Showdown (15 page)

When they were able to ride side by side, Neville said, "I didn't treat her very well."

"You did what you could. Raising a kid when you're a kid isn't easy."

"She always said I didn't take her seriously, and now that I think about it, I think she was right. I just keep thinking of all the ways I could've treated her better. I was a piss-poor brother."

Prine knew there was no point in arguing, trying to make Neville feel better. Dawn was turning out the stars. Pumas and wild dogs and wolves were waking, making growling morning noises, padding about their immediate areas searching for food. Best to listen to their voices and forget Neville. He was at the stage in his grieving where he had to be honest with himself, had to admit that the way he'd handled his sister had been wrong. She been more nuisance than sister to him, something he needed to control because it would look bad for his peacock ego if he didn't. Prine knew what he was going through. Prine was going through something of the same thing. He'd learned a lot about himself last night. Learned that his dreams of wealth and prominence were the dreams of a child, not of an adult. Maybe he could've saved Cassie's life if he hadn't been so foolish; and maybe he wouldn't have had to break Lucy's heart because he was so selfish.

"She thought a lot of you," Prine said, giving in. That's what Neville wanted to hear, and what the hell—who did it hurt to lie in this way?

"When did she tell you that?"

"The other night. After the recital."

"You're not bullshitting me?"

"Why would I bullshit you? That's what she said."

"Why was she talking about me?"

Prine shrugged. "Just talking about her life. How much she liked working at the church. And thinking about her future. And how good to her you always were."

Neville spat. "That's the kind of shit I am, Prine. I push her around the way I did and she thinks I'm treating her decently. There's going to be a special place for me in Hell, I can tell you that."

B
y full light, they could see Picaro below them. The town was girdled by deserted mines and large pieces of rusted mining equipment. There were so many failed mines just before the last recession that the equipment lost most of its value. Wasn't worth the shipping prices, given the minuscule profit the mine owners would make.

Through his field glasses, Prine could see that some of the equipment was already rusted clean through. The gear looked like giant steel animals, long dead.

The town itself looked decent enough. Several blocks of whitewashed little houses that had probably been owned by the mining company at one point. Couple churches, two long blocks of commercial buildings, a redbrick schoolhouse with an athletic field next to it, two factories, and some small stucco buildings that looked like manufacturing shops of some kind. For a town whose boom days were past, Picaro looked all right.

Neville was hiding in his silence again. Prine didn't mind. He was sleepy enough to slump in his saddle. Sometimes in the past few hours he'd felt unreal, as if he were witnessing all the events of the past thirty-six hours without participating. There was a deadness in him that precluded all feelings except fear.

He jerked awake at the outskirts of town. Some scruffy kids were splashing through the mud puddles in the road, screeching and hollering and giggling as they did so. He envied them. A pure perfect image came to him. He was eight and playing baseball with his brother in the front yard, and he had just hit a baseball farther than he ever had. And his brother, who'd never paid him much respect before—his brother's whole attitude changed right then and there. He never forgot it. His brother didn't push him around anymore. Call him names. Punish him. Prine still wasn't quite an equal, but he came damned close.

His poncho had started to dry off. He was completely sweated inside it. If they didn't have any luck here, he'd push Neville to stay over for eight hours, get some sleep, go at it fresh again. You could bet that was what Tolan and Rooney would be doing—if not here, somewhere down the line.

They went straight for the sheriff's office. A tough-looking, middle-aged Mexican in a sombrero and a serape sat on a bench outside the stucco building. His outsize badge was easy to see on the serape. So was the sawed-off shotgun laid across his lap. He was rolling a cigarette and watching them ease up to the hitching post.

"Welcome to our town, gentlemen," he said. "I'm Sheriff Gomez." He smiled with bad teeth. "If you're wondering how a Mex got to be sheriff in a white man's town . . ." There was something obscene about his laugh. "It's because the gringos are too scared to be sheriff themselves."

He finished rolling the cigarette, set it between his lips, produced a lucifer from inside his serape, and ignited it with a thumbnail. "How may I be of service?"

"We're looking for two men," Prine said.

"Your badge—these must be bad men, no?" There was a sardonic tone to his words that Prine didn't like.

"Their names are Tolan and Rooney," Neville said. "They murdered my sister." He'd clearly picked up on Gomez's sarcastic tone, too—and didn't like it. "My name's Richard Neville. If you haven't heard of me, you've heard of my father. I would recommend that you don't give me or my friend here any shit. Because if you do, I'll tear that fucking sneer off your face and then cut your heart out. You understand, amigo?"

Neville's bitter words didn't have much effect on Gomez. "Then I should be impressed and cower in fear?"

"You should do your job," Prine snapped. "We're looking for two killers, and we need to know if they've passed through your town here."

The front door of the sheriff's office opened and a man, also Mexican, emerged. He was the opposite of the other man. Tall, trim, handsome, well-dressed in a business suit, he stepped into the daylight and said, "Good morning, gentlemen. I was waiting for my stupid deputy here to explain to you his joke. I'm Marshal Valdez. This despicable creature here is my brother-in-law, whose presence has been forced upon me by familial obligations."

Gomez didn't seem the least embarrassed by this revelation. In fact, he yawned, stretched, stood up, and said "It is time for a hardworking man like me to have himself some breakfast."

"Remember what I told you about the whorehouse, Gomez," Valdez said. "If you get rough with any of the women next time you're drunk, I'll put you in jail for a week and take away your badge."

Gomez smirked. "Someday I will be wearing that badge. Then we shall see what we shall see." He made a pass at giving a bow but almost fell over on his face. For the first time, Prine realized the man was drunk. Gomez wandered off.

"Come inside, please," Marshal Valdez said, "and let me again apologize for the rudeness of Gomez. He lives inside a bottle."

The jailhouse was tidy, smelled clean, and was arranged into a front desk, two small offices in the rear, and four cells behind a locked door. The marshal's office was heavy with a large wooden desk, a bookcase filled with what appeared to be legal tomes, and a wall decorated with the minimal number of awards, citations, and photographs of the marshal shaking hands with people he obviously considered to be important. Prine didn't recognize any of them.

The marshal called out a name that seemed garbled—"Lucentia" was as close as Prine could get it—and two minutes later a fetching young girl of no more than eighteen appeared and blessed each man with a cup of steaming coffee. "My daughter, gentlemen. You can see why I am so proud of her."

The pretty girl was dressed in a white peasant blouse and skirt, looking more gypsy than Mexican. When she smiled, she also tried to speak. The sound made the back of Prine's neck freeze. She could not articulate the words she was trying to speak.

"That is our family shame," Marshal Valdez said in his formal, somewhat stiff way. "Three years ago we had some trouble here. A range war of sorts. The one side felt that I was too friendly with the other. They accused me, in fact, of being on the payroll of the other. A man in my position, he can't tolerate such slander, of course. So I myself—and my men, even Gomez—began riding against them. Since they insisted we were on the other side, then why not be on the other side. Of course, our friends were so happy to have us fight with them that they insisted we take money. Some people to this day insist that it was a bribe so that they could have the law on their side. I have tried to explain that many times to many people—that our intentions were only good and true—but you know how cynical some people can be. They're always looking for the worst in other people."

This guy had a line of bullshit that stretched clear from here to Buffalo, New York, Prine thought. He had to give him one thing, though. He was a dazzler. He could hold an audience with the best of them.

"But you are no doubt wondering what any of this has to do with my lovely daughter Lucretia. Too simple—and too tragic. They broke into our house one night. I am a widower. Lucretia was home alone. They cut her tongue out. Later, one of the men who helped to do this terrible thing, he told me that this would be worse than killing her. Because every time I looked at my daughter now, I would see what selling my badge had done. That was how the gentleman put it. 'Selling my badge.' I myself personally castrated him. I made sure that he remained conscious. Then I poured kerosene upon him and set him on fire. I did not do this to please my men. Or to appease some crowd of lowborns. I did it to avenge my daughter. I did this alone, with no one else around to see. I waited till he was nothing more than ash and bone, and then I threw him into a pit of rattlers I kept in the ground behind the jail. Sometimes prisoners do not want to talk. Showing them the snake pit can be a very effective means of making them more cooperative." He nodded to Lucretia. "This, then, is my tragic daughter."

The girl looked curiously angry as he told this story. Prine figured it must be having to relive the terrible events that led to her being mute. She'd probably appreciate it if her father wasn't always bringing it up. He'd be pissed off every time he thought of it. The girl curtsied and left the office.

Valdez got up and poured brandy from a fancy cut-glass bottle. Each cup got a strong dose of it. "The coffee is not to every palate. Jail coffee, what can you expect? The brandy is the best one can buy. It makes even this coffee bearable." Finished serving, he capped the bottle and sat down again.

"Now, gentlemen," said the splendid—just ask him—Mexican, "how is it I may serve you?"

"We're looking for two men. Tolan and Rooney are their names," Prine said.

"These are bad men?"

"Very bad men. They kidnapped Mr. Neville's sister and then murdered her."

Valdez was so dramatic in response to this news that he looked as though he might purely faint. "An outrage against all that is true and holy."

"They came this way," Prine said. "They may be in Picaro now."

The drama continued. The fabulous Mexican put his hand on his fist and shook his noble head. "It is a wonder that God above does not strike us all dead, the things we do to each other."

Prine was starting to feel faint from all the ham acting. He said, "We need your permission to look around town. We're not asking for anything official. We just want to check the hotels and the saloons, mostly."

"You do not want to use my men?"

"We don't want to signal them we're here. If your men start asking questions, it won't be long before they figure out that we're here looking for them."

"I see. A point well taken, my friend. But in such a heinous matter—I will be most cooperative in any way you suggest. And if these two should end up in my jail, I can assure you they will rot there."

Neville spoke for the first time. "We'll take them back with us to Claybank."

"Of course, whatever you wish. Cooperation is what I promised you, and cooperation is what you shall have."

Prine said, "We're pretty tired, but we're going to start looking for them right away. Then we'll get some sleep and some grub."

"Your poor sister," Valdez said. "She was young, Mr. Neville?"

"Twenty-three."

"A child—an innocent flower. These men will pay for what they've done, believe me."

"Thank you, Marshal," Neville said. "Now we need to get going."

Prine and Neville pushed up from their chairs. The brandy had made Prine groggy. He needed cold wind to cut his lethargy.

A man in a white apron over Levi's and a red wool shirt walked past the door, nodding. "Good morning, Marshal. This food is much better than they deserve."

It stood to reason that since everything else was so splendid about Marshal Valdez, his laugh would be splendid, too. On stage, it would carry well to all the highest seats in the balcony. Valdez the opera star.

"You say that every morning, Mr. Wiley."

"I say it because it's that good every morning."

Prine had the feeling that the banter was part of an entire ritual. A really boring one.

Wiley vanished. Prine heard the heavy door leading to the cells in back being opened and then closed. There would likely be a slot for food trays built into the cell doors.

"Remember, my friends, I will take every opportunity to help you."

Prine glanced at Neville. Neville looked as weary of this splendiferous speech as Prine was.