He told her she had no idea how tempting her suggestion was, kissed her, and led the uglier critter out front to mount up and ride. Behind him, Felicidad wailed that he was surely going to get himself killed. He hoped she was wrong, but what she said made a lot of sense.
Chapter 17
The best way to avoid roadblocks was by avoiding roads. There was no moon, and the stars, while bright as stars could get away from city lights, didn’t light up the cross-country brush and cactus worth mention. Longarm’s only consolation was that it hardly seemed likely anyone could see him at any distance when he couldn’t see as far as his mount’s ears without squinting. He knew there were no serious cliffs between them and the Rio Bravo, and horses were said to see their way in the dark a lot better than humans. He found out how cat-eyed the old stable plug was when he hooked a tweed-clad knee on cholla, and missed his long johns Considerable.
He swore, reined in, and scraped the cactus pads off with his knife, muttering, “I ought to be carrying you, you bat-blind waste of your mother’s oats.” But he would have found it even harder to find his way north on foot, of course. So he heeled the nag into further slow but steady progress, saying, “Pay attention, damn it.”
Since Juarez was a border town, the border wasn’t far enough to matter. As he walked his mount slowly, which was about all it could manage, Longarm kept an ear cocked for the sound of running water and an eye peeled for night fires. He was hoping bored border guards would be considerate enough to light one, once they’d been stuck long enough in one place to feel how cold the desert night could get this close to sunrise.
He failed to see anything but stars above a dull, black blanket of nothingness. One place was as good as another to cross the river, this far east of the more sensible as well as official ford between Juarez and El Paso. He figured by this time the Great Costello would have made it across, if he hadn’t drowned or been picked up. Neither Mexicans nor Americans were dumb enough to plant street lamps near a river that couldn’t make up its mind whether it was Cherry Creek or the wide Missouri from time to time. But now he could see pinpoints of light off to the north-west. They told him he was maybe three or four miles east of El Paso, and just south of Fort Bliss, if they hadn’t moved it. He didn’t think the Great Costello would want to aim for the military post, as his best chance would be a beeline for downtown El Paso and another hole-up with his gang. Once he was out of sight with that clubbed foot, the game would start from scratch with a fresh deck.
He forged on for the river. Then he heard the hammer of a repeating rifle click in front of him and, worse yet, someone levered a round behind as a sinister voice between him and the country of his birth asked, “Quien es?”
Seeing this was no time to be taken for smart, Longarm called back in English, “Howdy. I am U.S. Deputy Marshal Long, on the trail of an Anglo outlaw. I don’t suppose you boys have seen a runty rascal on a handsome chestnut gelding?”
His unseen questioner switched to bad English and replied, “We heard someone crossing the river just now. He did not seem fit for to stop when I yelled halt. We were about to cross over and see where he might have fallen. You, of course, are under arrest and, if you try anything funny, you shall die right here, slowly.”
Another voice called out, “Si, is fun for to gut-shoot you gringos. You do not know for how to die with dignity.”
Longarm said, “I can see you boys have to be rurales. Before you gut-shoot anybody, you’d best listen tight. For despite your surly manners I’m a friendly cuss, and I just might be able to save your asses for you.”
Their leader moved close enough to Longarm to make him out as a blur, albeit his sergeant’s stripes weren’t visible as he sort of purred, “I am a sweetheart, too, except when you suckers of pigs’ corkscrew cocks are around. Say something friendly, gringo.”
“Don Julio Valdez got away clean,” Longarm said. “You’re never going to catch him, now.”
There was a moment of ominous silence before the rurale leader opined, “That did not sound so friendly. How do you know about the escape of that political prisoner, gringo?”
“A little pussy cat I know told me. Before you get your bowels in an uproar, I don’t know where El Gato and old Valdez might be right now. So tying me down atop an ant pile would be a waste of time and you boys don’t have much time.”
“We are still listening, gringo. So are the ants.”
“Shit, nothing you can do to me will smart as much as what El Presidente’s professional torturers are going to do to you, if you ever fall into their hands after letting Valdez get away. You know you don’t know how he done it, and I know you don’t know how he done it, but before old Diaz is convinced, you’re all going to suffer considerable.”
The rurale sergeant purred, “You won’t be there to see it whether they catch us or not.”
“We’re running out of dark as well as time. It’s got to be after four in the morning and none of us want to be on this side of the border when the sun pops up. So cut the gringo-baiting, listen tight, and I’ll tell you what you ‘d best do.”
“you are going to tell us?” their sergeant roared as all the others laughed. The laughing men added up to more than a dozen.
Longarm said, “Damned if the skyline ain’t visible over to the east, now. You boys could gun me for my boots or the hell of it, and likely make it across the river before it’s broad-ass day. But then where would you go in them big rurale hats? Even the Anglos are sore at you in El Paso and, if army patrols from Fort Bliss ain’t patting down every cactus for miles for hidden weapons, their post commander has neither imagination nor ambition worth mention.”
“Bah, I spit in his mother’s milk. We are neither Apache nor mere bandits. We know a thing or two about such matters.”
“I ain’t finished and I’m glad you’ve done such tracking your ownselves. It saves having to explain the odds in detail. Suffice it to say you’re talking about hiding out a large party of new faces under big hats, with no visible means of support, on range they’ve never rode before. Any Tex-Mex you meet is likely to shoot first and ask about them rurale uniforms later. I doubt many an Anglo-Tex would ask questions before or after, and since it was your own government who had the great notion about Indian scalps being cash redeemable, we’d best not even talk about you boys meeting up with Apache if you make for less populated parts.”
The rurale sergeant shrugged and said, “You have made your point. We shall have to keep our wits about us until we get some money and gringo hats. But we are used to getting what we want.”
“I can still show you how to avoid your perhaps just desserts from Mexico without taking on the U.S. and Texas combined. But why don’t we talk about it on the far side of the river? Yonder horizon is pearling by the minute and I can already see the tops of fourteen big gray hats at this range.”
The rurale sergeant seemed to think that was a sensible notion and so they were soon all mounted up and fording the Rio Bravo in a bunch, with Longarm in the middle. A couple of them made rude remarks about him in Spanish. He didn’t let on as if he understood. So they got to talking more freely in their own lingo, and it was good to hear they didn’t plan on shooting him down like a dog until he’d gotten them someplace safer.
By the time they’d ridden a few miles north he could see the features of the rurale sergeant riding to his right. The Mex was larded over some from self-indulgence, but big and mean as one had to be to ride for such a mean outfit. As the rising sun gilded the tips of the mesquite and cactus all around, he asked Longarm just where they might be headed. So Longarm said, “Fort Bliss. You’ll like it. The starting pay for a U.S. Cavalry trooper is thirteen dollars a month and all the beans he can eat. How much do they pay you rurales in peso paper?”