Bullets Over Bedlam (10 page)

What did he expect from this backwater shit hole? Most of the town probably had paper on them. That's why they were here. They'd sooner help the kill-crazy Apaches than any badge toters.

Flagg glanced into the mirror behind the barman's bulky frame. The old bandito, Palomar Rojas, was gone. His cigarette stub curled smoke up from a shot glass.

Flagg lowered the Remington and glanced at the other lawmen, regarding him expectantly.

“Have another round, boys. Relax.” He holstered the pistol and strode toward the door. “I'm gonna stretch my legs.”

11.

“WHAT'S YOUR NAME, MY PRETTY?”

F
LAGG pushed through the batwings and stepped onto the saloon's front stoop.

The vaqueros were gone, as were the two mixed-blood Arabian horses that had been tied to the hitch rack when Flagg and the deputies had arrived. Flagg repressed a snort. It would probably be a long time before the chilichomping waddies returned to Bedlam, after watching seven lawmen ride into town.

Both Mexicans had had “long looper” written all over their sunburnt features and brush-torn clothes. They probably hazed beef back and forth across the border in small herds that, at the end of the year, added up to droves.

Flagg looked up the street to his left, then to his right.

Just beyond the fountain standing sentinel over the town's shabby main square, a stocky gent in a low-crowned sombrero was riding out of town on either a big horse or a mule—it was hard to tell which from this distance. Flagg could tell from the slumped shoulders and the old hat, however, that the rider was Palomar Rojas.

As the man's retreating back was hidden by the dry, concrete fountain between him and Flagg, the marshal stepped into the street, again bringing Rojas's slouched figure into view until the old bandito's mount rose to the crest of a rocky rise then disappeared down the other side.

Flagg scratched his dusty beard, then slipped his steeldust's reins from the hitch rack and swung into the saddle. He turned the horse into the street. Door hinges creaked behind him.

Hand slapping his Remington's grips, he turned to see a girl standing in the doorway of a small general merchandise shop sitting kitty-corner to the saloon. A pretty, brown-eyed girl with thick black hair piled atop her head. She wore a white dress with a red sash around her waist, and a low-crowned straw sombrero, the leather thong sagging beneath her chin. She'd been laughing, her sparkling eyes and dimpled cheeks accenting the heart-wrenching beauty. But when she'd seen Flagg, her eyes flicking to the badge on his vest, the laughter began fading from her face, a cloud scudding over the sun.

Inside the shop, a woman was speaking ebulliently in Spanish. A face appeared over the girl's right shoulder—the broad, flat face of a much older Mexican woman wearing a long green apron, a pencil stuck behind her left ear. When the woman's eyes met Flagg's, she fell silent, glowering, placing one hand on the girl's shoulder. The woman's lips moved, but Flagg couldn't hear what she said.

Flagg smiled, dropping his gaze over the girl's large-breasted figure, down to the bare legs and feet, smooth and brown. Comely Mexican lass. Odd, finding such beauty in a place like this. A single rose in a dung-splotched desert.

It was said that Hawk had an eye for beauty. If so, he'd certainly had a look at this girl. Maybe he'd done more than just look.

Something to keep in mind.

The marshal pinched his hat brim and spurred the steeldust westward, turning left around the fountain.

On the other side of the fountain, he glanced back. The girl had moved out from the shop and was angling northeast across the street, her head turned to regard the six sweaty, dusty horses tied to the hitch rack fronting the saloon.

Flagg turned forward and heeled the steeldust into a trot.

When the town's shacks had receded behind him, the trail narrowed to a single, rock-strewn track twisting amidst boulders and brown desert scrub. To his left was the river and an old smelter and stamping mill. The buildings' plank siding shone warped and sun-blistered against the stark, brown hills rising on the other side of the stream.

Flagg halted the steeldust and looked around for Rojas.

A din rose on his right. He turned to see a flock of blackbirds, winged shadows against the copper-colored mountainside, fly up from a large, lightning-split pine. A wide wagon trail was cut into the side of the mountain, switchbacking through cedars at a forty-five-degree angle. A rider moved out from behind the lightning-split pine.

Rojas on a dirty cream mule.

Probably heading back to his mountain hideaway. Flagg and the other lawmen had probably given him a good scare.

The marshal let his eyes range along the side of the mountain looming above the village, his gaze shuttling back and forth along the ridge. After a time, he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the early evening glare.

About halfway up the mountain, nestled amidst pines and boulders, a red-tiled roof shone brightly. Flagg stared, squinting.

Beneath the red smudge of the tiles, bulky white walls appeared. It looked like a toy house from this distance, but a house just the same. The switchbacking trail led into the yard.

Flagg stared at the house and the trail, his gray brows wrinkled. A grand house for such an old, used-up reprobate like Palomar Rojas.

Curious despite himself, Flagg gigged the steeldust forward, then turned off the path and onto the road angling up the mountain. He'd climbed for fifteen minutes when he came to a sharp horseshoe curve overlooking a shallow canyon and offering a view of the house perched on a wide, sparsely forested shelf on the ravine's other side, about two hundred feet above the curve.

Flagg hid his horse in boulders several yards down the trail. He grabbed his field glasses from his saddlebags, then scrambled onto a rocky scarp rising over the canyon, sheathed in cedars and Spanish bayonet. Crouched low atop the scarp and concealed by the brush, Flagg doffed his hat, raised the glasses, and adjusted the focus.

The hacienda swam into view, framed by ponderosa pines and pepper and almond trees, and wedged back against the mountainside like one of those rock dwellings Flagg had seen, built by ancient Indians. This place was elaborate, but its cracked adobe walls and the general forlorn look of the place bespoke the time since a more prosperous era.

Still, a good hideout. High ground with plenty of cover, easily defended.

Flagg waited fifteen minutes before a shadow flicked through the trees to the left of the hacienda. Rojas and his cream mule rode into the yard before the low adobe wall surrounding the house. The Mexican sat his saddle, holding his hands in the air. Flagg couldn't tell—he was too far away, and Rojas faced the house—but he thought the man's head was bobbing, his jaws moving.

Finally, a shutter in one of the upper-story windows opened. A man hiked a leg up on the ledge. A big, well-put-together hombre. Even from a half mile away, Flagg could make out the square jaw and handsome features, the thick, dark-brown hair swept back from a widow's peak.

Hawk sat there casually, leg stretched out before him, resting a rifle across his thigh. He wasn't wearing a shirt. His broad chest was encircled by a bandage, the white cloth standing out against the dark skin.

Flagg's heart hammered and his hands shook so that the glasses bobbed, obscuring the image. Finally, Hawk flicked a hand out, waving dismissively, then dropped his leg from the window ledge, retreated inside, and closed the shutter over the casing.

As Rojas turned the mule and started back the way he'd come, Flagg lowered the glasses. His heart fluttered in his chest. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead.

He swallowed a dry knot in his throat.

He scuttled back from the scarp, stood, and scrambled back to his horse, turning it onto the trail and heading back down the mountain.

Ten minutes later, he galloped past the dry stone fountain. The deputies had heard him coming, and had gathered on the saloon's front stoop, holding beer mugs and shot glasses.

Flagg halted the steeldust before them, his dust catching up to him, the deputies squinting against it.

“Round up everyone in town,” Flagg ordered. “I want every soul left in Bedlam right here in front of the saloon in fifteen minutes!”

The deputies looked at each other skeptically.

“Move!” Flagg barked, leaning out from his saddle, jutting his red face toward the deputies.

They jerked into motion, setting their drinks on the boardwalk and then striding swiftly into the street, casting wary glances at Flagg as they split up and headed toward the private dwellings in the brush and boulders behind the shops.

When they'd gone, Flagg dismounted, tied his horse to the hitch rack, adjusted his gun belt on his hips, and strode through the batwings. He stopped two feet inside the room, resting his hands on the doors.

The beefy bartender stood behind the bar, both fists on the polished counter. From beneath his shaggy brows he regarded Flagg. Flagg stared back at him, his mustache upturned in an icy smile.

The lawman sauntered across the room and placed his gloved hands on the bar top. “You lied to me, Mr. . . .”

“Baskin. Leo Baskin.”

“You lied to me, Mr. Baskin.”

Baskin pursed his lips, hiked a shoulder. “Why not leave him alone? I mean, the man does the job of a whole army, and he doesn't waste time with . . .” The man's sentence trailed off as he looked around for the right words.

“Justice?” Flagg said.

“The men he kills don't deserve justice.”

When Flagg just stared at him with eyes like flint, Baskin added, “Come on—you boys are just piss-burned 'cause he's a better lawman.”

Flagg's right hand shot up, grabbed the crown of the barman's head, and slammed his face down on the bar top.

It made a soggy smack and snap.

Wailing savagely, the barman lifted his head. His crushed nose sprayed blood, painting his apron. While his left hand grabbed the nose, impeding the blood flow, his right hand pulled a Navy Colt from under the bar. As he raised the pistol at Flagg, Flagg grabbed the gun with his right hand, jerked it from the yowling barman's grip, and smashed it against the side of the barman's head, laying open his ear.

Clutching his nose with one hand, his ear with the other, the barman stumbled back, cursing loudly and dropping to his knees. Flagg grabbed a whiskey bottle and a clean glass, then turned and strode over to a table near the window.

He set the bottle and the glass on the table, kicked out a chair, sat down, and splashed whiskey into his glass. He lifted the glass to his lips, froze, and stared at the hand holding the glass. It shook.

Flagg scowled, threw back the whiskey, poured another drink, dug a half-smoked cheroot from his vest pocket, and fired it.

He'd finished the cheroot and had thrown back three more shots when angry Spanish voices rose from the street. Out the dusty window before the saloon, a small crowd had gathered.

Boots pounded on the boardwalk, and the batwings squawked. Bill Houston poked his head into the saloon, turned toward Flagg while chewing a cold cigarette. “The town council is now in session, Marshal.”

Flagg threw back another half shot of whiskey, and rose. He adjusted the tilt of his hat, the position of his cartridge belt on his lean hips, then headed for the door.

In the dusty street, less than a dozen Mexicans had gathered. They were talking in angry, hushed voices while the deputies stood around looking officious and holding their rifles across their chests.

The group was mostly old Mexican women in sackcloth dresses and rope sandals. A small boy buried his head in a middle-aged woman's skirt. Three old men in straw sombreros and serapes stood to one side, one smoking a corncob pipe and holding a small puppy in his arms, the puppy chewing at his gnarled, tobacco-stained fingers.

The girl Flagg had seen earlier stood with a full-hipped, black-haired old crone, who wore a bloodstained, feather-spattered apron. The crone's hands were bloody and tufted with chicken feathers. Her milky black eyes blazed at Flagg, her right shoulder shielding the pretty, full-bosomed girl.

Dipping his fingers into his vest pockets, Flagg strode into the street. He stopped before the group, cast his implacable stare across the frightened faces.

He let time stretch. “Anyone here speak English?”

No one said anything.

Flagg stepped over to the old man holding the dog. He patted the pup's head, smiling. He pinched the dog's right ear. It yipped and shook its head, tiny ears flapping. The old man slid his hand over the dog's head protectively and stepped back, glaring at Flagg over his pipe.

The marshal looked around the group of sullen, brown-eyed faces regarding him with fear and anger. His gaze stopped on the girl. He walked to her. The old woman grabbed the girl's arm and regarded Flagg with pursed lips, her eyes blazing even more than before.

Ignoring the crone, Flagg stared hard at the girl. She let her eyes flicker across his badge before dropping her gaze to the street.

With two fingers of his right hand, Flagg lifted her chin until the lustrous brown eyes met his. The eyes crinkled slightly at the corners with defiance.

“What's your name, my pretty?”

12.

PALOMAR ROJAS

W
HEN the girl merely stared up at him sharply, silently, Flagg squeezed her chin between his thumb and index finger. Too many
norteamericanos
had once lived in Bedlam for her not to have picked up some English. His lips quivered inside his beard as he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low with menace.

“I asked you a question.”

The girl's eyes darkened, the lids lowering slightly. She hesitated, then, just above a whisper, “Juliana Velasquez.”

Flagg eased his grip on her chin and smiled with self-satisfaction. Behind him rose the clomp of shod hooves. He turned to see Palomar Rojas riding slowly around the fountain. The old bandito sat the saddle stiffly, head tilted to one side, staring apprehensively at the small crowd gathered in the street before the saloon.

Flagg turned back to Juliana Velasquez, smiled his dull smile, released her chin, and took two steps back away from her. He turned to Rojas, who'd halted his mule in the street about twenty yards beyond the saloon, regarding the gringo lawmen darkly. He ran a gnarled, brown finger absently across his mustache, as if reconsidering how badly he needed another drink.

“Ah, Senor Rojas,” Flagg said. “You've arrived just in time!”

Rojas said nothing. His dirty cream mule shook its head, dust puffing from its mane.

Again dipping his hands into his vest pockets, Flagg strode slowly toward the one-eyed bandito, who watched him darkly, occasionally casting a skeptical glance at the other lawmen and the other Mexicans forming a loose group in the street.

Flagg stopped just ahead and to the left of Rojas's mule. “I was just about to inform the good citizens of Bedlam what would happen if I caught them fraternizing with a criminal.”

Rojas stared at Flagg, his lips bunched tightly, shoulders slumped beneath his serape. His scarred, bearded face was shaded by his broad-brimmed sombrero, its crown decorated with a dried hawk's foot.

The old bandito placed his right hand on his chest and said in Spanish, “Are you talking to me, senor?”

Flagg chuckled and glanced at the other lawmen standing sentinel over the crowd, rifles in their hands.

“Who else would he be talkin' to?” said Press Miller, standing with his legs spread wide near the horses tied to the hitch rack.

The bandito looked at Flagg. “I am Frederico Alvarez, senor. It is a case of mistaken identity, I think.” He flicked a hand to the villagers still standing tensely before the saloon. “What do you seek with the good people of Bedlam, senor? As you can see, they are all old or very young . . .”

“We seek the man you just visited, you old reprobate. The man you alerted to our presence here.” Flagg walked toward Rojas, one hand on his Remington's grip. “Now, climb down out of that saddle and take your lickin' like a man.”

When Flagg was two steps from Rojas, the old bandit jerked to life. He lifted his serape with one hand while the other grabbed the old, .36-caliber Colt from the shoulder holster hanging beneath his left armpit. He'd no more than gotten his finger through the trigger guard, however, before Flagg reached up and closed his left hand over the gun. He gave it a savage wrench.

Rojas yowled a Spanish epithet and tumbled down over his right stirrup, Flagg twisting the pistol free of his hand a quarter second before the bandito hit the ground.

“Bastardo!”
Rojas cried, his prunelike face etched with pain, dust puffing around him.

Flagg swung a boot up, slamming the toe under the old man's chin and throwing him straight back in the dirt. Rojas grunted as his head hit the street.

He snarled and writhed like a trapped animal. Blood trickling out one corner of his mouth, he lifted his head and rose onto his elbow, slitting his lone eye at Flagg.

“All right, lawman. Okay, uh? You have finally caught up to me after all these years.” His lips spread, the sneer showing his bloody teeth. “Pin a medal on your chest.”

Flagg tossed away the man's pistol and stared down at him, his chest rising and falling sharply, his face like granite. “Get up.”

Breathing hard, the old bandito got his legs under him. His sombrero hanging down his back, blood dribbling down his gray-bristled chin, he stood with a wince, then assumed a fighter's stance before Flagg. The black patch covered only part of his empty eye socket.

Rojas balled his bony, brown, liver-spotted fists, anger glinting in his washed-out eye. He stepped sideways, and there was a little of the young
charro
in the old man's bearing.

Flagg stepped toward him and swung his right fist. Just before the fist could connect with the bandito's jaw, Rojas ducked. Flagg's fist whistled in the air over the old man's head.

As Flagg recovered from the wild punch, Rojas rammed his right fist into Flagg's belly. Flagg grunted. He grunted again as the old bandito landed a left in the same place.

The jabs had little power behind them, but surprise glittered in Flagg's flinty eyes. Rojas stepped back, grinning as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and adjusted his eye patch. Behind him, the villagers watched with wary fascination, a couple of the old men looking amused, hopeful.

Flagg returned his gaze to Rojas feinting around before him. The marshal raised his fists higher, moved his left foot forward, swung his right fist at Rojas's face. As the old bandito feinted, Flagg pulled back his right fist and jabbed with his left.

The old bandito's slow feint had moved his chin into the path of Flagg's jab. The fist connected soundly with Rojas's right cheekbone. The bandito jerked back, nearly falling, throwing his arms out for balance, his eye flickering shock.

Behind him, the other old Mexicans winced, as if they themselves had taken the blow.

Flagg smiled, stepped forward again, his right fist connecting with Rojas's jaw. The old man gave an indignant curse as he twisted around and fell on his chest. Wasting little time, his eyes pinched with anger, Flagg bent down and pulled the old man up with both hands.

“You're not finished yet, Palomar,” Flagg muttered. “I've waited a long time for this.”

When Rojas had his feet under him, Flagg hit him again with his right fist. As Rojas's head snapped sideways, Flagg hit him with his left.

The old man fell straight back, arms thrown out to both sides.

Flagg moved toward him, stood over him as the cursing bandito turned onto his belly, then shoved up on his hands and knees. Rojas looked up at Flagg, his cheeks and lips torn and bloody. Breathing hard, his hair curling over his forehead and nose, he grinned.

Flagg glanced at Bill Houston standing to the right of the villagers, one elbow propped on a hay cart, his rifle resting on a shoulder as he watched the spectacle with sheepish fascination.

All the other lawmen, except Hound-Dog Tuttle, had turned away and were watching the villagers, rifles extended.

“Bill,” Flagg said, “would you say this man is resisting arrest?”

Houston hiked a shoulder. “ 'Pears that way to me, Marshal. Wouldn't you agree, Hound-Dog?”

Hound-Dog stared at the old bandito wheezing in the street, and shook his head sadly. “Some just don't listen to reason.”

Flagg swung his right foot back, then brought it forward, planting the toe in Rojas's flat belly.

“Uhh!” the Mexican cried as he flew back in the street.

Several of the horses at the hitch rack turned to see what the commotion was about. Press Miller and Hound-Dog Tuttle chuckled.

Flagg stepped toward Rojas, who lay belly down in the street, his back rising and falling sharply.

Flagg looked toward the villagers gathered twenty yards away. The girl had moved out in front of the old crone with the bloody apron. The crone had grabbed her arm and was castigating her loudly in Spanish. The girl stared at Flagg, her eyes bright with beseeching.

The puppy yipped and squirmed in the hands of the old villager with the corncob pipe. The dog suddenly broke free of the old man's grip. It leapt to the ground, ran across the street, and disappeared through a gap between two abandoned shops.

The corners of Flagg's mouth turned up, and his deep-set eyes softened with satisfaction.

He bunched his lips, swung his right boot back, and rammed it forward, burying the toe in the old man's rib cage. The air burst from Rojas's lungs with a loud, “Huh-ah!”

When he'd rolled completely over, sighing and gurgling, Flagg kicked him again, then two more times, hearing the ribs snap.

“B-bastardo . . .”
The old man wheezed, blood frothing from his lips.

Finally, the marshal picked him up, steadied him with one hand gripping his serape. Rojas hung like a scarecrow before him, head lolling on his shoulders.

“What's that, Rojas? You say you haven't had enough?”

Eyes glistening with savage fury, Flagg glanced at the villagers. Several of the women had turned away. The young boy cried with his face buried in his mother's skirt. The old men looked grim. The girl stared as before, eyes etched with horror and pleading.

Flagg returned his gaze to Rojas and, bunching his lips, drove a savage haymaker against the old man's left cheek with a solid smack.

Flagg released the old man's poncho. Rojas's knees buckled. He sagged to the street and fell backward, his legs curling beneath him. He lay still, eyelid fluttering, breath whistling through his shattered teeth.

His chest rising and falling, Flagg stared down at the broken bandito. Finally, he walked over to the girl. She stared at Rojas, her eyes shiny with tears.

“You tell the others that if they have any more contact with Hawk . . . if they try to help him in any way . . . the same thing will happen to them.” He grabbed the girl's chin, tipped her head back to stare into her eyes. “Man, woman, boy, or
girl
. Understand?”

The girl's eyes hardened.

Flagg squeezed her chin until she winced. Eyes shifting away from him, she nodded. Flagg dropped his hand. She turned to the crowd and, hanging her head, muttered the warning in Spanish before pushing through the crowd and walking eastward along the street.

The others watched her for a time. Then, casting anxious looks at Flagg and the unconscious Rojas, they slowly dispersed and began shuffling back to their homes. The old crone with the bloody apron crossed herself and set off after the girl.

Flagg turned to the other lawmen, who'd gathered around him, watching the villagers disappearing into the quickly falling night shadows.

Houston said, “What next, Marshal?”

Flagg turned to peer along the trail rising beyond the fountain. “Stable the horses and spread out. Each take a roof top and don't plan on getting any sleep tonight.”

“You think he'll come to us?” Miller said, skeptical.

“Now that he knows we're here, you bet I do. Patience isn't one of his virtues.”

When the others had drifted off to take up their positions, Flagg continued to stare along the western trail, quickly fading as the night slid down from the ridges and the first stars kindled.

He fished a cheroot from his shirt pocket, bit off an end, stuck it into his mouth, and fired a match.

Puffing smoke, he glanced at Rojas, still lying motionless on his back. The man's breath sounded like a breeze in dry grass, the blood on his face glistening in the last light.

Flagg turned, mounted the boardwalk, and pushed through the batwings. The saloon was dark and empty. No sign of the barman.

Flagg grabbed his whiskey bottle, then sat at a table in the right rear corner. He set his revolver on the table before him and poured himself a drink.

 

An hour later, on the dark street, Palomar Rojas opened his eye. Gradually, he straightened his legs, wincing and grunting with the effort and at the pain in his cracked ribs.

Blood had dried on his face, making a gummy crust in the corners of his mouth. His head throbbed wickedly, and he squinted his eye against it.

With great effort, taking pinched breaths to keep his ribs from screaming and sending a red haze before his retina, he turned over onto his belly and heaved up on his hands and knees. He grimaced as pain lanced his battered head and nausea rolled through him.

Through a haze of blurred memories, he remembered Flagg tossing away his .36 Colt. He looked around for it, but the street was too dark—there was only a sickly looking light in the saloon's front window—and he couldn't see much of anything but a few nearby horse plops and strewn hay. Behind him loomed the stone fountain.

Again wincing as pain lanced his skull and tore through his ribs, Rojas put one hand and knee in front of the other and crawled toward the saloon.

He arrived at the west end of the saloon's front stoop after nearly two minutes of painful crabbing through the dry dust and manure. At the near corner, he paused and took as deep a breath as he could endure. Then he grunted as he started out again, moving through the small stones, brush, and scattered trash along the warehouse's west side.

Goatheads and sharp pebbles poked his hands and knees, but the pricks were mere annoyances compared to the misery in the rest of him.

A breeze gusted, blowing grit in his eye. Somewhere, an unlatched door tapped its frame. Ahead, two tiny copper lights blazed, then slid to the left as the cat bounded off behind a stable.

Breath whistling through his broken teeth, Rojas crawled around behind the saloon, swinging wide of a woodpile and a privy. Just beyond, four log brush-roofed cribs crouched in the brush and scrub oaks—whores' cribs left over from the boom, when they were occupied every night, with drunk miners lined up in the alley outside, smoking and waiting their turn with Rosa or Maggie or Lorelei or Kate.