stages, every hour or so, which was about as far as one could drive a team at a steady trot. So even though it seemed to be running late, the Mexican stage from Sonoyta was likely to overtake anyone just riding along on one weary mount, or hell, beat the fugitives into Sonoyta with time to spare and pocket jingle to buy some serious side arms and get set to greet their arrival from a chosen vantage point!
Longarm knew the fleeing felons hadn’t jumped the border near a rurale post to buy passage south aboard a faster stagecoach. He had no desire to alarm the already worried Mexican more than he had to either. So he worked his way back to the road and rode in at a walk, singing “La Paloma” off key to let everyone know he wasn’t sneaking up on them.
The older Mexican in white cotton, but with boots befitting his social station, stepped out into the road as Longarm approached. As Longarm rode into the lamplight, the fondero indicated he’d noticed Longarm’s accent by calling out, “Buenoches, Senor. Have you see anything of the mail coach from Sonoyta? Was supposed to be here by this time, and is not good for to leave the relay team harnessed so long before they have a load for to pull, eh?”
Longarm reined in as he replied, “I haven’t seen anyone on this road south of the border but myself.” Which was the simple truth, as soon as you studied on it.
Getting no argument about that, he continued. “I was hoping I might still be able to board that night coach. I can’t understand it, but this stock I’ve only ridden a short way seems about to founder under me and I have a steamboat to meet in Puerto Periasco!” The fondero said, “We can board your stock and give you a faster ride, if that fregado coach ever gets here. Come inside for to drink with me in a more civilized position. I will have my muchachos take care of your jaded riding stock and we shall see what we shall see.”
Longarm allowed that was the best offer he’d had since sundown, and the two of them were soon seated at one of the blue wooden tables inside, being served pulque in earthenware mugs by a pleasantly plump cantina gal who liked to feel cool above the nipples, judging from the way she wore her pleated cotton blouse.
Pulque tasted better when a man was really dry, which might have been why the slightly slimy home brew was more popular south of the border. Longarm was thirsty enough to have enjoyed his own spit if he’d had more to spare. So he meant it when he told them both it was really swell pulque.
The older fondero rattled off some orders in rapid-fire Spanish to the gal, who dimpled at Longarm and headed back to see that the other help carried them out. Longarm kept his face blank, lest they savvy how well he savvied their lingo. So far, nobody seemed to be plotting against him or his four-footed traveling companions.
The older man opined there might not be any coach at all coming down the road that night. He explained how Los Yanquis Negros had brushed with Victorio at a place called Los Manantiales de Culebra de Cascabel and chased him across the border into Chihuahua.
Longarm frowned thoughtfully and mused half to himself, “If Black Yankees signifies the 10th Cav down from Fort Sill, which it ought to, and if they just chased four hundred Bronco Apache across the Tex-Mex border into Chihuahua from a part of the states we’re more likely to call Rattlesnake Springs, I’m stuck. How would Indian fighting so far to the east have any bearing on whether you’d be expecting a night coach to Pueto Periasco or not?”
The fondero explained, “Our own army garrison here in Sonora is on the way to join other federales in Chihuahua. You were so right when you said that diablo grosero has many riders following him!”
Longarm finished his pulque and, not wanting more, got out two cheroots as he quietly repeated his observation that any number of Apache on the far side of the Sierra Madres were hardly likely to stop any stagecoaches over this way.
The fondero again explained. “Apache are not the problem. Banditos are the problem. Since all this trouble to the east has drawn so many of our soldiers and mounted police away, the segunderos de la calle who seldom show their dirty faces have grown bolder. There has been much stealing of cows, and even horses, this summer. They say that the big gang led by El Gato Notorio has been seen on our side of the Sierra Madre!”
Longarm lit the older man’s smoke for him as he said without too much thought that he’d heard El Gato was more a rebel than a bandit.
He regretted saying it when the older man rose to his feet with a remark about late coaches and stomped out the back way to see how his boys were doing with the stock. It was easy to forget how divided opinion could be about El Presidente Porfirio Diaz down this way. The smooth-talking but murderous mestizo had stolen the liberation movement of Juarez according to some, while others opined that the one-time top general of the late Benito Juarez had now given Mexico the law, order, and stable government it needed.
That was what they called a government that treated most of its citizens like riding stock: a stable government. Taxes got collected, the mail got delivered, and you could usually count on making rail and steamboat connections, wherever that fool stagecoach was this evening. El Presidente and his Wall Street pals liked to say Mexico was now a smoothly running land of contented citizens. Los rurales shot citizens who wouldn’t say they were contented. They’d have hardly hired a sworn enemy of the state for this mail coach line either.
But the fat was in the fire. So when that plump serving wench came in through another door to ask if he’d like something to eat, he pasted a smile across his face and replied, “I’m not sure I’ll have the time, Senorita. I have to beat that steamboat to Puerto Periasco whether the coach is running or not tonight.”
She insisted, “I shall serve you some huevos fritos con jamon in no time at all. You will be able to meet that barco costanero with the time to spare if you have for to walk. Is only one a week either way. Your Yanqui friends from Yuma will not reach Puerto Periasco for at least four days, comprende?”
He digested that and asked, “How soon might the next northbound arrive with, say, my Mexican friends?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders and replied, “The day after manana, I think. Is the same slow but steady vapor, puffing north and south, south and north, in a most tedious manner on a calm but sultry sea. You say you have friends in the south of my country, Senor?” He said he’d sure like those ham and eggs now. So she went out back to fry them, or get somebody else to do so. The place seemed to be crawling with unseen kids, or maybe brownies, judging from the muffled elfin giggles.
The old fondero came back in, still smoking what was left of that cheroot. He said he’d put away the sorrel and mule. He also said he’d left Longarm’s saddle and baggage in the tack room next to the stable. Then he said he’d told his help to put the coach team they’d harnessed back in their damned stalls as well, seeing that coach was so late now, it would have to finish its run by broad day—in August, Jesus, Maria y Jose!
Longarm said he was waiting for a late snack, and asked about a coach ticket to go with it.
The grumpy old cuss said to settle with the cochero about his passage and the accommodations that went with it, when and if the triple-thumbed pendejo ever showed up with that chingado coach.
