.

  “If that’s an offer, Don Felipe, then I accept,” he said. “I appreciate your hospitality, and I appreciate the opportunity to let this banged-up head and ankle of mine heal a mite before I move on.”

  Almanzar nodded. “It is done, then. You will remain here as my guest as long as you wish, Señor Morgan.” He silenced any protests Antonio might make with a fierce glare at his son. “It is the least I can do to repay you for my daughter’s life. She is at times a vexation, but still precious to me.”

  “I reckon that’s probably the way most folks feel about their youngsters, Don Felipe,” Frank said.

  They drank the last of the coffee, and then Almanzar summoned the elderly servant again and instructed him to show Frank to his quarters. Before Frank followed the old mozo out of the room, Almanzar took a heavy walking stick carved out of some sort of dark, heavy wood from a stand in a corner and presented it to him.

  “This was my father’s, Señor Morgan,” Don Felipe said. “May it ease your steps while you are with us.”

  “Thank you, Don Felipe,” Frank said formally. “I’m much obliged.”

  He followed the servant through a door and along a walkway with pillared openings to the central plaza along one side. On the other side were arched doorways that led into sleeping quarters. With each step the walking stick thumped against the tile floor and the servant’s slippers whispered on the stone as well.

  The old man opened one of the heavy doors, grunting with effort as he did so, and ushered Frank into a room with thick adobe walls, a single narrow window with its shutters closed, and a bed with a straw mattress. One chair sat in a corner. The room was a little larger and a bit better furnished than a monk’s cell, but that was what it reminded Frank of.

  It also occurred to him that if the door and the shutters were locked from the outside, this room truly would be a cell, for he would be unable to get out.

  No one had tried to take his gun, though, so he didn’t think it was likely Almanzar would treat him like a prisoner in other respects. He nodded his thanks to the mozo, who lit a candle in a wall sconce, then shuffled out and closed the door behind him.

  Frank dropped his hat on the bed and sat down beside it. The past thirty-six hours had been filled with action and violence, and weariness gripped him. Almost without thinking about it, he stretched out on the soft mattress, and despite all his intentions, he was asleep within moments.

  12

  Frank felt some alarm when he woke up and realized that he had dozed off. He pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs off the bed, waiting to see how his head was going to react to this movement. He could tell from the way the candle had burned down that several hours had passed.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he didn’t feel dizzy. And the throbbing inside his skull had gone away, too. He took several deep breaths and felt fine. Clearly, some good food and a nice long rest had been just what he needed. His brain hadn’t been injured after all, thanks to that thick skull of his, he thought with a smile.

  His ankle still hurt, though, as he discovered when he tried to stand up. With a gasp, he sat back down and got his weight off it. He reached down and worked his boot off. His ankle was swollen, and it might have been a mistake to remove the boot, Frank thought. He might have a hard time getting it back on.

  He took a bandanna from one of the hip pockets of his jeans and used it to bind up the injured ankle, tying it tightly. When he stood up, the ankle still twinged painfully, but it didn’t hurt as much as it had before.

  A frown creased his forehead as he noticed that his saddlebags were draped over the back of the chair. They hadn’t been there earlier. That meant someone had brought them in while he was asleep and left them there without disturbing him. That shouldn’t have happened. No one should have been able to come into the room without alerting him. If the intruder had meant him harm, he might be lying there in the bed with a slit throat right now, or a stab wound in his heart.

  Getting older was one thing, Frank told himself sternly Getting careless was another. Given the life he led, a moment, even a single second, of carelessness might be enough to mean death.

  He gave a little shake of his head. Brooding about it now wasn’t going to help. He resolved not to let it happen again.

  Not wanting to try to pull his boot back on, Frank took the other one off instead, and in his stocking feet he went to the window. The shutters swung open when he unlatched them, so he definitely wasn’t a prisoner here. A cool breeze blew into the room. Outside, the sky was dark blue and purple as the light of day faded. As Frank stood there, the stars overhead began to wink into existence. The overcast was gone and the sky was clear.

  The breeze made the candle flame flicker behind him and then go out. The room was plunged into darkness relieved only by the faint glow from outside. The view from the window was toward the hill behind the house. There were mountains beyond those foothills, but Frank couldn’t see them from here. He could see the top of the hill, though, silhouetted against the last vestiges of the sunset, a dark mass against a sweep of fading rose.

  That fleeting illumination was the only reason he was able to see the rider coming over the hill, skylighted for only a moment before disappearing.

  Frank rested his hands on the thick adobe sill of the window and leaned forward. A frown etched lines on his forehead as he listened intently. He couldn’t hear any hoofbeats. Had he imagined the rider? Or had the rider swung down from the saddle so that he could approach the hacienda on foot? If that was the case, there was something unsettling about it. No one would be skulking around the Almanzar rancho unless he was up to no good.

  Something else about what he had seen bothered Frank, and it took him several minutes of hard thought before he realized what it was. Though the image of that rider had been glimpsed only for a second, something was wrong about it, and when Frank finally succeeded in recreating the picture in his mind’s eye, he knew what it was.

  All of Almanzar’s vaqueros had worn sombreros with very wide brims and short, dimpled crowns. The rider Frank had seen had worn a high-crowned hat, and the brim had been all wrong, too. That was the sort of hat a gringo might wear, and given the hostility toward norteamericanos Frank had seen displayed on the Almanzar rancho, why would such a man be sneaking up on the hacienda as night fell?

  This was a mystery that Frank couldn’t ignore.

  He didn’t want to raise an alarm, though, until he was sure that there was really a threat. He eased the shutter closed and then, still in his stocking feet, turned toward the door of the room. He picked up the walking stick, then put it down again. With the bandanna bound tightly around his ankle, he thought he could walk well enough without the stick. The sound it made as it thumped on the tiles would be bound to give him away if he tried to move silently. He just had to be careful and not put too much weight on the bad ankle.

  Frank limped to the door and paused there long enough to touch the butt of his Peacemaker for a moment, moving it a little in the holster to make sure it wouldn’t hang on anything. Then he pulled the latch string and put his shoulder to the door, easing it open. Thankfully, the hinges were well oiled and didn’t squeal.

  He stepped out into the night and pulled the door closed behind him. The tiles of the walkway were cold through his socks, and that chill climbed to his ankle and made it throb slightly. Frank ignored the discomfort. He walked silen
tly to his left, away from the main part of the hacienda. The blue was gone from the sky he saw above the enclosed courtyard. Now the heavens held only swathes of purple and black, dotted with the pinpricks of the stars.

  He came to a dark, tunnel-like passage through the ground floor of the hacienda. The far end of it was closed off by a wrought-iron gate. Frank didn’t know if the gate was locked. He slipped along the passage, tried the latch, and found that it lifted freely. When he opened the gate, it swung easily and made no noise. He would have stepped through it without hesitation if a faint, almost indistinguishable smell had not caught his attention. He leaned closer to the hinges on which the gate hung and touched a fingertip to the top hinge. His finger came away slick. He rubbed it with his thumb and held it to his nose. Oil of some sort, and freshly applied.

  Someone had gone through this gate a short time earlier, but only after applying oil to the hinges so that they wouldn’t make any noise. Frank would have been willing to bet that the gate was normally kept locked. Someone inside the house had unlocked it and used it to slip out into the night. Either that, or they had unlocked it to allow someone else to slip in.

  The rider on the hill?

  The hillside loomed above Frank. There would be rocks and cactus and Lord knows what else up there, and he wasn’t going to try to climb it without his boots. Besides, if anything was about to happen, it would have to come right through this gate. The rider hadn’t had time to get down here yet, so he was still out there somewhere in the darkness. He might try to sneak into the hacienda. If someone had gone out to meet him, that person would probably come back this way . . . that is, unless he wasn’t coming back at all. If that was it, then there was nothing Frank could do about it. If either of the other two possibilities were correct, he could wait right here and let the mystery come to him.

  With a twisted ankle and no boots, that sounded like the best idea to The Drifter. He eased the gate closed again and moved back in the corridor that ran from the courtyard to the hacienda’s outer wall. The darkness around him was as thick and impenetrable as ink as he leaned back against the adobe wall to wait.

  As he stood there, he listened. The night might seem quiet, but it seldom ever was. Horses moved in their stalls in the barn, stamping and blowing in their restlessness. Men talked and laughed in the bunkhouse, their voices like music as the liquid Spanish flowed from their tongues. From time to time someone plucked at the strings of a guitar. High in the hills, a coyote howled, greeting the stars as they emerged from their daylong slumber.

  Or was that a coyote? Frank asked himself. Did the Indians in these Mexican mountains use animal cries as signals, like the Comanches and the Apaches north of the border did?

  He waited and listened, letting the sounds of the night wash over him, instinctively separating them and assessing them, listening for anything that would warn him of the approach of danger or impart information that might help him figure out the answers to the questions that nagged at him.

  Time didn’t mean much in a case like this. If Frank had been forced to guess, he would say that he had been standing there in the darkness for about half an hour when he finally heard the scuff of leather against the ground on the other side of the gate. His muscles tensed. The sounds increased and came closer. The stars shone faintly on the ground outside the gate, providing just enough light for him to be able to make out a vaguely human shape as it came up to the gate. Whoever it was opened the gate, but only narrowly, slipped through, and then eased it closed behind them. Frank heard the rattle of a chain and the sharp click of a padlock being snapped shut. The gate was locked again.

  Frank didn’t move as the person who had just come in walked quietly toward him. The steps were light. He heard the rustle of cloth. The folds of a skirt? Had the figure Frank had seen been that of a woman? He thought it was possible, but he hadn’t gotten a good enough look to be sure.

  The next moment he was certain, as he caught a whiff of a flower-scented fragrance and then heard a little snatch of a song as the woman sang to herself in Spanish. Frank recognized the words and the tune. It was a Mexican love song.

  He recognized the voice of the young woman singing it, too.

  The voice belonged to Carmen Almanzar.

  Frank didn’t move, didn’t even breathe as Carmen went past him. He was sure she had no idea he was there. She thought she had gotten away to her evening rendezvous without anyone being the wiser. Clearly, given her attitude and the song she sang, she had slipped out of the hacienda to meet a lover. One of her father’s vaqueros?

  Frank thought that was unlikely. He believed that Carmen had gone out to meet the man he had seen riding over the hill behind the hacienda. A man who wore the hat of a gringo. Don Felipe, by his own admission, had no use for men from north of the border. Antonio hated them. Would Carmen dare the wrath of her father and brother to carry on a secret romance with such a man?

  The answer to that was pretty obvious, Frank told himself. Carmen was a headstrong young woman who was accustomed to getting her own way, getting whatever she wanted. If that was a young man from the other side of the Rio Grande, of course she would dare.

  Frank waited until she was gone. Then he went back to his room, still moving quietly, turning over in his mind everything he had just seen and heard. The question remained: If Carmen was in love with a gringo, then who was he?

  Frank thought he might have the answer to that one, too. It would certainly explain some things if his theory was right.

  He had only been back in his room a few minutes, just long enough to scratch a lucifer to life and relight the candle on the wall, when a knock sounded on the door. Frank opened it and found the mozo standing there. The servant said, “Don Felipe awaits you in the dining room, Señor.”

  “Dinner time, is it?” Frank asked innocently.

  “Sí, Señor.”

  “Good. It’s been long enough since that snack that I’m hungry again.” Frank looked down at his feet. “I don’t know if I can get a boot back on my right foot, though.”

  “Wait here a moment, por favor.”

  Frank waited, and a couple of minutes later the servant returned carrying a pair of finely worked moccasins with fringed tops that would come as high on the calf as most boots.

  “Try these, Señor,” the mozo suggested.

  Frank sat on the bed and pulled on the moccasins. The soft leather had enough give to it so that he was able to get the right one over his swollen ankle. At the same time the moccasin was tight enough to give the injury even more support. When Frank stood up, his ankle still hurt some, but not nearly as much as it had earlier.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the servant.

  The old man looked down at the floor, as if afraid that he was about to be chastised. “Esteban, Señor.”

  “Well, Esteban, you did a fine job by finding these moccasins for me. Muchas gracias.”

  Esteban smiled slightly, pleased by the unexpected praise. “De nada, Señor,” he said.

  Frank left his Stetson in the room. He was recovering more rapidly than most men would from the injuries he had received the previous night, but he still wasn’t ready to wear a hat. The tender lump was still there, above his left ear.

  He followed the old-timer to a dining room with a vaulted ceiling and a long, highly polished table. Don Felipe and Antonio were already there, but Frank didn’t see any sign of Carmen. He nodded politely to Almanzar and asked, “Will your daughter not be joining us for dinner?”

  “Carmen has sent her regrets, Señor Morgan,” Almanzar said. “Her experiences today ... the mountain lion, you know ... have tired her and she wishes to rest.”

  “I hope she feels better tomorrow,” Frank said. He wondered if Carmen’s nocturnal rendezvous had anything to do with her not coming down for dinner. She hadn’t sounded tired when he heard her singing to herself.

  The Indian servant women began bringing in platters of food and placing them on the table. The air filled with s
picy, intriguing aromas.

  Before the three men could sit down to eat, however, a bell suddenly began to ring outside. Looks of alarm appeared on the faces of both Don Felipe and Antonio. They turned toward the entrance as a rumble of hoofbeats drifted in from the night. From the sound of it, a large group of horsemen had just ridden up to the hacienda.

  Don Felipe and Antonio started toward the door. Frank was right behind them. Almanzar glanced over his shoulder and said, “This does not concern you, Señor Morgan.”

  “You’ve most generously offered me your hospitality, Don Felipe,” Frank said. “If trouble’s come to call, I’d be honored to help you answer.”

  Almanzar only considered the offer for a second before nodding curtly. “Come, then,” he said. “Let us see who pays us a visit this night.”

  13

  A moment later, the three men stepped through a wrought-iron gate into the courtyard in front of the hacienda. As Frank had thought, the area was filled with milling horses. A couple of servants, including Esteban, hurried out of the house carrying blazing torches, and the light from the burning brands revealed that the newcomers were not bandidos. Instead they wore the gray wool jackets and trousers of the Rurales, the Mexican police force responsible for law and order in the far-flung rural areas of the country. Sombreros with slightly smaller brims and slightly higher crowns than those worn by the vaqueros were on their heads, giving them a distinctive appearance.

  A man dressed i n similar but more expensive fashion sat his horse in front of the others. He had a red bandanna around his throat, and the buttons of the jacket were silver instead of the more ordinary wood or brass to be found on the uniforms of the other men. The buttons shone in the torchlight, as did the scabbard of the saber he wore at his hip. The outfit would have been resplendent, even garish, if its bright colors hadn’t been dulled by the thick coating of trail dust that lay on the uniform. The officer removed his gray sombrero, brushed dust from it rather ostentatiously, and settled it back on his mostly bald head before he said in Spanish, “Good evening, Don Felipe. I trust you are well.”