Catlow (1963) (14 page)

Ben Cowan returned to his room in the Arcadia to change his clothes for the ball. He was combing his hair in front of the mirror, thinking about the evening ahead of him. Only once before had he been to such a ball as he expected this to be, and that had been at the Governor's mansion in Austin.

He sat down on the bed and polished his boots as best he could, then swung his cartridge belt around his waist and drew it several notches tighter than he usually wore it, so it would ride higher.

As he was holstering his six-gun Recalde entered. "You are carrying a gun tonight?" he said, amused. "At the General's ball there will scarcely be use for it."

"I wouldn't feel at home without it. And a man never knows what'll happen."

Recalde sat down, easing his wounded leg out before him. He leaned his cane against the side of the chair. "After all, amigo, the pack train does not even arrive until tomorrow."

Ben Cowan slid into his black coat and Recalde watched him, smiling. "I can see you will make hearts flutter tonight," the Mexican said. "You have no idea how much interest you have created in Hermosillo. After all, it is a small town, and we have few strangers here--fewer still who are friends of the General."

"Of yours, you mean."

"Of the General's also. You would be surprised, but he has spoken of you several times. He even asked me to speak to you about joining him in the army. You would be an officer, and the General is close to the President. It might mean a very quick success for you."

"I'm not cut out for a soldier," Cowan replied. "I'm too damned independent. I like to go my own way, figure things out for myself. I think the General has plenty of savvy, and I'd not mind serving with him ... but it might be I'd be serving with some armchair soldier. No, I'm better off as I am."

"He will regret your decision." Recalde used his cane to rise. "Let us go."

A carriage awaited them. Ben Cowan felt odd, riding in the open carriage, but he saw several like it, all polished and bright, hurrying toward the huge old building where the ball was to be held. It was not often such a thing happened in a provincial town like Hermosillo, and the senoritas were in from all the haciendas for miles around.

As their carriage took its turn around the Plaza, which all the carriages seemed to be doing, Ben Cowan glanced up the dark street where the leather shop stood. All was dark and still.

The night was cool after the heat of the day, and it was pleasant riding about the Plaza behind the driver who sat on a high seat in front of them. People bowed and smiled, speaking to Recalde, and glancing curiously at him.

Young Captain Recalde was not only an unusually handsome man, but he had wealth and tradition behind him. Ben Cowan could guess that not a few of those at the ball tonight were going to be looking hopefully in his direction. For young men of family, from the capital, rarely had occasion to visit Hermosillo.

"Vargas will not like to miss this," Recalde commented; "he fancies himself in love. I happen to know he has been writing notes and smuggling them secretly to Rosita Calderon--only it is the worst-kept secret in town."

Ben Cowan smiled in the darkness. It was much the same On both sides of the border. A man would make an unholy fool of himself over a pretty girl--but that was the privilege of any young man, and they all had to do it once or twice.

"He's the man in command?"

"Yes ... and a good soldier, but impatient."

They drove at last to the ball, and Ben Cowan decided it was worth it. He had never seen so many really beautiful women ... dark, flashing eyes that glanced at him from behind their fans ... here and there a red-head or even a blonde among all those with dark hair.

Recalde was looking romantically pale from his recent wounds, and he was very smart in his uniform a-glitter with braid and decorations.

Ben sat down beside him and they talked as the people entered and moved about the room. Recalde kept up a running comment. "Now that one"--he indicated with an inclination of his head a tall young girl with large, melting dark eyes--"her father has more cattle on his ranch than there is in your whole state of New Mexico ... right at this time, at least. But she is too--shall we say--intelligent. She has nothing to do on that ranch, so she reads ... she thinks, also. It is dangerous in a woman."

Ben Cowan glanced at her again. She was not exactly beautiful, but she was very striking. Later, when he danced with her, she said, "You are the friend of Captain Recalde? He is handsome, your friend, but he believes every girl wishes to marry him." She laughed suddenly, with genuine amusement, and looked at Ben, her eyes smiling. "And you know? He is right. They all wish it."

"You too?"

"I scarcely know him, but I do not think he will want a wife like me." She gave Ben a direct, friendly glance that he liked. "I ride the range with my father, you know ... sometimes without him. It is not considered the thing to do.

"And I read books. Most young men wish their wives to be beautiful, but complacent--and not too bright, I am afraid."

"I think Recalde should have a wife such as you," Ben said. "I know he wishes for a career in government, and an intelligent wife could help him."

"It is an American viewpoint."

He glanced at her, suddenly embarrassed. "You know, I did not get your name."

"I am Rosita Calderon."

He was startled. This was the girl with whom Captain Vargas was in love--or with whom he fancied himself in love. Suddenly, the thought of Vargas worried him. Did Vargas know about this ball? If so, he must be frustrated at not being present ... surely, he would know that Rosita Calderon would be here.

By this time he would not be too many miles from Hermosillo....

"Excuse me," he said suddenly, brusquely, "I must go."

He was almost running when he reached the head of the steps. Recalde called out to him, but he did not stop.

He plunged down the steps and out into the street. The long row of waiting carriages stood on the far side under the trees, and several of the drivers were together in a group, talking. They looked around at him, surprised at his sudden appearance. There was no one else in sight.

Swiftly, he ran to the corner and looked down the street toward the barracks and the courtyard. A sentry stood on guard at the entrance. Ben went toward him.

He spoke quickly in Spanish. "Have you seen the--"

He heard the light, quick step behind him and started to turn. Something crashed down hard across his skull and he slumped forward, fighting to keep on his feet. He fell against the side of the building and tried to turn, but another Blow felled him into the street.

He smelled the dust ... and there was blood too. His blood.

A hand grasped his collar and he was dragged around the corner. Somebody was swearing.

A voice said: "Who is it?"

"That damn' marshal friend of Catlow's."

"To hell with him."

There was a momentary silence. Then someone said, "With Catlow too."

Another silence, and then the first voice spoke again. "Everything in its time, my friend. But we understand each other, no?"

Ben heard, but he could not act. He could not even think. He had no will to act, to think, even to try to move. He simply lay still, and then after a while he was conscious of nothing at all ... nothing.

Diego Recalde stood up with an effort. After sitting, his leg became stiff, and it was difficult to handle himself with ease. His doctor had told him emphatically that he must not come out tonight, but Diego Recalde had already been planning which of his dress uniforms he would wear.

Now he glanced toward the door. Ben had left suddenly at least a half hour ago, and he had not come back. It was not like him to do such a thing.

Limping, Recalde crossed the room to Rosita Calderon. She turned to meet him, smiling a little. "You have waited a long time to speak to me, Diego," she said. "Are you still frightened of me?"

"Who is frightened?" She was lovely, he admitted, and there was a frankness about her that he liked. Came from riding around like a boy, or maybe from that American cousin she had--a cousin by marriage, at least. What was his name? Sackett, or something like that. Lived in New Mexico.

"What did you say to my friend? To Benito? He left here as if you had insulted him."

"Do women insult men? I think not until they know them better than I know him. No, he just left suddenly--and rudely."

"You said nothing to him?"

She frowned. "Nothing ... unless he does not like my name. When we were introduced he did not hear it, I suppose, and he asked me what it was. I told him, and he ran away."

"I cannot ask you to dance," Recalde said then. "You see I was--"

"I know, and I am sorry."

He frowned, worrying over Ben Cowan's sudden departure.

"You told him your name, you say? That would scarcely have meant anything to him. Why, I mentioned you this evening, and he did not seem to have ever heard the name."

Still puzzled, he glanced across the room to where General Armijo was talking casually with a white-haired man, Don Francisco Vargas.

"Vargas!"

He wheeled suddenly, forgetting his leg, and fell flat upon his face as it gave way under him.

"General!" he shouted. "The pack train!"

Chapter
Sixteen.

Bijah Catlow's note, written by Christina and signed with the name of Rosita Calderon, reached Rafael Vargas as swiftly as a rider could take it, and Vargas reacted as Catlow had expected.

Excited at the prospect of seeing the girl who had seemed uninterested until now, and of dancing with her, Vargas had driven the pack train at a fast pace over trails where normally they would have plodded. Surely, General Armijo would be pleased to have him arrive sooner than expected.

Up and down the column Vargas rode, urging the muleteers to greater speed. Impatient at the slowness of the exhausted mules, he wished to ride on, leaving the train to follow, but he was wise enough to realize the General would not be pleased at that.

When finally they arrived in Hermosillo the streets were dark and silent. The soldiers, who had been kept alert for a time by their swift ride, now felt its effects, and weariness came over them; they thought of nothing but their barracks, a hot meal, and bed. Sagging in the saddle, half asleep, they rode into the courtyard, and Vargas swung from the saddle, turning to his second in command.

"Lieutenant," he said to Fernandes, "see to the unloading and storage of the cargo, then bring the keys to me. I want a guard posted at once, subject to removal only on orders from General Armijo."

He turned swiftly, and a man stepped from the darkness of a doorway. A gun in the hands of Rio Bray shocked him into his first realization that he had walked into a trap.

Rosita Calderon was forgotten; the distant strains of dance music seemed to come from another world. The courtyard was silent and dark, but he could see clearly enough to make out that his men were being disarmed and backed to the wall.

Everything moved swiftly. The mules were turned toward the gate, the disarmed soldiers marched to the guardhouse.

Captain Rafael Vargas was a brave man. He was also a sensible one--up to a point. With a shock of cold realization, he knew the note for what it was--a trick. Rosita Calderon had not changed, and he had been betrayed. Mexico was about to be robbed.

Somebody stepped up behind him and a hand unsnapped the flap of his holster. Vargas whipped around like a cat, knocking away the grasping hand, and drew his pistol.

A blow staggered him, and then a gun muzzle was thrust under his heart. Something exploded there, and Vargas turned, squeezing off a wild, futile shot that lost itself in the earth at his feet, and then he fell.

Bijah Catlow rushed up, the taste of anger bitter in his mouth. He stared down at the dead man. It was bad--he had hoped to kill no one.

"Get going!" he said to Bray. "There's no time!"

Catlow had no idea that riding the saddle of a captured horse was the one man he did not want anywhere around ... Ben Cowan.

Ben Cowan was unconscious. He had fought against the wave of darkness creeping over him, but had lost the fight. Tied now in the saddle, his body bobbed with the movement of the horse. Pesquiera had wanted to knife him, but Rio Bray had ruled against it. "You don't know Catlow," he said. "I'd never want to be the man who killed Ben Cowan."

As the men moved up the dark street, Pesquiera rode in beside Catlow. "The cellar!" he said, sharply.

"No."

"They will never find us there!"

"If they don't find us on the trails they will go through this town like it has never been gone through before. They would find us--and the gold."

But Catlow was not altogether sure of that. He was sure, though, that once that gold got into Pesquiera's secret cellar, it would never get out. He was equally sure that the Mexican had no intention for it ever to get away from Hermosillo.

Nor for them to get away, for that matter. A little poison in their food--and they would have nowhere else to get food-- and it would be an end to them. That ancient cellar could conceal bodies as well as gold, as no doubt it had.