Ferris wailed, and the guard out front glanced up from the novel he was reading to grunt, “Ay, crillate la trompa.”
Longarm replied, “Ceme mierda,” then sang on about the delights of Riley’s daughter as raucously as possible on purpose.
But it didn’t work. The guard must have had orders, or a thick skin, since neither advising him to eat shit nor the very vulgar song in English seemed to inspire him to suit actions to his muttered threats. He only laughed when Longarm switched to Spanish lyrics, promising to piss on the guard’s father’s grave as soon as his old whore of a mother could figure out which of her many customers he might have been.
There was a lot to be said for cussing in Spanish. Since it had few words that were dirty all by themselves, the language called for more personal suggestions. For example, “son of a bitch” lost a lot of its bite when simply translated as “hijo de perra.” So “hijo de puta” or “son of a whore” came out about as nice along the border.
Most everyone you drank with was a cabrone. The secret of starting a fight down this way was to mention any woman of his family, however politely, that he’d never introduced you to.
Longarm considered asking their guard whether it was true his sister was so fond of her burro because its dong was so much bigger than his own. But he decided against it. The cuss looked too smart to open the cell door without orders, and too Mexican to stand still for many serious insults without at least shooting somebody in the knee.
Another million years went by as silence set in, save for the sound of a page turning now and again. A fair piece after sundown, Longarm glanced up from his study of the dusty concrete floor as he heard their guard curse.
It took a few moments for Longarm to follow the devoted reader’s drift. Then the lamp on the desk flickered again. Their guard put down his book and picked up the lamp to shake it. Once he’d determined there was plenty of oil left, he fiddled with the wick while the glass chimney blackened with sooty smoke until suddenly, the whole place was plunged into total darkness.
Almost total, at any rate. Longarm couldn’t see his hand before his face as somewhere somebody opened something, judging by the draft of air on Longarm’s hands as they gripped the bars of his cell.
Their guard must have felt it as well. He called out, “Que pasa?” and might have demanded, “Quien es?” had not further remarks from him been cut off in the dark by what sounded like someone slicing through a cabbage, followed by a large dull thud.
A familiar male voice called out, “El Brazo Largo?”
To which Longarm could only reply, “Aqui. I thought that sounded like someone’s throat getting cut, El Gato. Get me out of here. I got a boat to catch!”
There came the jingle of a key ring, but no sound of approaching steps. They didn’t call the rather sinister young man a cat because he stomped about in the dark in his boots and spurs.
As his invisible rescuer smoothly slid the right key in the lock, Longarm didn’t ask how El Gato could see what he was doing. El Gato couldn’t understand why everyone else seemed to go blind after the sun went down. But he’d long since learned to take advantage of his freakish night vision.
As he unlocked Longarm’s cell, El Gato asked what their plans for Sam Ferris might be. The story of their cantina fight was all over town by this time.
Longarm stepped out, saying, “Let me get back my badge, my guns, and such whilst I ponder the prick’s fate.” El Gato said, “Mierda, is no time for to ponder anything. I have your gun belt here. Put it on as we leave the premises muy pronto! I can unlock this other cell or leave it the way it is. Which shall it be, El Brazo Largo?”
Longarm laughed and said, “They have him pegged as El Brazo Largo to begin with, and they ain’t going to give toad squat who he is when they find that guard with his throat slashed.”
Then he called in to Ferris, “Are you ready to aid and abet the U.S. Justice Department instead of Harmony Drake, El Brazo Largo?”
Ferris naturally answered, “You can’t leave me here with that dead greaser. I’ll be lucky if all they want to do is shoot me! But who’s this Harmony Drake you keep asking me about?”
Longarm told El Gato, “Vammos. I haven’t time for games. I told you I got a boat to catch and I know who’s likely to be aboard it!”
So they and some other unseen presences left by way of a side exit to move along a dark alley. There was just enough light from the overcast sky above them to make out moving shapes. The nearest one with the big sombrero had to be El Gato. The other four figures could have been male, female, or big black bears for all one could really tell. As they moved swiftly but silently through the maze of back alleyways, Longarm buckled on his familiar .44-40. Then El Gato handed him his wallet and badge, saying, “One of my own may find that Schofield better for to carry than a pepperbox. What of that monstrous buffalo rifle they took away from you? Can we have it?” Longarm said, “Not just yet. My Winchester’s all the way over in New Mexico Territory by this time, Lord willing and they ain’t lost all my baggage on me. I hope your muchachos hung on to that ammunition as well.”
El Gato sighed and replied, “Our disgusting government seems to buy only modern guns and ammunition. Hey, how did you like that trick with the guard’s night light, eh?”
Longarm chuckled fondly and said, “Couldn’t have done it better my ownself. That kid working around the jail was one of your own, right?” El Gato said, “Si, is easy to place your own people in positions a grand government cabrone would not even choose for a brother-in-law. You know what was in that lamp instead of whale oil?”
Longarm nodded and said, “Sure. Water, with just a film of lamp oil floating on top to feed the wick for the first few hours of the night.”
El Gato grumbled, “Cofio, you peeked.” Longarm said, “Never mind how you got me out. Let’s just say I owe you for that and show me the way to the docks. For I’m turned around total and I have to get aboard that northbound steamboat poco tiempo, lest it leave for Yuma without me!”
El Gato suddenly pulled Longarm through a doorway into a much more brightly lit corridor. Longarm could see all of them were dressed in black charro outfits now. One of them was wearing that bandolier and packing the Big Fifty.
El Gato himself was an almost girlishly good-looking gent who moved in a disturbingly slinky way. The scion of a pure Castilian clan he preferred not to name, the young rebel leader would have had no trouble passing as a
