The Deputy - Edge Series 2 (26 page)

‘And if the guy they belong to figures he can spare one, maybe he’ll make you the offer,’ Straker answered through gritted teeth. ‘You’re supposed to be working on the side of the law, mister. And that means you don’t steal!’

Zamorra’s glower expanded to a contemptuous scowl and he looked like he was about to take angry issue with the sheriff from north of the border. But the earnest look on Straker’s regular features convinced the disgruntled Mexican to back down and he let the lid of the cigar box drop shut with a snap.

The sound coincided perfectly with an abrupt end to the hymn singing in the church and a jerk of the head from Straker persuaded Zamorra he should step out of the office. From where the three of them watched as the door in the arched porch of the church swung open and the large congregation began to emerge.

The people blinked in the bright daylight then did a double take at the horses outside the cantina; next the men and horses out front of the Federale post. Then three people broke from the group and hurried away in two directions. A man and a woman went toward the cantina and a man in the drab olive uniform of a Federale, a sergeant’s chevron on his tunic sleeves, headed for the post.

All three began to smile broadly, in stark contrast with the rest of the congregation whose morose expressions maybe suggested the priest had sermonised bleakly about their ultimate destination in the next life if they did not mend their sinful ways in this one. The Federale, who was a short, skinny, balding man of about fifty, broadened his smile further as he drew closer to his three unexpected visitors and greeted in good English:

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‘Ah, some fellow peace officers from across the Rio Bravo! Welcome to you,
m i
amigos!’

He was clearly made uneasy by Zamorra’s sullen countenance, but his eagerness to be cheerful wavered only a moment. ‘And you, too,
senor.
I am
Sergeante
Manuel Torrejon. In charge of keeping the peace in San Luis and the surrounding district. Come in

– please enter my office. And tell me how I may be of assistance to the
Americano
peace officers?’

While Edge and Straker tipped their hats to the overly effusive man, Zamorra hurried to suggest in Spanish:

‘One of your fine cigars would not go amiss,
amigo.
It has been a long time since I had a fresh smoke.’

‘
Si, si, senor.’
He reverted to English. ‘You are most welcome. You are all welcome to whatever small favours I am able to do for you.’

He led the way into the office, took off his crumpled cap and used it to brush dust off the two chairs he arranged before his desk. Waved to these and to the one behind, then flipped open the lid of the humidor and gestured for his guests to help themselves.

‘Only him,’ Straker said grimly and jerked a thumb at Zamorra as Edge took out the makings.

Zamorra said through an artful broad grin: ‘Well, since there are three smokes on offer and no one else . . . ‘

He scooped out a handful of cigars and his unfamiliar pleased expression did not falter when Straker directed a scornful glare at him.

‘It is all right,’ Torrejon assured, seemingly unaffected by the blatant greed of his thick-skinned fellow countryman.

‘Look, I’ll wait outside and smoke one of these,’ Zamorra growled and shared a brief soured expression between Straker and Edge. Then grinned at the still tentatively smiling Federale as he added: ‘Maybe one of my
amigos
in the cantina will see me and take pity: send across a drink for me, uh?’

‘You all look to have had a very long ride,’ Torrejon said and his latent nervousness rose closer to the surface, threatening the thin veneer of
bonhomie
as he acknowledged the time to talk business was close at hand.

‘I’ll be right outside the door,’ Zamorra said from the threshold, a sudden harshness in his tone and on his angular face that tacitly warned the two Americans he intended to pay close attention to whatever would be said inside.

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After he stepped out on to the bright with sunlight plaza and was heard to strike a match on the wall beside the doorway Torrejon’s always insecure smile gave way to an intrigued expression as he sank on to his own chair. He said across the desk as his visitors sat down:

‘I saw the horses outside the cantina of Alfredo Herrero. And I thought it could not be coincidence that you all arrived here together. So, now you will tell me why so many men from across the border have come here to our small
pueblo
? It must be important business you are on, is that not so?’

Straker introduced himself as the sheriff of Bishopsburg, Edge as his deputy and then went on: ‘I am the only official peace officer, sergeant. The others are just sworn in for this posse. We’re in pursuit of three men and a woman. One of these men was taken by the other two from my jailhouse: where he was being held until he could be tried for murder. The woman is the only witness to his crime.’

The Federale’s eyes widened. ‘Murder? These are dangerous people who – ‘

Straker cut in: ‘We have good reason to know they’ll kill at the drop of a hat and often for no good reason, sergeant.’

Edge struck a match on the front of the desk and lit his newly rolled cigarette as he watched the Federale closely. Tried to decide if Manuel Torrejon looked like a man who was totally ignorant of happenings in the larger world outside this small community. And after a few moments during which Straker also began to keep mistrustful watch on the weary looking, profusely sweating uniformed man behind the desk, the Mexican began to show signs of mounting unease. He reached into the humidor, took out a cigar and started to toy with it. Smoke was drifting in from where Zamorra was listening to the exchange within the office and the Federale took a deep sniff of the second hand aroma, angled the fresh cigar into his mouth, lit it and spoke through teeth clenched around it.

‘
Senors,
I think I know who is wanted for murder in the town of Bishopsburg. Which is not so far away from here that we remain ignorant of certain events that take place there. Especially if these have repercussions on this side of the Rio Bravo?’

Straker nodded for Torrejon to continue.

‘So, it is the son of Eduardo Martinez, is that not true? The boy named Jose, eh?’

Straker confirmed: ‘That’s right, sergeant.’

The uniformed man sucked tobacco smoke deep into his lungs and nodded as he let it stream out. ‘
Senor
Eduardo Martinez: he is a most powerful man. On both sides of the border between our countries, no?’

Straker confined his response to another nod.

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Torrejon was becoming more nervous by the moment and hurried to explain: ‘I wish you to know something,
Senor
Straker,
Senor
Edge. I am no more than a lowly Federale
sergeante,
but I endeavour always to do my duty the best I can. No matter who objects to what I do.’

Straker asked evenly: ‘Did Jose Martinez come to San Luis yesterday, sergeant?

With a Mexican woman named Isabella Gomez and two Americans? A couple of hired killers named Morgan Bryce and Don Harvey?’

Torrejon mopped sweat beads off his brow and jaw line with a shirt sleeve and shook his head. ‘Not to my knowledge,
senor.’

Zamorra swung on to the threshold and peered belligerently into the office to snarl:

‘I for one do not believe him!’

Torrejon swallowed hard and ignored the man in the doorway while he peered from Straker to Edge and back again. ‘If I may be allowed to finish, gentlemen?’

Zamorra went on insistently: ‘You’re lying: we tracked their sign here! Every step of the way from Bishopsburg to San Luis!’

‘You will recall I said not to my knowledge?’ Torrejon continued to concentrate his gaze on the men across the desk from him. Then he shrugged and tried a half smile that failed to dent the earnestness of the sheriff or alter the impassive set of Edge’s features.

‘I regret to admit that I often drink more than is good for a government official in my position. And sometimes I am deep in the effects of tequila when I should be alert. This is stupid and very wrong of me, but – ‘

Edge broke in grimly: ‘Best you get to the point, feller.’

Torrejon sucked against the cigar and blew out a cloud of sweet smelling smoke then sighed and pressed on with his explanation. ‘Unfortunately San Luis is not a good place in which to gain distinction as a Federale. A man with ambition sometimes dwells on his misfortune and tries to forget what might have been had his circumstances been different.’

The glowering man in the doorway complained: ‘I think you’re right, Edge. It seems to me this
hombre
is only talking to waste time and – ‘

‘Shut up Zamorra!’ Straker ordered in much the same tone he had used so often when Martinez irritated him in the Bishopsburg jailhouse.

Torrejon said evenly: ‘
Senors,
I wish you please to feel free to ask questions of anybody in San Luis. And if you find out something that may lead you to those you hunt, I will do all I can to assist you. Help you to get Jose Martinez back to where he must face trial. I will, of course, need to obtain the authority of officials who are superior to me in –

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‘The hell with that,’ Zamorra snarled. ‘We didn’t ride all the way down here to have someone like this – ‘

‘Last night it was the San Luis Fiesta,
senors,’
Torrejon cut in on the angry man.

‘People flocked here from many miles around. And there was much drinking and then much sleeping. Not just by me. Much merry making, you understand? Many strangers could perhaps have come and gone from San Luis and not been noticed by anyone.’

Straker made a throaty sound of impatience, rose abruptly from his chair and fixed the Federale with a gaze of glinting eyed scorn. ‘So, you got no objection if we question local people?’

‘Did I not already say this?’ the uniformed man responded enthusiastically. ‘I am most anxious to co-operate fully with my fellow peace officers from north of the border. I think, though, it will be better if I accompany you during the questioning,
amigos?’

‘I reckon Edge and me can – ‘Straker began.

‘Not everyone is so well disposed toward
Americanos
as Manuel Torrejon,’ the Federale pressed on. ‘There is distrust. Dislike, even. If you allow me to accompany you, it may perhaps encourage some of the more mistrustful to speak more of the truth of what they saw or did not see, I think?’

‘I guess I can go along with that,’ Straker allowed wearily and looked quizzically at Edge who shrugged as he re-lit his cigarette.

Zamorra vented a stream of soft toned but vehement curses as he spun around and stepped back out on to the plaza again. Then the Federale led the other two out into the strong sunlight of the hot morning. Where there was little more activity on the square and the short streets that led of it than earlier: the people of San Luis seemingly not eager to resume their mundane daily chores after yesterday’s festivities and today’s making of confessions.

Torrejon insisted upon livery service being provided free of charge for the visiting posse and ordered two surly, ill-clad men in their early twenties to lead the travel weary horses to the stable next to the church. Where the animals were taken into the care of a slender woman with a face that seemed to be almost as heavily pock marked as that of Sanchez.

Three other glowering, equally shabbily dressed twenty year olds were instructed to scour San Luis and summon everyone except for very young children and the infirm to come to the cantina, by order of the
sergeante.

Then all the lawmen waited with varying degrees of impatience in the cantina and were viewed with tacit malcontent by the local citizenry as they entered. And when some 152

sixty or so men and women spanning a wide age range had assembled within the undecorated, ill-furnished, foetid with trapped heat cantina, Torrejon climbed on to a table and addressed them in fast-spoken Spanish, to explain why the posse was in the village. Some in the reluctant audience listened with stoic indifference, a few with pretended interest and most with unconcealed disgruntlement.

The discomfited, even more heavily sweating uniformed man ended by asking specifically if anyone had seen four strangers come to San Luis during the fiesta: or rather three strangers, because Jose Martinez was not unknown in this part of the country. Straker, who understood little Spanish, spent much time looking around among Alvarez and his men and at Edge while the Federale was speaking and saw nothing in their expressions to signal the Federale was not dealing all the cards face up. And there was much shaking of heads and a low-keyed babble of talk with a negative quality that rendered a translation unnecessary. Guilt had not shown on any of the faces, perhaps because the substance of what Torrejon was saying had been predicted and the responses already thought out.

Alvarez, Sanchez and Diego were a little drunk from being in the cantina since they arrived in the village and the liquor had loosened their tongues. Also made them forget their own humble backgrounds as they growled low toned abuse: implying that a bunch of no account peons were sure to be too terrified of Eduardo Martinez and his hired guns to tell the truth.

Some of the younger, more able bodied men of the village did not hide their resentment of the insults directed at them but none was armed and they could not fail to be ware of the Colts in the holsters of the visitors.