most of the others younger, and young folk with nothing better to do might enjoy soft lights and loud music as much as anyone else.
From there on, he knew, his notion left enough loose ends to worry a man. He knew what the Great Costello looked like. He knew what O’Horan and Pendergast looked like, on ice. What any other member of the gang might look like was up for grabs. If that booking agent had his numbers right, the Great Costello now had but three male and half a dozen she-male followers to work with. Halfway-decent-looking women without an escort were apt to attract attention anywhere; west of the Big Muddy, where such critters were more scarce, they’d attract more than mild attention—they’d leave a trail of gossip.
Longarm told his hot tamale, “If I was saddled with unescorted outlaw gals, and wanted to move on discreet, I’d either recruit ‘em some traveling companions or send ‘em some distance, alone.”
Then he jumped, “Jesus, I’m dumb,” and tossed away the rest of the tamale. But as he strode toward the plaza exit closest to the El Paso railroad depot all hell commenced to bust loose.
Longarm ducked between a food stand and a backup wall as women screamed, men yelled, and hooves pounded on the bricks. As one of the riders reached up with his machete to slash at the line holding up a mess of paper lanterns, Longarm recognized his grim gray sombrero and matching charro jacket for what they meant. Since los rurales tended to shoot at him a lot, south of the border, he thought it only right to return the favor when the sons-of-bitches rode north of their own jurisdiction. He blew the rascal out of his saddle.
The Mexican lawman’s pony ran on—he didn’t. He lay screaming like a woman giving birth on the bricks, just because he had a round of .44-40 in his hide, and the paper lanterns he’d brought down with him had set his uniform on fire. Before Longarm could decide whether or not to shoot him some more, two Mexican gents and a fat old Mexican lady proceeded to put the fire out and stomp him to death at the same time.
Meanwhile, more confusion was busting loose over by the old mission. When someone shouted, “Viva libertad!” above the gunfire, Longarm could see the fiesta had degenerated into a heated discussion of Mexican politics. Even if he hadn’t already had a better place to go, he knew this was no place for an Anglo in any case. He bulled his way through the still mostly puzzled crowd and only had to pistol-whip one gent who called him a dirty gringo and wouldn’t get out of the way. Then he was on a dark side street. The city fathers of El Paso saw no need to put street lights in the Mexican Quarter. Longarm started running and only had to round a few corners before he was free. He holstered his .44 and headed for the center of town around the railroad depot at a more sedate but hurried pace.
He was annoyed at los rurales, but not as mystified by their sudden appearance. Don Julio Valdez had simply picked a piss-poor place to hold a rally against the current Mexican dictatorship. The infernal border was only a mad dash away and El Presidente Diaz was no doubt mad as hell at Valdez.
Longarm barely bothered to keep abreast of the confusion south of the border. He had enough on his plate in a country where the government was usually on the side of the law. In Mexico these days, it seemed the only difference between a lawman and a bandit was whether they were riding for the party in power or against it.
He’d read how Don Julio, a big ranchero and erstwhile army officer under Juarez, had turned against old General Diaz when that officer, in turn, had taken advantage of the death of Juarez to simply seize the presidency and to hell with elections. They seemed to admire Diaz in Washington, or perhaps on Wall Street. Diaz had set up what they called a stable government. Longarm knew what a stable was. The stink of horseshit would knock you down if you didn’t clean it out now and again. But every time someone like old Valdez proposed a cleanup, old Diaz had him shot.
Chapter 14
By the time Longarm made it to the depot, even the Anglo law had apparently headed for the Mexican Quarter to deal with the border raid. Longarm wished them well, but doubted they’d get to shoot as many rurales as he had. Whether they’d located old Valdez or not in that crowd, by now the raiders would be back across the river. Los rurales were no damned good as human beings, but they were good cavalry irregulars. Such outfits were paid to hit and run, not to stand and fight.
Longarm eased into the nearly deserted depot to study the waiting room and ticket window across the way in sober shadowy silence for a spell. The only folk who seemed to be waiting for the next train looked more like homeless drunks than members of a theatrical troupe or even a criminal gang. By sort of squinting he could just make out the timetable chalked on a blackboard above the ticket window. “Shit,” he muttered, as he saw that while the next eastbound would pass through in a little over an hour, a westbound had just pulled out.
He moved out to the open platform. Por nada. If anyone had meant to catch that train for Pueblo de Los Angeles they hadn’t missed it. He knew that if he’d been anxious to leave El Paso tonight without too many noticing, he’d have likely made a run for that same train during all the commotion in another part of town.
He shrugged and was about to re-enter the depot when, through the grimy glass of the platform door, he spied a couple coming in from the street via the front entrance. The young gent he’d never seen before escorted the gal he had to a seat near the ticket window. As she sat down, Longarm expected her escort to move over to the window and pay for at least her train ride. But he just turned around and was out the front door by the time Longarm came unstuck and opened the back one.
As he bore down on her, Cynthia Morton looked up, smiled, and asked, “Why, Custis, what are you doing here? I hope you’re on your way west with me, dear.”
He joined her but remained on his feet as he replied, “That train won’t be leaving for an hour. How come you’re here so early and who was that gent who just brung you?”
She dimpled up at him and said, “Why, I do believe you’re jealous. That was Sam Dillon, another reporter from Kansas City. We both work for the Star.”
“How come you’re working for it here in El Paso?” he asked.
“We came here for the same reasons you did, I imagine. I thought you’d be covering that last robbery the Great Costello pulled off. I asked for you, earlier, at your hotel, but alas, they said you’d gone out.”
He didn’t answer. She said, “I asked again, this evening, when my paper wired me new orders. There’s another Chinese riot going on in California. They feel one reporter here in El Paso may be more than enough to cover your efforts to catch the Costello act. But I did want a chance to, uh, interview you before I had to move on. Have you had any luck at all, dear?”
He smiled and told her, “Not much. But you know what they say about being unlucky at either cards or slap-and-tickle, and your train ain’t leaving for a good hour.”
She fluttered her lashes and said, “Oh, dear, that doesn’t give us nearly enough time, and I’ve already checked out of my room at the Monarch.”
“That’s all right. I still have a swell room just up the street, at the Hotel International.”
