hitched it into place. A moment there, I paused in the doorway. And that pause
kept me from walking right into trouble.
Standing not ten feet away, on the edge of the boardwalk, was Duncan Caffrey!
He was facing away from me and I could see only one side of his face and his
back, but I’d not soon forget that nose. I had fixed it the way it was. No
sooner had I looked at him than my eyes went to the man he spoke with, and I
felt a little chill go down my spine. I was looking right into a pair of the
blackest, meanest, crudest eyes I ever did see.
The man wore a stovepipe hat and a black coat. His face was long, narrow, and
deep-lined. He wore a dirty white shirt and a black tie that looked greasy, even
at the distance.
Stepping outside, I walked slowly away in the opposite direction, my skin
crawling because I felt they were looking at me. Yet when I reached the corner
and looked back, they were still talking, paying me no mind.
Never before had I seen that man in the stovepipe hat, but I knew who he was.
The Bishop.
It had to be him. He had been described to me more than once, and he’d been
mentioned by Caffrey that night when the Tinker and me listened from the brush.
Now, nobody needed to tell me that there’s such a thing as accident, or
coincidence, as some call it. I’ve had those things happen to me, time to time,
but right at that moment I wouldn’t buy that as a reason for Dun and the Bishop
being in Matamoras. Whatever they were here for was connected with me. That much
I was sure of and nothing would shake it.
Right there I had an idea of going back to Brownsville and telling the Tinker
and Jonas. Trouble was, they’d think I was imagining things, or scaring out, or
something like that.
What I did do was head for the cantina where I dropped into a chair across the
table from Miguel and said, “Enjoy that drink, because we’re pulling
out—tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Soon as ever we can make it without drawing eyes to us.” Sitting there at the
table, I drank a glass of beer and told him why. Even down here they had heard
of the Bishop, so Miguel was ready enough.
“One thing,” he said, “we must ride with great care, for there was word that a
prisoner escaped from prison and is at large to the south of here. They believe
he will come to the border, and the soldiers search for him.”
It was past midnight when we walked through the circle of lemon light under the
livery-stable lantern. The hostler sat asleep against the wall, his serape about
his shoulders. Music tinkled from the cantina … there was a smell of hay, and
of fresh manure, of leather harness, and of horses.
As we walked our horses from the stable I leaned over and dropped a peso in the
lap of the hostler. Riding past the cantina, I glanced back. I thought I saw, in
a dark doorway next to the cantina, the boot-toes and the tip of a hat belonging
to a very tall man. I could have been mistaken.
We rode swiftly from the town. The night was quiet except for the insects that
sang in the brush. A long ride lay before us. The cattle about which we had
inquired were at a ranch southwest of Santa Teresa … the gold lay somewhere
off the coast we would parallel.
So far as we knew, Pa was the only man who knew exactly where that sunken ship
lay. The Kurbishaws had killed the man who told them of it, thinking they could
find it from the description. Captain Elam Kurbishaw’s only map that showed the
coast was vague, and had indicated only one inlet on that stretch of coast,
where actually there were several. More to the point, there was a long stretch
of coast that lay behind an outlying sand bar. If the ship had succeeded in
getting through one of the openings in the shore line, it would be lost in a
maze of inlets, channels, and bays. Looking for it would be like looking for one
cow that bawled in a herd of five thousand.
“Soldiers may stop us,” Miguel warned. “It is well to give them no displeasure,
for the soldiers can be worse than bandidos.”
As we rode along, my mind kept thinking back to Gin Locklear and that snippy
little Marsha. Marsha was fourteen … she’d be up to marrying in maybe two
years, and I pitied the man who got her. As for Gin, she was older than me, but
she was a woman to take a man’s eye, and to talk a man’s tongue, too. It was no
wonder Jonas set such store by her.
It lacked only a little of daybreak when we turned off the trail into the brush.
We went maybe half a mile off the traveled way before we found a hollow where
there was grass and a trickle of water. We staked out the horses and bedded down
for sleep. Miguel took no time about it, but sleep was long in coming to me.
Thoughts kept going round in my mind, and Pa was in the middle of them. I
thought how Pa was always teaching me things. Had he maybe taught me where that
gold was, and me not knowing?
And then my mind was sorting out memories and feeling the sadness they brought.
Ma was gone … Pa? Who could ever know about Pa? Those were bad days for
travelers and folks who went a-yondering. Chances were the Bald Knobbers had got
him … or somebody from ambush.
I’d never believe it was them Kurbishaws.
Chapter Five
We saw no more of the Bishop or the Kurbishaws on the trail in the next few
days.
We found Santa Teresa a sleepy, pleasant Mexican village, with hens scratching
in the street, and the best tortillas I’d eaten up to then, or for a long time
after. The hacienda where I bargained for and bought three hundred head of
cattle was another pleasant place, and when we started the cattle back toward
the border they loaned me three vaqueros to help until my own hands joined
us—they were to meet us in camp just north of Santa Teresa.
The range from which we bought our cattle had been overstocked and the cattle
were thin, but they showed an immediate liking for the grass of the coast land
and its plentiful salt. We were four days driving from the hacienda to the camp
north of Santa Teresa, but when we reached the camp there was no one there.
Here the vaqueros were to leave us, and here we must hold our stock until help
came from the north. Five men could handle three hundred head without too much
trouble when they were intent upon stuffing their lean bellies with good grass,
but from there on it would be more difficult.
Scarcely were we camped, with a fire going, when we heard a rush of horses and
suddenly our camp was surrounded by soldiers, their rifles leveled on us. Their
officer was a lean and savage man. He rode around the herd, inspecting the
brands, then he wheeled up to the fire.
“Who is in charge here?” he asked in Spanish.
Miguel gestured to me. “The Americano. We have bought the cattle from Senor
Ulloa. We drive them to Texas.”
“You are lying!”
“No, senor,” one of the vaqueros spoke up quickly. “I am of the hacienda of
Ulloa. Three of us have ridden with the cattle to this point. Here their own
riders join them. It is of a truth, senor.”
The officer looked at me, his eyes cold and unfriendly. “Your name?”
“Orlando, senor.” It seemed possible he might have heard the name Sackett,
although it would have been long ago.
He studied me without pleasure. “Do you know Senor King?”
“We spoke with him two days ago. He was driving to Brownsville with the senora.”
King was well thought of on both sides of the border, and to know him seemed the
wise thing. He considered the situation a bit, then said: “One thing, senor. A
prisoner has escaped. We want him. If you should come upon him, seize him at
once and send a rider for me. Anyone rendering assistance to him will be shot.”
Without further words, he wheeled his horse.
When they had ridden away, the vaquero turned to me, his expression grave.
“Senor, that was Antonio Herrara—a very bad man. Avoid him if you can.”
They were packing to leave, and seemed more than anxious to get away, and I
couldn’t find it in my heart to go a-blaming them. Surely, this was no trouble