Santa Fe Death Trap Page 6

  “You ever heard,” Sam asked him, “of El Lobo Flaco? The Skinny Wolf?”

  “Heard the name a time or two, is all. I been pretty far north these last few years.”

  “He’s rough, J. B. Rough as a badger out of its hole. His clan were stirring up trouble out here even before General Kearney raised the Stars and Bars over New Mexico Territory. Six years now I been tryin’ to slap irons on that brown devil. But it’s like trying to catch a fly with chopsticks.”

  “A man can’t catch all the bad ones, Sam, you know that. Hell, you taught me that.”

  Baxter ignored him, forging on. “For years now he’s terrorized the country between El Paso and Santa Fe. Robbery, rape, murder. He forces the local Indians to pay tribute—which is basically a death sentence, since most of them are dirt poor.”

  “Sounds like a real scrubbed angel,” Bill said, adding pointedly: “I wish you luck in nabbing him, Sam.”

  “Two years ago I did manage to hind-end him with buckshot. And I had a deputy who bent a gun barrel over his head. But I found that deputy a month later with six bullets in him. And the last time I seen El Lobo, I adiosed in a hurry. There’s maybe ten, a dozen riders with him these days— none of ‘em schoolteachers, neither.”

  Bill poured himself another drink and looked at Elena. “It’s obvious how this El Lobo is a headache for Sam. But what’s your mix in all this?”

  “A bell,” Elena replied. “And a church. And the people of the town of Chimayo.”

  At the mention of Chimayo, Bill had a brief image of that terrified old Indian woman.

  “The Curse of Hidalgo,” he said quietly.

  “Yes! Preciso! You know about it?”

  “I’ve just heard of it,” Bill said. “I rode through there a couple days back.”

  “My father,” Elena explained, making the sign of the cross for his departed soul, “attended the church there for many years. He had become the patron of Chimayo. Now I bear this same responsibility for those who live there.”

  “The church there,” Baxter explained, “is called El Santuario. It’s special to many of the locals.”

  “Any church is important down here,” Elena said. “But El Santuario is a sort of healing shrine. As a special mark of humility, everyone—wealthy, old, infirm—crawls up to the altar rail. Pilgrims come—used to come—from as far away as Chihuahua, Mexico. Now, however, the curse of Padre Hidalgo has been invoked on the place. Because El Lobo has stolen the bell.”

  “The bell?” Bill repeated, confused. “Why?”

  “This bell,” Elena assured him, “is different. It rings with a mellower, sweeter tone. And many swear the blind can see while that bell is ringing. That is why Padre Hidalgo invented the curse: to make sure the residents of Chimayo protect that bell.”

  “The curse makes them, the people, responsible for the bell,” Sam told him. “Until it’s returned, nothing but bad fortune and tragedy can afflict Chimayo and its residents. Even if they leave. Hell, you know me, J. B. I ain’t got no more religion than a rifle has. But it is uncommon queer how things have gone to hell in Chimayo since El Lobo and his bunch heisted that bell. Cows have dried up, seed blows out of the ground, now this plague.”

  “That ain’t nearly so queer, Sam, as why El Lobo would take the bell in the first place,” Wild Bill pointed out. “Why in hell would he want it?”

  Sam cleared his throat.

  “Miss Vargas,” he spoke up, “I don’t mean to be rude. But can I speak to Mr. Hickok in private now?”

  “Of course, Marshal.”

  Just before she shut the door behind her, Elena added in a plaintive voice: “Please, Bill? It does not matter if you believe the curse. The people of Chimayo do. A few have already committed suicide in their fear. If that bell is not returned, more tragedy will befall them.”

  Sam did not immediately resume his narration after Elena left. Instead, he poured himself a neat whiskey, toasted Bill, and downed it. He gestured around the elegant room.

  “Far cry from the demimonde dives of our old days, huh, J. B.?”

  Bill grinned. “You remember drinking that potato whiskey in Plainview, Kansas?”

  Sam slapped a stocky thigh. “Jesus hell! Remember? It took the enamel off my teeth!”

  The laughter trailed off.

  “All right,” Bill said reluctantly. “Why did El Lobo take that damn bell?”

  “Keep this close to your vest. Even Elena doesn’t know it. That bell is actually seven hundred and fifty pounds of solid gold. It’s got a thin coating of iron and paint to hide it.”

  Bill nodded. “This Hidalgo knew that. So he makes up a curse that forces the faithful to protect the bell.”

  “The way you say. I knew something didn’t add up about the Wolf taking a bell. So I done some checking with a professor at Santa Fe College. It was common practice back in the days of Coronado and the Spanish conquistadors. Down in South America, top-quality gold was mined by the Incas. The priests stole some of it and had it melted into bells. That way it eluded detection by their soldier escorts. Lots of them bells ended up in belfries all around this area.”

  Bill nodded. “Sure. And you heard Elena—the bell rings with a sweeter, mellower tone. Gold will do that. That may be how El Lobo even knew it was gold.”

  “Could be. I can’t tell what the hell he’s up to, ‘zacly. I do know he’s headed for Taos right now. But the Wolf ain’t lettin’ nobody get too close. No star men, anyhow.”

  “Sam, I’ll ask you the same thing I asked Elena. What’s your mix in all this? Gold heisted from South America is out of the jurisdiction of U.S. marshals.”

  “Not this gold, on account it’s owed to Uncle Sam. See, twelve years ago, with the U.S. Army caught up in the Civil War, the government was short on escort troops for bullion coaches. The U.S. Mint in Denver bought a shipment of gold from Mexico.”

  “And El Lobo,” Bill supplied, “commandeered it, right?”

  “Right as rain. That fortune bankrolled his operation for over a decade. Now the ruthless parasite needs more. But the U.S. government figures that bell is owed to them.”

  “You give it to the government,” Bill pointed out, “and you haven’t helped the citizens of Chimayo. Or Elena.”

  “Damn it, I know that. And I don’t like it none. But I got a job to do, Bill. And I need your help. You’re the only man I ever broke in who went on to make more arrests than I did. I’d have to deputize you, though. If it’s the money—”

  “It ain’t, Sam. It’s just... I came south to relax and have a good time. Besides, I’m already busy trying to save my hide from some bushwhacking son of a bitch.”

  “Nothing,” Baxter pleaded, “could change your mind?”

  “Sorry, Sam. Not for love nor money.”

  A lace curtain liner suddenly billowed outward in a breeze. Wild Bill started at the movement, his right hand twitching. Sam Baxter saw this and nodded. He forced out a long, fluming sigh.

  “Yeah, I see how it is with you, J. B. Who’s trying to kill you now?”

  Bill shook his head. “Can’t tell you yet. But whoever it is, he’s leaving me a clue each time he tries. I got the feeling he wants me to know who he is before he does it. That means revenge is his main motive, not just the bounty on my hide.”

  “Revenge,” Marshal Baxter agreed. “Which, in your case, only narrows the suspects down to about half the men in the West.”

  Chapter Six

  Bill took the rear service entrance when he returned to La Fonda. He stopped by the front desk first, then the kid’s room. Josh had broken down his LeFaucheux six-shooter and had the parts spread out before him on the escritoire, giving them a light coat of gun oil.

  “Quiet night?” Bill asked.

  Josh nodded. “Nothing to report. Except that Chinese kid is back on duty at the wash house. The water heater is still shut down, but now he’s heating bathwater in kettles on a Sibley stove.”

  “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. The hell you
sulking about, Longfellow?”

  “I’m not sulking.”

  “Hell you ain’t. If your bottom lip was any lower, you’d be walking on it.”

  “It’s just... I wanted to go back to the Lazy M with Mitt and Liddy.”

  “With Liddy, you mean.”

  “So?” Josh bristled. “Nobody can enjoy cakes and ale except Wild Bill Hickok, is that it?”

  Bill didn’t bother telling Josh, but a messenger from the Lazy M had left another invitation for Hickok and the kid at the front desk, urging them to visit. Bill noticed only Mitt had signed it.

  “Well, Philadelphia Kid, don’t get your blood in a boil and shoot me,” he said. “The Lazy M is only ten miles south of town. We’ll ride out there tomorrow. Maybe you can get you some ‘cake.’”

  Josh looked up from the trigger mechanism he was oiling, eyes narrowing in speculation as he studied Hickok. The youth laid the trigger group aside and eased the watch out of his fob pocket. He thumbed back the cover.

  “Man alive! It’s not even eleven p.m. and the great Lothario of the West is turning in?”

  “Figure I’ll play a few hands of five-card first.”

  “So how’s Elena?” Josh asked slyly.

  “Engaged,” Bill answered.

  “Yeah, but in what?”

  “To be married, you young dolt.”

  “Well, what’d she want with you? It was important enough to send an urgent summons. And you deserted a winning hand.”

  Not to mention a comely lass, Bill thought. But out loud he said, “Kid, it don’t matter two jack-straws what she wants, you take my drift? Ain’t you got enough sensational stories, what with pitfall traps and exploding water heaters?”

  Bill’s voice rose more than he’d intended, for in fact guilt was gnawing at him. He had said no to Sam and Elena, and damn it, he meant it. To hell with their golden bell!

  Sam had taken it like a trooper. But Bill liked and admired Sam Baxter—the man had taught him much, early on, and those teachings were why Bill was still alive today. As for Elena . . . she had tried to buck up and accept it when Bill flat out refused to help. But her chin had crumpled in a way that sent guilt lancing through Hickok.

  “Kid,” Bill vowed with quiet, almost desperate determination right before he left. “We will paint this damned mud-color town red. We are going to have a good time, damn it. Whiskey, women, song, we’ll drink life to the lees. I swear to God we will!”

  For all his determined boasting, however, Wild Bill went to bed—all alone, yawning like an old pensioner—only one hour after his return to the hotel.

  Bill propped a chair under the doorknob to reinforce the flimsy night latch. His bed was soft, and he slept the sleep of the just for most of the night. But trouble arrived in the still, quiet hours just before dawn—aptly named the “dead quiet” since most people die between two and five a.m.

  Wild Bill had enjoyed pleasurable dreams all night, drifting from the arms of Liddy McGinnis to the lips of Elena Vargas. Abruptly, a shattering crash sent fragments of the room’s west window exploding into the room.

  Before he was even fully awake, Wild Bill rolled off the opposite side of the bed, taken over by the survival reflexes of a cat.

  Even as he hurtled toward the floor, Bill tugged his gunbelt off the bedpost. By the time he hit the floor, fully awake now, he had drawn a Colt and cocked the hammer. Still not sure what was happening, he used the bed for cover while he tried to confirm a target.

  Wild Bill heard the hollow drumbeat of hooves below in the street as a rider escaped. He saw the broken window and tensed, expecting dynamite to explode at any moment. But he couldn’t hear a fuse sizzling—did it go out?

  A fist thonked on the door.

  “Wild Bill!” Josh called out. “You okay?”

  “Hang on, kid.”

  Bill stood up, holstered his gun again, and opened the jet on a wall-mounted gaslight. He stepped into his trousers, then let Joshua in.

  “What happened?” the reporter demanded. He held his pinfire revolver muzzle down.

  “You got here quick, Longfellow. Good work.”

  Bill crossed to a burlap-wrapped rock that lay in the midst of broken shards of glass. Staying low to avoid the window, he unwrapped the cloth. Smudged on it, evidently in charcoal, was the solitary letter D.

  “Holy—!” Josh stared at it, his eyes glinting with renewed excitement. This was becoming one hell of a mystery—and Josh’s readers enjoyed the who and why far more than they cared about the what, when, and where.

  “What’s it mean?” Josh demanded. “First eighteen. Then sixty-five. Now the letter D. And two attempts to kill you.”

  “Those attempts weren’t meant to kill me, exactly,” Bill speculated out loud. “Injure me, maybe, and scare the crap out of me, sure. But mostly I think they were meant to play on my mind. To unstring my nerves.”

  “You know who’s doing this, don’t you?”

  Bill gazed at the burlap and the dark letter D, pulling on the point of his chin.

  “By now,” he replied, “yeah, I think maybe I do.”

  “Who?” Josh pestered.

  “You been to high school, Longfellow. You figure it out. I’m going back to bed. Tomorrow we’ll talk to that Oriental kid about that water heater. Then we’ll ride out to the Lazy M.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Bill! Who—”

  “You bolted to that floor, kid? I said I’m going back to bed. Get the hell out of here before I boot you in your skinny ass.”

  The next morning Wild Bill and Josh were among the first patrons in the La Fonda’s grand dining room. After a hearty breakfast of eggs relleno and spicy chorizo sausage, washed down with black coffee, they headed out back to the hotel wash house.

  “That pitfall trap was no accident,” Josh remarked. “But you know? The boiler could’ve been.”

  “Sure,” Bill replied. “And pigs don’t grunt, neither.”

  The damaged wall had already been repaired. The big, brass-trimmed water heater sat silent as a locomotive in a train shed. A Sibley stove—basically just a sheet-iron cone open at top and bottom with a pipe fit to the top to vent smoke—was being used to heat bathwater.

  The place was almost deserted. They found the Chinese kid folding towels into a linen closet near the defunct heater. He paled noticeably when he saw Wild Bill Hickok advancing toward him.

  “Help you, sir?” the kid said in heavily accented English, bowing deferentially.

  “Hope so. That boiler explosion yesterday—it was no accident, was it?”

  “Big accident,” the kid insisted. “Machine very dangerous, yes? All time, blow up.”

  Bill’s gunmetal eyes bored into the evasive kid. He squirmed like a bug under a pin.

  “Who paid you,” Bill said quietly, “to lock that pressure-release valve shut?”

  “Big accident,” the kid repeated. “Boilers, whoom! All time, blow up. Very dangerous.”

  “Yeah, you said that already.”

  Wild Bill eyed the kid. Obviously he was lying. But he was also scared. Bill felt sorry for him. The Chinese had a hard row to hoe in America, much harder than that of European immigrants. Shunned and despised, they stuck with their own and held to the values and way of life of their ancestors in Hunan Province or Canton. Without them, the transcontinental railroad could never have been built. But despite their good service to America, they were easy scapegoats when times got lean.

  “It wasn’t money, was it?” Bill said quietly. “Somebody threatened you, right? Said he’d kill you if you didn’t diddle with that boiler?”

  The kid looked nervously all around. Finally he nodded.

  “Not kill me. Say kill family.”

  Bill nodded. “So that’s the way of it. You know the man’s name?”

  The kid shook his head. “Never see him before.”

  “Know where’s he’s staying?”

  Again a shake of the head.

  “White man?”

  The kid
nodded. “Young man. Maybe little older than him.”

  The kid pointed at Joshua. “Mean man. Handsome face, but hard eyes like stones, crooked mouth.”

  “All right, son.” Wild Bill patted the kid’s skinny shoulder. He slipped him a silver dollar. “‘Preciate it.”

  “No tell on me?” the kid pleaded.

  “No tell. I promise.”

  “So who is it?” Josh pressed Wild Bill as the two men took the service stairs back up to the second floor. “Still think you know?”

  Bill ignored him, alone with his own thoughts.

  “Will there be more attacks?” Josh demanded.

  “You can put it down in your book. Somebody means to free my soul.”

  “Well, if I can put that down,” Josh complained, “why not his name, too? Why do you always make a fellow beg like a starving Indian?”

  “There, there, that’s a tough old soldier,” Bill mocked as Josh unlocked his door. “You damned Philadelphia bawl-baby. Throw together some duds, kid. We’re riding out to the Lazy M to see Mitt and Liddy.”

  The morning air was still and hot, the windmills motionless as paintings. Wild Bill and Josh followed the Old Pecos Trail southeast out of Santa Fe. Although it was a short ride to the Lazy M, it was mostly an ascending trail. They held their mounts to a trot, walking them now and then to spell them.

  Mountain ranges flanked them in the distance, sliced by gullies on their lower slopes. They passed a few big spreads with cattle, but mostly just little half-section nester farms. Sometimes the dwellings, on these smaller homesteads, were little more than brush shanties covered with wagon canvas. An intricate system of acequias irrigated the corn, beans, and squash, all controlled by a mother ditch with huge gates.

  Wild Bill kept a vigilant eye on all the good ambush points. But he found time, now and then, to cast a humorous glance toward Josh. The kid, showing his streak of gumption, had insisted on riding Old Smoke, his nemesis. Now Josh sat rigid in the saddle, grim-faced and determined, looking to get bucked at any moment. But by God, he would tame that horse!

  “Aw, c’mon, Bill,” Josh resumed his pestering at one point. “Who was it tossed that rock through your window last night?”