Scorpion (18 page)

“I have had enough, my friends!” the general snapped. Then he smiled and thanked them both for the pleasure of their company. “The hour is late and you have families who no doubt resent your absence.”

“Soon as we get under way, the better,” Granados said. “My Chiquita has done nothing but weep and carry on ever since I told her I was going off to fight the gringos.” The haciendado was a wiry man in his middle thirties, tough as whipcord, the kind of man who looks forward to a good fight. Both mayor and rancher rose from the poker table and bid the general a good night. The mayor, a portly dark-haired man with an officious bearing copied after the general’s, led the way out of the courtyard. Navarro, for one, was grateful to be out of harm’s way. Najera had a mercurial temper; only a fool would cross him. The gringo was playing a dangerous game. The general was gunpowder with a short fuse, and Tolliver an open flame. Sooner or later he’d press his luck too far, and the mayor did not want to be around for the explosion.

Najera waited until both men had departed, then he motioned for Tolliver to remain and sent one of his dragoons to bring coffee and fried bread from the hotel’s kitchen. Señora Montenez had sent her serving girls home and retired for the evening, but the proprietress always left a platter of fried bread, honey, and a large pot of coffee hanging over the coal in the fireplace. The general watched as Ned Tolliver palmed his coins into a leather pouch.

“You are a wealthy man now,” Najera dryly observed. “I am forced to consider the best way to recoup my loses.” He stroked his chin as if giving the matter some thought. His eyes darted from Tolliver to Dobbs. He motioned for another of his dragoons, a gruff-looking individual, grizzled, with eyes like black marble, and sent the man to the wall to retrieve one of the jars. A few moments later the man returned bearing a jar that the general ordered him to leave on the table. Najera leaned forward and opened the lid. The strong scent of oil permeated the air. Najera shook the jar and something inside sloshed and bumped against the inside walls of the stoneware container. The muffled sound was made all the more hideous for knowing its source. “Now what do you think the Rangers would do if they ever found out who betrayed them to me? How much would such information be worth?”

“Now that ain’t funny, General, sir,” Dobbs remarked, nervously studying the jar. He noticed Najera wasn’t laughing.

Ned Tolliver wasn’t about to be bluffed. “I reckon Captain Pepper and Snake-Eye Gandy would give just about anything to learn it was me and Lucker. But since your lancers with their pig stickers took no prisoners, I reckon the Rangers won’t ever know.”

Tolliver glanced over at the jar on the table. He reached inside, grabbed a handful of hair and lifted the severed head out for all to see. One of the dragoons in the courtyard, a youthful good-natured vaquero, doubled over and headed for the alley. “And I doubt this poor bastard will talk.”

“Christ almighty, Ned.” Dobbs grimaced and looked away.

The former Ranger lowered the head back into the oil and stared across the open jar at Najera, whose thoughts were concealed beneath an aristocratic façade. “Still, if old Pete Baxter here could talk, I wonder which name’d be the first on his lips, General … yours or mine.”

Najera calmly replaced the lid and slid the jar across the table to Ned Tolliver. “A gift … something to remember me by should we be separated in Monterrey,” the general said. “I am a river to my people. But to my enemies …” He tapped the side of the jar.

“We got business in Monterrey?” Dobbs asked. His expression was one of complete revulsion toward the gift Najera had bestowed. But this new information had him worried. The last place Lucker Dobbs wanted to be was closer to General Zachary Taylor’s army and its contingent of Texas Rangers. He wasn’t liking any of this at all.

“I will be marching north in a few days to combine my forces with those of General Arista in Monterrey. Word has come that a number of americanos deserted General Taylor’s army after the fall of Matamoros and have been imprisoned by Arista. You will take command of them when we arrive and form a troop of your fellow countrymen to join us in throwing Taylor’s army back across the border.” Najera chuckled and added, “I may make an officer out of you yet, Señor Tolliver.”

“Now see here. I don’t—” Dobbs started to protest, but Tolliver silenced him with a glance.

“We will do our best, General,” he said. “I assume we will be paid for our services?”

“Arrangements have been made,” Najera said. “But tell me, do you not have enough gold?”

“There is never enough,” Tolliver pointed out.

The general nodded. “Sí. In this we are of agreement.” His thoughts drifted back to Don Sebastien, the friend who had shared, a confidence and awakened in Valentin Najera jealousy and a malevolent lust for wealth. For one single fleeting instant Najera experienced a pang of regret for what was lost. But the moment passed and nothing was changed. Najera had buried the truth of his betrayal beneath layers of self-deceit, and actually believed he had acted for the good of Mexico.

The dragoon dispensed to the cantina reappeared bearing a platter of fried bread, honey, and coffee, and placed the humble repast on the table in front of the general.

“You know,” Najera said to Tolliver, “for a moment there I considered having you shot for your insolence.” He picked up a piece of fried bread and began to chew.

“Why didn’t you?” Tolliver asked.

“Because I have need of a man like you.”

“And when you have no need of a man like me?”

“Then I’ll have you shot,” Najera replied, rocking with laughter. He had to spit out the bread to keep from choking. The sound of his voice alerted the other uniformed men in the courtyard, who sat up sharply and rubbed the sleep from their eyes.

Ned Tolliver was less than amused and started to voice his thoughts on the matter when Mariano Rincón entered from the street. His clothes were disheveled and stuck damply to his skin. He had ridden through three storms after leaving the foothills west of Ventana, and was nearly out on his feet from the ordeal. Yet he wavered only slightly as he approached the general’s table and saluted.

“We kept watch as you ordered,
Jefe.
There is but one vaquero to help the segundo,” Rincón said after the general gave him permission to make his report.

“As I expected,” Najera replied. “That news could have waited. You did not need to brave the storms to tell me tonight.”

“That is not why I have come,” the mestizo explained. His gaze drifted to a clay pitcher of pulque. Najera nodded his permission, and the breed grabbed the pitcher and emptied its contents down his gullet. The milky white liquor sloshed out from the corners of his mouth, dribbled down his stubbled chin, and added another layer of stains to his bedraggled attire. When he’d drained the last drop, Rincón set the pitcher aside and continued.

“The señora Quintero left this morning accompanied by the drifter who calls himself Alacron. Angel and I trailed them. It was easy enough, for the widow and her vaquero were paying more attention to the map than their back trail.”

“A map?” Najera repeated, intrigued and obviously concerned.

“Sí. And I think they found what they were looking for. A dry creekbed in the foothills of the cordillera west of the hacienda and the grazing land.” Rincón gestured toward the fried bread, and the general allowed the man to help himself. Najera found Rincón’s story most interesting. “Before heading out for Saltillo, I rode up the ridge and watched them through my spyglass. Yes, they both seemed very excited. Especially the woman. I could see Angel watching them from the trees. He chose to remain at the creek, but I thought you would want to hear about the widow’s strange behavior.”

“You have done well,” Najera remarked, sliding back in his chair and standing. He glanced around the courtyard, his expression one of blatant displeasure and concern. He seemed to look right through Ned Tolliver and Lucker Dobbs, seated across from him. Tolliver’s winnings meant nothing to the general now. Where was Marita? he wondered. Oh yes, he had sent her off to the hotel. No doubt she was waiting for him in his room. Her attentions were the last thing he needed. He must be alone, to think, to plan. The widow had found the gold. Curse Don Sebastien for leaving a map.

Valentin Najera had known it was only a matter of time before someone from the rancho, either the woman or the segundo, rode west and discovered what the shifting earth had uncovered. The general had hoped to acquire Ventana before the truth came out. Now something else would have to be done, another course followed.

“Get some rest, Rincón,” Najera said, brushing past the mestizo and heading for the hotel. Time was running out. General Arista was expecting him in Monterrey along with the nearly thousand men camped a few miles from town. Najera’s mind began to wrestle with the dilemma that would occupy his thoughts for the remainder of the night.

The general’s departure acted as a signal to the uniformed men in the courtyard that they too were free to retire. Soon, Tolliver and Dobbs were alone. Flies began to hover above the platter of fried bread. Dobbs shooed them away and tucked several of the greasy chunks in his pockets for breakfast.

“What the hell is so all-fired important about some damn creek?” Dobbs said as he emptied the platter.

“Oh, maybe what ‘some damn creek’ has washed down out of the hills,” Tolliver replied, holding up the leather pouch of nuggets recently acquired from the general. Now here was an answer Tolliver was determined to uncover. His gaze settled on the receding figure of Mariano Rincón, shambling across Market Square. “And I know just where to begin.”

Marita was confused. She knew the general, her lover, was troubled, and she wanted to help by giving herself to him. But Najera had sent her from the room. Pausing in the doorway, she looked back and saw Valentin Najera seated in a chair before the window overlooking Market Square and the night-shrouded town. The horizon flickered with lightning and the wind picked up before the approaching storm and moaned as it seeped in through a crack in the windowpane.

Najera felt her presence, yet made no overture toward the girl. He sat in his chair and studied the storm, but his mind was far removed from the marvels of nature. It was as if the ghost of Don Sebastien were reaching out from the grave and trying to thwart his ambitions. Smoke curled from the tip of a brittle-looking black cigar Najera held in his right hand. From time to time he lifted the cigar to his lips, took a slow, lazy drag and exhaled a harsh-smelling cloud that billowed up to the ceiling.

“Mi querida,”
Marita said.

“Leave me.” Najera never stirred. His voice drifted to her across a gulf the likes of which she ached to cross. But such a feat was impossible. He was the general, a man of station, and the only way to enter his world was to be invited.

“Let me be with you,
mi querida.
”

“Are you deaf as well as ignorant?”

His words bit as deep as a bullwhip. The fifteen-year-old winced and drew back into the hall, quietly closing the door as she left. Marita turned and felt her way down the darkened corridor, as some idiot had extinguished the lamps. Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist and pulled her into the bedroom across the hall and a couple of doors down from Najera’s quarters. Marita started to cry out, but a hand covered her mouth. Raúl’s voice whispered in her ear, ordering her to be quiet. The glare of lightning filled the window, enabling her to discern the gunman’s wiry torso. He had discarded his shirt. His sweaty body smelled of sage and tequila as he leaned against her, forcing the girl against the wall alongside the door. His hands cupped her breasts, then ran along her side and down to her thighs, pulling the hem of her flowery cotton dress to her waist.

“No” she whispered. But her tone was hardly convincing. Angered as she was by Najera’s treatment, the notion of giving herself to his trusted lieutenant smacked of sweet retaliation. In the past, she had teased Raúl and smiled flirtatiously whenever the general wasn’t looking. It had made her feel powerful to exert her influence over as dangerous a man as Salcedo. And though he would never be considered handsome, there was a quality Raúl possessed that Marita found attractive. The other soldiers gave him a wide berth for he was the general’s enforcer and no one wanted his kind of trouble. She resisted just long enough to preserve her dignity and then opened to him, drawing him into her, feeding on his fire and fury.

Outside the walls, the thunder rumbled. The dogs in the alleyways of Saltillo began to howl and bay. Shutters were closed with a bang and hastily latched. A storm was raging in the distance, battering the black horizons to the north and west. It would be here soon.

B
Y NOON OF THE
following day the sky over Ventana was a deep and brilliant azure and cloudless from the crest of the Cordillera to the rolling plains, with their lush carpet of pale green grasses. Standing pools of water dotted the meadow, attracting countless swarms of birds diving and swooping on wings of scarlet and blue, tufted grays and browns, borne on the spring breeze, their every movement a joyous celebration of rebirth and renewal. Sunlight turned the puddles into ponds of molten gold and warmed the earth underfoot, bringing life forth from burrow, den, and nest.

Hours earlier, in that night of storms, Josefina and the americano had returned to the warmth and safety of the hacienda. Once in the ranchyard, the couple had awkwardly bid one another a good night, then parted company, Ben to the bunkhouse and Josefina to her bedroom. Zion, waiting up by the stove in the bunkhouse, had insisted that “Señor Alacron” tell him everything that had happened and what they had found. Ben had recounted as briefly as possible all that he had seen, including the gunfight with Angel Perez, but discreetly omitted what had transpired between Josefina and himself. Whatever misgivings the segundo had felt concerning the death of Perez had been more than allayed by Ben’s description of the formerly concealed seam of gold that the collapsed cavern had revealed. Zion had dreamt of gold all that night, and by midmorning he was already organizing a plan for extracting enough of the ore to restore Ventana to its former prosperity.