Deadfall (21 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

Henry Ellis was seated in the
hacienda
's dining room at the foot of a very long table with chairs for twenty-two people. The table had been set for two—one setting at each end. Several guards, one on either side of the boy, were there to prevent his running off if he felt so inclined.

Occupying the large chair at the other end of the table—across the expanse of burning candles set out on the highly polished wood—was Don Sebastian. He was dressed in fine gentlemanly attire, and he was looking intently at Henry Ellis at the table's other end.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” the boy asked.

“I'm not staring at you, Chico . . . I am merely observing.”

“Well, whatever you're doing, it makes me uncomfortable,” said the boy. “I just wish you wouldn't do it.”

The Don chuckled; he looked beyond the table and snapped his fingers.

Faster than anything the boy had ever seen before, what appeared to be a hoard of waiters entered the room from the large doors to the side of them, then began placing any number of steaming bowls and platters on the table between the two. When the waiters had concluded their delivery of the food, they stood at attention—five on either side of the table, waiting for the Don's command to begin serving.

“Are you expecting more guests, Don Sebastian?” asked Henry Ellis.

“No, Chico,” said the Don. “It is just the two of us. I'd like to get to know you a little better, that is why.”

“No other reasons?” asked the boy.

“I have reasons, Chico,” answered the Don. “I will tell you all about them at a later time. Now . . . shall we eat?”

He nodded to the servants.

With that gesture, the waiters picked up the platters and bowls again and, progressing in a wide, oval rotation, they moved around the table, stopping at Don Sebastian's place—sitting at one end of the table, while at the same time another was halting at the boy's place—sitting at the other end. They presented the platters and bowls to the Don and Henry Ellis before ladling whatever the serving dishes contained onto the proper plate, saucer, cup, or bowl.

When the serving was over, a man with a wine bottle uncorked the container and poured a sample into the Don's silver chalice. He lifted the container to his lips and took some of the liquid into his mouth, swishing it around, then spitting into a special bowl provided by another servant.

“Bring another bottle,” the Don said in Spanish.

The waiter took the first bottle away and was met by another server who had uncorked a new bottle. He then went through the same procedure with the Don's wine tasting as the previous waiter had done.

“Ahh, perfection,” said the Don as he indicated the boy at the far end of the table. “Will you join me, Chico?”

“Thank you, but no, sir,” said the boy. “I'm not old enough to consume alcoholic beverages just yet. Do you have any milk? . . . I prefer it cold.”

The Don threw a look to the headwaiter; the man nodded, then left the room.

“I hope you find everything else agreeable to your palate?” said Don Sebastian.

“It looks like it'll all be really good,” said Henry Ellis.

“Then, go ahead, my son . . . please . . . enjoy your meal.”

 

 

Charley, Fuerte, and the boy's parents sat around the campfire beside the road that would lead them back to the
hacienda
—they were drinking coffee.

Roscoe, Holliday, and Feather were farther down a slight incline, kneeling beside a small creek and washing the tin plates and scrubbing pans. Kelly and Rod were helping them by drying the plates and other utensils.

Sergeant Stone and Mitch Pennell were sitting side by side on their bedrolls, reloading cartridges for everyone.

Pennell yelled across to Charley, “Do you reckon we'll be using more brass than we used before, Charley?”

“Probably not,” the ex-Ranger answered. “But you two keep reloading, just in case. Better to have more ammunition than not enough. And that's a fact!”

“When we stop to pick up my toolboxes,” said the sergeant, “I'll feel a lot more comfortable.”

“I'll be a lot more comfortable, too, when I find out just what's in those toolboxes,” said Pennell.

Rod and Kelly were climbing up the steep slope beside the sergeant, coming back from the creek. They were all drying their hands on the same dishtowel.

As they got to the top, Rod said, “Why don't you tell 'em what it is you have in those boxes. At least tell 'em what's in that one box that looked familiar to me. Maybe everyone'll feel more comfortable if they know.”

Sergeant Stone turned toward Charley, who was still sitting beside the fire.

“Do you want me to do that, Mr. Sunday?” said the sergeant. “Or do you want me to continue keeping it a secret?”

“Go ahead, Sergeant,” said Charley. “It won't hurt anything now if they know.”

“All right,” said the sergeant. He spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “I brought some machine guns and automatic pistols with me. Charley thought it might help if we happened to find ourselves outnumbered.”

“And now that we know what kind of odds are against us,” said Charley, “I want Sergeant Stone to distribute those weapons to you all as soon as we get back to our old campsite where the sergeant buried those toolboxes.”

Upon hearing this news, the members of the outfit congratulated the sergeant and their leader.

Charley held up a hand to quiet them.

“I hope that'll give you something to sleep on,” he said. “Now, if anybody would like to give Roscoe a hand with the mules, we can all go to sleep early so we can be up before dawn and back on the trail as soon as we've had our breakfast.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

One of Don Sebastian's servants showed Henry Ellis to his second-floor room. The man lit several candles for him, then he turned down the covers on the feather bed before moving back to the door, where he stopped. He turned toward the boy.

“I must lock the door when I leave, Chico, plus, there are bars on all of the windows,” he said. “Since there is no escape, why don't you just go to sleep instead of searching for a way out. At this
hacienda
, tomorrow comes very early.”

He left the room, closing, then locking, the door behind him.

Henry Ellis listened as the key was turned in the door's lock, followed by the servant's footsteps as they faded away down the hallway.

At the foot of the bed, Henry Ellis found a neatly pressed robe, nightshirt, and cap laid out, with a pair of slippers on the throw rug in front of them. He gave the nightclothes a good look, then began unbuttoning his shirt and dropping the suspenders from his shoulders.

In no time, the boy had changed, blown out the candles, and was under the covers with his head resting on a large, comfortable pillow. Minutes later, even though there were still sounds of the guards marching outside in the courtyard, he was sound asleep.

In the vision that surrounded him, Henry Ellis blinked his eyes, and the images in front of him became sharp and easy for him to see. Smells of the Texas countryside, imbedded in his memory over the years, began seeping into his approaching reverie. He could hear the sounds of dogs barking, as if they were just outside the door.

Henry Ellis found himself sitting on the bank of a river with his grampa Charley. They were both eating chicken that had come from a straw basket prepared by Kelly and Miss Elisabeth, who were both sitting on a grassy knoll not far from Charley and the boy. The puppy was there, too, playing at his side, while Buster—the old Buster—romped with the smaller dog, teasing the puppy by keeping a small chicken bone away from him.

When the dogs' little game had gone on long enough, Charley clapped his hands in what appeared to be slow motion. The old Buster dropped the bone and ran to his master's side.

“I sure miss scratching your old butt, Buster,” said Charley, in what sounded like a sluggish growl.

The dog stopped by his side while the old man began scratching its backside.

Henry Ellis called his puppy over to his side and began scratching the smaller dog's rear end.

The puppy moved in closer to the boy—the dog appeared to love every precious stroke.

“Look, Grampa, look . . .” said Henry Ellis in an echoing timbre. “The pup likes his behind scratched, too.”

“They both like it . . . don't they?” said Charley.

“Like they were one and the same,” said the boy.

Both animals got to their feet at the same time. They were both looking at something behind Charley and the boy. They turned their heads around to see.

Don Sebastian and Colonel Armendariz stood several yards away. Both men were surrounded by Don Sebastian's guards and some of the colonel's men. All of them had their weapons drawn and aimed at Charley and his grandson.

The old Buster's hair stood up on his back, and he growled.

The puppy did the same.

“Kill them all!” shouted Don Sebastian.

Twenty guns blazed in unison as both Don Sebastian's and Armendariz's men opened fire.

Henry Ellis sat up straight in his bed. Lightning flashed through the curtains—thunder rolled close by. Perspiration dripped from his forehead. He stared straight ahead into the darkened room.

He could hear the wind blowing outside the windows—he felt the chill leaking in through the fastened sashes. There was another flash of lightning, followed by a loud clap of thunder, and in moments, rain began to fall onto the flat roof above him.

 

 

The new storm was also battering the outfit. They were attempting to keep dry some thirty miles east of the
hacienda
.

At the first sign of the approaching storm, Charley ordered everyone to break out their oilskin
ponchos
and attach them together. By doing so, they created a tentlike arrangement with the joined-together
ponchos
, so when draped from overhanging tree branches, and held in place by rocks putting weight on the bottom of the sides, they appeared to do the job just fine. When the makeshift tent was set, they dragged their saddles and bedrolls under the improvised shelter.

Most of them were sleeping when the storm broke, sending buckets of rain down on the slick, oilskin refuge below.

Charley awoke to Roscoe's complaints that a river of mud had joined him inside his sleeping blanket.

“Pipe down, Roscoe, and move your bedroll away from the mud,” said Charley.

Then it was Feather who poked his head into the temporary tent, grumbling about how wet he was getting while he watched the horses.

“Didn't you put on your slicker before you started your watch, Feather?” asked Charley.

“No, I didn't,” said the pint-size cowboy. “It wasn't rainin' when I started my watch, Boss.”

“Well then, come on in here and get your rain gear, and get back out there before those animals realize you're missing.”

Feather found his slicker. Someone had “borrowed” it while constructing the tent, and it was now high over his head, and like all the other slickers, an intricate part of the improvised shelter.

“Here, Feather,” said Charley, “put this on.”

He handed the little guy the
poncho
he'd been wearing.

Feather slipped it on, then went back outside.

“Charley.”

The voice belonged to Rod. The young Indian had moved in beside the old ramrod and was hovering over him in the dark.

“Kelly can't sleep,” he whispered. “She's worried about her papers . . . you know, the notes she's been taking for the book she intends to write when we get back to Texas.”

“Where are they?” asked Charley.

“She says they're in her saddlebags.”

“What is she using for a pillow?” Charley wanted to know.

“Her saddle,” said Rod.

“Did she take her saddlebags off her saddle, separately, before she bedded down?”

“I don't think so,” said Rod. “Let me go check.”

He stumbled through the sleeping men, back across the dry ground, to where Kelly was waiting. He felt around near the back of her saddle. Then he whispered loudly in Charley's direction.

“Her saddlebags are right here, Charley.”

“That's what I figured,” mumbled the old rancher—then he set his head back onto his own saddle and tried to go back to sleep.

 

 

The first drip splashed onto Charley's right ear. He sat up. The second drip hit him on the back of the neck, then an icy droplet slithered under his collar and slid down his bare back.

“God-damn-Sam,” he said under his breath. He moved his bedroll over a foot or so until he found a dry spot. He crawled back into the warmth of his bedroll.

It wasn't more than a minute later when a bolt of lightning hit a nearby tree and the whole tented structure fell down on top of everyone, causing quite a ruckus.

After a few moments, Roscoe shoved his head through a hole in the top of the downed shelter. The rain was beating him in the face.

“Hey, everyone,” he said, “maybe it wasn't such a good idea makin' our shelter under these trees.”

“Oh, shut up, will ya?” someone yelled back. “Can't ya see I'm tryin' ta sleep?”

Lightning flashed overhead, and more thunder rolled in the near distance, and the rain kept falling. Nothing was done to repair the temporary refuge.

And all were sleeping peacefully when dawn broke with a cloudless sky.

 

 

Henry Ellis tippy-toed down the spiral staircase to the main floor of the
hacienda
. He was all alone. He crossed the tiled floor of the great room, passing between the twin fireplaces. He entered a large, hand-carved, arched, wooden doorway that led into the dining room.

A look of surprise crossed the boy's face upon entering. He had expected to find the room void of human activity. Instead, Don Sebastian was seated in his usual chair at the head of the extensive table. He was eating a rolled tortilla filled with beans, fried eggs, beef, and salsa.

“Sit,” said the Don when he saw the boy standing by the door. “You're late. You must have overslept. I unlocked your door.”

Henry Ellis nodded to his host, then he moved to the opposite end of the table and took his seat.

“I sleep well when it rains,” said the Don. “Don't you?”

“I sleep good when it's not raining, too,” said the boy.

Don Sebastian indicated the plate of covered tortillas and the bowl of beans that had been placed beside the boy's table setting. Henry Ellis scooped up several spoonfuls of beans and rolled them in a tortilla. He looked up at the Don, to make sure he had filled the tortilla the proper way, before he took a bite.

The Don was looking right at him. “Salsa?” he offered.

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, the boy found a large spoon, then helped himself to the salsa beside his plate. He took a bite.

Hot, but not that bad
, he thought to himself.
It sure tastes better than that breakfast mush my mother cooks up for me every day at home in Austin
.

“What do you think?” said Don Sebastian.

Henry Ellis threw him a quizzical look.

“Your breakfast,” said the Don. “Do you like it?”

“We don't eat much Mexican food where I come from,” said Henry Ellis. “And if we do, it's only when we go to my mother's favorite little restaurant outside of Austin . . . or when I'm staying with my grampa at his ranch in Juanita. His friend, Roscoe, knows how to cook Mexican style.”

“Your grandfather, Henry Ellis,” said the Don, “do you think I can trust that he'll keep his word and not come back for you?”

That's a stupid question
, thought the boy.
Of course he'll come back for me.

Then he continued aloud.

“My grampa is a man of his word, Don Sebastian,” said Henry Ellis. “He'd never lie to you.”

 

 

“So I told this old feller,” said Charley as he nudged Dice forward, “I told him I didn't care much whether he had a hundred guns pointed at me, or just the two he had aimed at my belly right then . . . I wasn't about to back down from him, no matter what . . . Well, I must've frightened him a tad with my telling him a whopper like that one, because before you know it, he dropped the barrel on one of those Colts he had pointed my way, which gave me the opening I needed to put his lights out once and for all.”

Fuerte, riding beside him, threw Feather, who was riding behind Charley, a look of disbelief.

“Do you mean to tell me, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte, “that you drew your
pistola
against a hundred
pistoleros
who had their guns already pointed directly at you?”

“No, Roca,” said Charley, “you didn't understand what I said . . . the man only had two guns pointed at me.”

“But, Señor Charley,” said Fuerte, “I distinctly heard you say there were a hundred guns pointed at you.”

“That isn't what I said, Roca,” repeated Charley. “When it comes to hearing, you're about as bad a listener as Roscoe back there.”

“I heard ya all right, Mr. Smarty Pants,” said Roscoe, who was driving the chuckwagon. “I heard you just fine.”

“Then maybe we ought to change the subject for a while,” said Charley. “Hey . . . this country's starting to look pretty familiar, isn't it?”

Sergeant Stone broke rank and galloped up beside Charley.

“Our old campsite can't be that far ahead of us, Charley,” said the sergeant. “Would you mind if I rode on up there and got a head start digging up my tools?”

“Go ahead, Sergeant,” said Charley, “and take Rod with you, in case you run into any trouble.”

The sergeant reined around and galloped back. He pulled Rod out of the column, then the two of them cantered around the column, moving up the road until they were out of sight.

Elisabeth and Kelly spurred their mounts up the line until they were riding parallel to Charley and Fuerte.

“We can go on ahead, too, Charley,” said Kelly. “We could take Roscoe and the chuckwagon with us and have the noon meal ready for the rest of you fellas when you get there.”

“That rest of us you're talking about leaves me, Roca, Pennell, Holliday, Kent, Betty Jean, and Feather,” said Charley. “So why don't ‘everyone' ride on up there with you, then maybe we might all get there about the same time.”

There was a smile from the women. They turned their horses and urged them on up the road.

“C'mon, you slackers,” shouted Charley to those left behind. “Do you want a couple of females making a fool out of you by getting to the old campsite before we do?”

The remaining four spurred out, following Charley. They caught up with Elisabeth and Kelly in no time at all.

As usual, Roscoe, driving the chuckwagon, trundled on up the road behind them all.

 

 

Don Sebastian led Henry Ellis out of the enormous double doors onto the front patio. They walked forward until they reached the steps, then followed them down to the courtyard where they continued their walk.