'Not always,' Rodriguez said. 'How many times in a row have Whigs been presidents of the Confederate States? Every single time, that's how many. If the Freedom Party is good enough to win, it will win just as many elections. That's what you meant, isn't it, Senor Quinn?'
'Sure it is, Senor Rodriguez,' Quinn said easily, with a small laugh. 'That is exactly what I meant.'
Rodriguez wondered why he laughed. Because he hadn't meant exactly that? If he hadn't, what had he meant? What could he have meant? Rodriguez shrugged. Whatever it was, he didn't think he needed to worry about it very much.
Someone asked, ' Senor Quinn, how do we make certain the Freedom Party wins in Sonora this November?'
'That is a good question. That is a very good question.' Now Robert Quinn sounded not only serious but altogether sincere. 'We ourselves here can only make sure we win in Baroyeca.' He waited for nods to show everyone understood that, then went on, 'We have to do a few things. We have to let people know what the Party will do for them once it wins. We have to let them know what it will do for the country once it wins. We have to show them the other parties cannot do the things they promise, and that most of what they promise is not good anyway. And we have to do everything we can to keep them from having the chance to tell their lies.'
Hipolito Rodriguez understood all of that but the last. 'What do you mean, Senor Quinn?' he asked. 'How do we keep them from doing that?'
'However we have to,' the Freedom Party man said bluntly. 'However we need to. Don Joaquin had a sad accident, verdad?' Again, he waited for nods. Again, he got them. Everybody here knew what kind of accident Don Joaquin had had. Nobody much felt like talking about details-better safe than sorry. Quinn continued, 'When they come here to make speeches and stir up their followers, we do not let them. We shout, we heckle, we make enough of a disturbance to keep them from talking to an audience. If they cannot talk, they cannot get their message out, eh?'
'Si, senor.' Several men said it together. Rodriguez wasn't one of them, but he nodded. If the Freedom Party got to talk and no one else did, that was surely a large advantage. But…
He held up his hand. Quinn pointed his way. ' Senor, how do we keep them from talking on the wireless?' he inquired.
'Ah, Senor Rodriguez, you do ask interesting questions.' As always, Quinn was scrupulously polite. He treated the men who'd joined the Freedom Party as if they were dons. Most white men thought of Sonorans and Chihuahuans as nothing but greasers. If Quinn did, he kept it to himself. That was another reason his following grew and grew. He continued, 'We cannot stop that, not altogether-not yet. But it does not matter so much here in Sonora, because fewer places here have electricity than is true in most of the Confederate States.'
Carlos Ruiz clicked his tongue between his teeth. 'That is not fair. That is not right.'
'I agree with you, Senor Ruiz,' Quinn said. 'It is one of the things the Freedom Party will fix once we have power. But, whether we like it or not, it is true, and we have to take it into account.' He paused and looked around the room. 'Are there any more questions? No? All right, then. This meeting is adjourned.'
Rodriguez was the first one to start out of the Freedom Party headquarters. From across the street, a shot rang out. Whoever held that gun didn't really know what to do with it. The bullet cracked past Rodriguez's head and thudded into the planking of the building behind him. Automatic reflex made him throw himself flat. Another bullet sang through the air where he'd stood a moment before. Glass shattered. Chunks rained down on him.
He rolled back into the building. 'Blow out the lamps!' he cried. The headquarters plunged into darkness.
'Here.' Someone pressed a Tredegar into his hands. 'If they want to play such games…'
He crawled up to the shot-out window. One of the men who'd fired at him was running across the street, straight toward the headquarters, a lighted kerosene lantern in hand. That made the fellow an even easier target than he would have been otherwise. He wanted to fight fire with fire, did he? The rifle leaped to Rodriguez's shoulder. He squeezed the trigger. The man with the lantern shrieked, whirled, and crumpled, clutching his belly. The lantern fell on his chest. Burning kerosene poured out and made him into a torch.
Never shoot twice in a row from the same place unless the cover is very good-one more lesson Rodriguez had absorbed during the Great War. Staying low, he wriggled over to the other side of the window. Another Tredegar banged, this one at the back of Party headquarters. No cry of anguish from outside, but a triumphant yell from inside the building: Robert Quinn shouting, in English, 'Take that, you fucking son of a bitch!' For good measure, he added, 'Chinga tu madre!'
Bang! Bang! Bang! Somebody emptied a pistol into the headquarters as fast as he could shoot. Behind Rodriguez, a man yowled. At least one of those bullets had struck home. Rodriguez fired at the muzzle flashes. He worked the bolt, fired again, and then rolled away from that spot. He didn't know whether he'd hit the enemy, but no more shooting came from that direction, so he hoped he had.
Running feet in the street, these from the direction of the alcalde's house. A sharp cry of 'Vamonos!' came from behind Freedom Party headquarters. Rodriguez heard more running feet, these running away. Quinn's Tredegar barked again. The Freedom Party leader whooped again, the high, shrill cry English-speaking Confederates called the Rebel yell.
'Madre de Dios.' An officer of the guardia civil — a policeman, in other words-stared at the burning corpse in the middle of the street. He crossed himself, not bothering to take the heavy pistol from his hand first. Then, pulling himself together, he strode up to Freedom Party headquarters. In a loud voice, he demanded, 'What happened here?'
'I will handle this,' Robert Quinn declared. To the policeman, he said, 'They tried to murder us. They tried to burn down our building and roast us inside of it. They wounded one of our men-I do not know how badly poor Carlos is hurt. All we did was defend ourselves.'
'Some defense,' the officer muttered. 'If you'd done any more defending, nothing would be left of Baroyeca. Come out here now, with your hands up, all of you.' He sounded nervous, as well he might have. If the Freedom Party men felt like fighting instead of obeying, the alcalde — the mayor-probably didn't have enough force to make them follow orders.
But Quinn said, 'We are law-abiding citizens. The Freedom Party is the party of law and order. And I told you, we have a wounded man. We will come out.' In a low voice, he added, 'Hip, stay behind and cover us in case this pendejo is not to be trusted.'
'Si, senor,' Rodriguez whispered. The other Freedom Party men strode past him and out into the street. Carlos Ruiz walked unsteadily, his right hand pressed tight to his left shoulder.
A couple of more men from the guardia civil came up. They spoke with Quinn and the rest of the Freedom Party men in low voices, then led them away. Nobody made any move to shoot anyone, not now. Hipolito Rodriguez set down his Tredegar. As quietly as he could, he crawled to the back door and left. No one waited for him there-no one living, anyhow. Two bodies lay in the alley behind the headquarters. Magdalena wouldn't be happy with him. He was happy just to be breathing. He expected he could deal with his wife. She argued much less than a bullet.
E arly summer in Nashville made a good practice ground for hell. Of course, that was true through most of the Confederate States. Jake Featherston had brought the Freedom Party nominating convention to the capital of Tennessee for a couple of reasons. Moving it off the Atlantic coast reminded people the Party was a national outfit. And looking just a little north into stolen Kentucky reminded them what was at stake.
Flash bulbs popped when Jake got off the train from Richmond. Purple and iridescent green spots danced before his eyes. Supporters on the platform shouted, 'Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!' Others called his name, again and again: 'Feather ston! Feather ston! Feather ston!' The two cries merged and blended in his ears. Together, they felt sweeter than wine, stronger than whiskey. Despite those spots before his eyes, he waved to the crowd.
Despite those shouts, his bodyguards formed up around him, protecting his flesh with their own. One bastard with a rifle had gunned down a Confederate president and sent the Freedom Party on a ten-year journey through hell. Another one now could wreck things again. If they put Willy Knight in the top spot instead of number two, could the Party win in November? Probably, Jake thought. This year, probably. But it wouldn't be the same. He was sure of that. Willy Knight had a handsome face and handled himself pretty well on the stump. Jake… Jake had plans.
Maybe, just maybe, Knight had plans, too. Maybe, just maybe, those plans involved a hero's funeral for Jake Featherston. That was another reason the bodyguards in their almost-Confederate uniforms didn't leave an assassin a clear shot.
