“For sure?”
“Si.”
Longarm dismounted and stood behind the black. He reached into his near saddlebag and took out his telescope. With the naked eye he could see a few figures moving around the hacienda, but he couldn’t make out who or what they were. With the campesino watching him curiously, he extended the telescope and put it to his eye. The scene instantly jumped much closer. He could see that the big adobe ranch house had once been whitewashed, but sand and wind had combined to turn it into a very pale tan. It looked to be a residence of at least six rooms. Longarm was able to get a fair idea of its inside size by the number of round ceiling beams that stuck out through the outer walls. It had a roof made of red clay tiles. There was a front courtyard that was bounded by a low wall. Behind the house were several small frame buildings that Longarm took to be a stable and two or three sheds that were most likely used for storage. He turned his glass one after another on the several figures. There were two behind the house, working around the sheds, and one man just outside the front of the dwelling standing in the courtyard who was cut off at the hips by the low wall. The two figures in the back were clearly Mexican laborers. As near as Longarm could see they were not wearing guns. He swung the glass around to the man in the front. As he brought the figure into focus the man turned and took a step back onto the front patio and then disappeared.
Longarm had only gotten a quick look, but there was no mistaking that appearance. It was Shaw, all right. Nobody else could look quite as cocky just standing in their front yard as Jack Shaw.
Longarm closed the spyglass and put it thoughtfully back into his saddlebag. The house was going to be very difficult to approach.
There were no bars on the windows, but the house was surrounded by flat, cleared land on all sides for a distance of at least two hundred yards. Anybody either trying to walk up or ride up to that house was going to be exposed for a long time and a long way. For a moment Longarm leaned his arms on the dish of his saddle and stared across the way at the hacienda. There was a small grove of mountain pine on the side toward the road, the side that Longarm was viewing the house from. The pines wern’t very tall, no more than ten or twelve feet, but they were thick and the copse was a good forty yards wide. A man could ride down the road past the house and then, with the pines blocking the view from the house, make a dash into the little grove and hide. The only problem with that was that it still left you four hundred yards from the hacienda. If Shaw had a guard posted, anyone trying to slip up to the place would be spotted whether the guard was any good or not. But then, Longarm thought, why should Shaw post a guard? He was in Mexico. He was safe. The danger was north, in Arizona Territory. He had nothing to fear from the gringo law. They couldn’t operate in Mexico.
No, they couldn’t. Not if they played by the rules. But then, Longarm had no intention of playing by the rules. He had just seen the man who had damaged his reputation with the Marshals Service, and he did not intend that Shaw would get away with it.
He mounted and turned his horse for Aqua Prieta. The little campesino was looking at him questioningly. “Esta bueno?” Longarm shook his head. He said, “Es no mi amigo. Es un otro hombre.”
“It is not my friend. It is some other man.”
“Aaah,” the campesino said. “Es malo suerte.”
“Si,” Longarm said in agreement. It was bad luck, but he didn’t say for whom.
As they rode back Longarm studied the problem, turning it over and over in his mind. If he had any sense he’d simply set up watch on the place and bide his time until Shaw ventured out to town or someplace else. Then he’d be easy to take. Find a hiding place on his route and jump out and throw down on him.
Except Longarm wasn’t in a waiting mood. He’d been on the trail too long. He’d been sleepy and thirsty and hungry for a lot longer than he cared for. Besides, there were several lady friends of his that he had been depriving too long. No, he was going to settle Jack Shaw within twenty-four hours or know the reason why.
He had, of course, lied to the campesino about it being the wrong man at the wrong ranch. Even though he wasn’t wearing his badge, he didn’t want it getting about that there was a gringo looking for the pistolero gringo. This way no one was the wiser. Longarm gave the little Mexican a five-dollar gold piece, which made the man’s eyes get big in his head. Probably it was the most money he had ever held in his hand at one time. Jack Shaw had finally been a benefactor to a community that he lived in. That five dollars would buy an awful lot of beans and tortillas and fill a lot of empty bellies. Longarm wanted to be sure and remember to tell Shaw what good works he’d caused to be done in his name. Longarm had the feeling, though, that Shaw wasn’t going to be all that interested.
When they got back to town, Longarm put his horse back in the stable, and then found a sort of cafe where he had a meal of huevos rancheros: eggs with chili sauce and cheese. It was not eaten with a utensil but with a rolled-up flour tortilla that you used as a kind of scoop. He thought it was the best meal he’d had since he’d left Denver. After he’d eaten, he went to a kind of little inn and rented a room. He intended to sleep through the afternoon, and then arise about six and go to making his preparations for that night.
Chapter 11
In the evening he bought a striped, many-colored wool poncho that would go over his head and hang off his shoulders nearly to his knees. It was too heavy to wear during the day, although he saw plenty of the Mexicans wearing ponchos, but it would be welcome during the long, cold night. He also bought a very wide-brimmed straw sombrero with a conical crown. The sombrero was not for comfort but for deception. He also went to the livery stable and arranged to rent a mule along with one of the uncomfortable wooden saddles that they used.
When it was about eight o’clock, he went back to the little cafe and had some beans, rice, and corn tortillas and drank some more of the green beer. It was so bad he finally decided that the fault must lie with him. No one could make something that bad and expect the public to buy it. He’d heard of “shotgun whiskey,” moonshine that was so bad you had to hire a man to hold a shotgun on you to force you to drink it, but the only thing to recommend the beer was how cheap it was, about a penny a glass. Still, even at that price, Longarm didn’t think it was much of a bargain.
He was diverting himself with different thoughts, a method he often used to keep himself from getting worked up too soon about a particularly important piece of business.
After supper he strolled around in the night air, wearing his poncho, taking in the sights of the town. Except for one cantina where it sounded as if things were getting pretty lively, the town was dead quiet. There was an establishment that Longarm felt pretty sure was a whorehouse. He gave it some thought, but decided that it might take a little of his edge off and he figured to need all the alertness he could get. At about ten o’clock he went to the little inn and turned in fully clothed. He knew, with the nap he’d taken that afternoon, that he was not likely to sleep more than four or five hours.
It was about four in the morning when he went down to the livery and got the mule, already saddled and
