“First may be last if Rivera catches you. He doesn’t like his people consorting with his enemies.”
Dillinger grabbed Fallon by the front of his shirt. “Don’t ever refer to me as one of his people. I don’t belong to anybody.”
“I’m sorry,” Fallon said. “Meant no harm.”
Dillinger released him. “Let’s get one thing straight, Fallon. You’re an American and I’m an American and nobody else around here is an American, which gives the two of us some common ground. That’s one helluva lot more important than the fact that we are temporarily working for Rivera.”
“What do you mean temporarily, Johnny?”
“Do you intend to stay? I don’t intend to stay. Your problem is you can’t go home and you need some dough to live on this side of the border, right?”
Fallon nodded.
“I intend to solve your problem just as soon as I solve my problem. My problem,” Dillinger continued, “is that you blew my cover.”
“You know I didn’t want to.”
“Some people who talk lose the use of their tongues.”
“But Rivera knows.”
“Well,” Dillinger said, “he might just lose something else.”
“What might that be?”
“The thing he values most.”
“His life?” Fallon asked.
“His gold.”
“We’re almost there,” Fallon said to Dillinger, who was getting more and more restless by the minute.
In the far distance a feather of smoke marked the train’s progress, and a faint whistle echoed back eerily. The only signs of man’s presence were the telegraph poles that branched from the railway line, marking the rough track which led over the lower slopes of the mountains to Hermosa.
The canyon floor was a waste of gravel and rock, bright in the morning sun, dotted with clumps of mesquite and sage. Already the fierce heat of this dead land was beginning to rise from the ground.
At the station, Rivera took charge of the flurry of activity, getting the luggage off, then supervising the unloading of the convertible.
“Tell them anybody scratches the paint on that car is going to get personal retribution from me,” Dillinger told Rivera.
“You better learn some Spanish,” Rivera said, “because as soon as we get to the mine, you’re going to have to give your own orders.”
“Avanca, hurry your ass, vamos, let’s go, vete, get out of here, See,” Dillinger said, “Fallon’s been teaching me real good.”
As the Chevy was driven down the ramp and came to rest on the solid but dusty ground, Dillinger patted the hood as if it was the nose of a horse. He drew some water from the station’s outside pump, unscrewed the hood ornament and topped off the water in the radiator, then seated himself behind the wheel as if it were a throne.
“He is a child,” Rivera said to Fallon.
“I wouldn’t let him hear you say anything like that, Senor Rivera,” Fallon whispered.
Just then a large buckboard came over the hill, pulled by two horses. Its ironbound wheels rattled over the stones in the dirt road.
The driver was an ox of a man. Under his wide-brimmed straw hat was a coarse and brutal face. A revolver and cartridge belt were strapped to his waist. He jumped to the ground and hurried forward, hat in hands.
“You’re late, Rojas,” Rivera said. “I’ve been waiting for at least half an hour.”
“There was trouble at the mine, patron,” Rojas said in his harsh voice.
“Anything serious?”
“I took care of it.” Rojas held up a fist like a rock.
“Good,” Rivera said. “You got my wire?”
Rojas nodded and glanced at Dillinger. “Is this the one?”
Rivera said, “Senor Jordan will operate under my direct orders when circumstances require it. You, Rojas, will still control the men.”
It was part of Rivera’s plan never to let just one man be in charge of disciplining the work in the mine. Rojas would seek his favors as he did in the past. And the gringo would keep Rojas on his toes-as did the gringo before him. Rivera ruled by the oldest precept of all: divide and conquer.
“Hey,” Rojas shouted, spotting Fallon, “the old fool has come back.” He strutted over to Fallon, only to find Dillinger barring his way.