occupied, a few of the outlaws had managed to get into the bank and open the safe. Usually that took dynamite, but there were some slick-fingered gents who could tickle a combination lock until it opened. Obviously, El Aguila had one of those criminally talented individuals riding with him.
Sanderson was cussing up a storm as he stomped off with the banker. The news of the robbery had made him forget about going for the undertaker, but that didn’t really matter. Longarm saw a man in a black suit driving a wagon down the street toward the hotel, and figured that he was the local planter. In this border heat, undertakers had to move fast. Even though the sun still wasn’t high, it was already shining down with a brassy intensity.
Coffin let out a low whistle. “I’m almighty glad those fellas from Washington ain’t already here.”
“You and me both,” agreed Longarm. “From the way the sheriff was talking about El Aguila’s gang, I didn’t think they’d hit the town. They’ve been just raiding the ranches hereabouts, on both sides of the border.”
“Reckon they decided there was more dinero to be made in bank-robbin’ than there is in rustlin’. They musta been readin’ about Jesse James.”
Longarm didn’t know about that. All he could be sure of was that with El Aguila now targeting Del Rio too, the job that had brought him here might have just gotten a lot harder.
By mid-morning, most of the signs that a pitched battle had briefly been fought in the town’s main street had been cleaned up. The dead townspeople and outlaws had been carted away by the undertaker, and the blood they had spilled had been soaked up by the thirsty ground. The bullet holes in the buildings had been plastered over. The most noticeable damage was the missing window in the hotel dining room. It would take several days for a new pane of glass big enough to fill the window to be freighted over from San Antonio, so in the meantime the gaping hole had boards nailed over it. That would cut down on the light in the dining room, but it was better than letting in hordes of flies.
Longarm leaned on the boardwalk railing and looked out at the street. He was debating just how much to tell the diplomats about the dangers they might be facing from marauding outlaws. Heavy footsteps sounded on the planks behind him, and a big hand fell on his shoulder.
“What you frownin’ about, Long?” asked Lazarus Coffin. “You ain’t still worried ‘bout them owlhoots, are you?”
“The thought that they might cause a little trouble did cross my mind.”
“Naw,” said Coffin, shaking his head. He tipped his broad-brimmed sombrero back. “We can handle El Aguila’s bunch if we have to. Hell, we already did so much damage to ‘em that they’re probably still ridin’ deeper into Mexico. Mark my words, they ain’t comin’ back here to Del Rio any time soon.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Longarm. “But I reckon I’ll believe it when I see it.” His eyes narrowed as he gazed toward the northern end of the street. “Speaking of seeing things ...”
A small cloud of dust was rising in the distance. It was just the right size, thought Longarm, to be kicked up by the hooves of a team pulling a stagecoach. The regular coach on the line that served Del Rio wasn’t due for two more days; that was one of the things Longarm had checked. So it stood to reason that the vehicle rolling toward town now was the special coach carrying Franklin Barton and the other members of the American negotiating party.
Coffin had spotted the same dust cloud. “Reckon that must be them,” he said. “You ready, Long?”
“Ready to be saddled with a bunch of politicians from back East?” Longarm chuckled grimly. “Not hardly. But we don’t have much choice in the matter, do we?”
They watched the approach of the stagecoach for a few moments. Then abruptly, Coffin nudged Longarm with an elbow. “Look down yonder,” he said, inclining his head toward the south.
Longarm looked, and he saw a similar cloud of dust coming from that direction. The Rio Grande was a couple of miles away from Del Rio, and judging by the dust that was rising to the south of town, another coach had already crossed the river and was rolling north.
“Now that’s what you call timin’,” said Coffin. “Looks like both bunches’re goin’ to get here at just about the same time.”
Longarm looked back and forth, estimating the distances, and knew that Coffin was right. The coaches would arrive within minutes of each other. The one coming from the south had to be carrying Don Alfredo Guiterrez and the rest of the Mexican party.
Inexplicably, Longarm felt a tingle of apprehension. It prickled along his spine and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up for a second. He tried to blame it on the earlier violence and the fact that El Aguila’s gang might indeed represent a threat to the meetings between the two governments. But all his instincts told him that wasn’t the case.
This was something new, something that had come out of nowhere.
The American coach arrived first. Longarm wasn’t sure whose idea it had been to send a special coach with the diplomats to Del Rio. If the idea was to not attract much attention, this was a piss-poor way of going about it. The arrival of the regularly scheduled stage was enough to provoke plenty of curiosity on the part of the townspeople; this unscheduled stop immediately drew quite a crowd. The coach was a standard Concord model with Wells, Fargo & Co. written in curling script above the door. No doubt the government had chartered it special for the trip, Longarm thought—and at a lot higher price than it was worth too.
The jehu and the shotgun guard were both roughly dressed, grizzled, and bearded, typical specimens of their profession. The driver brought the coach to an easy stop in front of the hotel. A man in a dark, sober suit that reminded Longarm of a preacher’s outfit opened the door and stepped out first. Despite the civilian clothes, he had a crisp way of moving that cried out “Army” to Longarm. The fella practically saluted as he held the door open for the other men who began to disembark from the coach.
The second man off the stage paused on the ground to brush dust from his suit and bowler hat. He was on the young side of middle age, with dark sandy hair and a mustache. Pale blue eyes landed on Longarm, and the man stepped toward him. “Custis Long?” he asked. Longarm noted that the man didn’t address him as a marshal.
“That’s right,” said Longarm. He stepped down from the boardwalk and extended his hand.
The man shook it, his grip firm. “Franklin Barton,” he said, introducing himself. He turned to indicate the two men who had followed him off the stage. “This is Thaddeus Quine and Lewis Markson.” Still no mention of anything to indicate who they really were.
