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  Jack gave a derisive look to the floor, the walls around them.

  ‘That’s not real easy to believe, mister,’ he said. ‘Sounds like something Mr Fishback might have said, in view of him being real funny and all.’

  ‘So where would you recommend we bed down?’ Chama asked.

  The Mexican shrugged uneasily.

  ‘This is the only place, I could recommend, señor. But as I said . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know, you’re full to busting,’ Jack cut in. The shambling figure of the coach driver rose from a corner table.

  ‘The goddamn coach is free. Take it for another night, why don’t you?’ he offered. ‘It’ll be more comfortable, an’ a hell of a lot sweeter-smellin’. I ain’t goin’ anywhere in this weather.’

  Jack thanked him. ‘A port in a storm, eh? I’ve spent nights in worse places,’ he said.

  ‘If you’re workin’ for that turkey-cock who was in here earlier, you might be goin’ back to one o’ them worse places. I wish you both luck.’

  ‘We’ll be working for Ralph Kettle, no straw boss,’ Jack advised the driver. ‘I hope all of your guests haven’t eaten all of the food,’ he added, turning his eyes on the barkeep.

  ‘Beans an’ tomato or beans an’ meat,’ the barkeep offered.

  ‘I’ll take both,’ Jack said.

  ‘Me too,’ Chama accepted.

  ‘Make that three plates an’ three whiskeys. American whiskey,’ the coach driver called.

  The rain didn’t stop. Long after Chama began snoring, Jack was listening to it drumming on the coach roof. He was tired, but his mind was racing. Once again, he saw in his mind’s eye things he didn’t want to see.

  To deaden his aches he’d bought a half-bottle of aguardiente from the barkeep. He took another pull, then settled his head back against the threadbare upholstery, letting the raw, fiery spirit do its work.

  At the first hint of daylight the two men were riding a narrow trail that wound through a thick stand of live oaks, climbing into the northern foothills of the Sierra Madres. Unexpectedly, they rode up to the outer boundaries of the RK ranch. As they crested a rolling hill, they found themselves facing wire.

  ‘Hog-wire. Very nasty,’ Jack said. ‘No one ever told me they had that down here. I thought it was a ranch we’ve been riding to, not a farm.’

  Reining in, they sat in the predawn light, scanned the flat-roofed adobe buildings nestling beneath the timberline of the soaring mountain range. Cattle were all over the grass-rich land, and in a corral Jack saw a score of fine horses cavorting about. In the home yard there were a lot of cowboys busy saddling up. The long, low bunkhouse was in the usual place, next to the main house. Yellow light spilled from its open doorway, smoke curled thickly from the chimney.

  Chama grinned. ‘This is it, amigo. At last we’ve arrived.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Jack said. ‘There must be a break along here somewhere.’

  They rode along the wire until they came to a gateway with a poker-worked sign.

  ‘RK,’ Jack read as he rode through. ‘Let’s find Fishback.’

  Ten minutes later Jack tied his sorrel to the long hitching pole alongside the bunkhouse. He looked straight towards the bulky man who had stepped out to meet them.

  ‘Good morning. We’re looking for John Fishback,’ he said.

  ‘Morning. He’ll be wherever he fell, I expect,’ the American answered. ‘He certainly tied one on last night; must’ve drunk the place dry. With you fellers, was he?’

  ‘Not for long,’ Jack replied. ‘Where can we get coffee?’

  ‘Cookhouse is back o’ here.’

  Stopping short of a smile, Jack nodded his thanks. With Chama, he walked around to the cookhouse and, with four other shuddering figures, stood around the double-bellied stove. There were three walls, a flat roof and a puncheoned floor on which stood a long table with benches either side.

  ‘I can see why it’s tucked away,’ Chama remarked. ‘For a cowboy drifter, it’s not much of an attraction.’

  ‘It weans ’em into what it’s goin’ to be like for the rest o’ the day,’ the cook told them. ‘They’re paid to work, an’ breakfast’s at five, not mid-mornin’.’ He gave Jack and Chama a broad smile. ‘Sit yourselves down.’

  While the other men joined the group of workers in the yard, the cook filled two tin mugs with strong black coffee, pushed some beans into the direct heat of the stove.

  ‘I’m Hector Bream,’ he said, poking the beans with a fork. ‘The big barrel you were talkin’ to’s Walter Bishop. Together with John Fishback an’ Kettle himself, we’re the only Americans here. Which is OK so long’s there’s not another goddamn war.’

  Like tequila and mescal, the coffee drove away the thought of cold without actually doing much about it. Chama gleefully spooned heaps of sugar from the bowl, and they both tucked away the hot beans. They talked, sat waiting for John Fishback to make an appearance. Most of the hands had ridden out of the yard, and the sun was breaking across the distant mountains before the foreman stepped from the bunkhouse.

  Fishback saw Jack and Chama immediately, almost as if he simply wanted to locate them. He ignored them as he passed by, walking on to the corral where a wrangler was breaking out a chestnut gelding.

  ‘He’s pretending he doesn’t remember,’ Jack said to Chama. ‘He’s one stupid son of a bitch’

  ‘I think he heard you say that,’ the young Mexican replied. ‘He’s coming over.’

  Fishback approached the two men, strode through the open front and casually put one boot on the bench next to Chama.

  ‘Well, the pair o’ you got here without me,’ he ribbed. ‘An’ breakfast was over an hour ago.’

  ‘Sí señor,’ Chama replied. ‘The cook already told us that.’

  Fishback poked a finger into the flesh of Chama’s upper arm.

  ‘Now I’m tellin’ you. There’s a difference.’

  Touch me like that if you dare, Jack was thinking. He wondered whether Fishback was a natural bully, or was it race – a people thing? Probably came with being stupid, he decided. A muscle twitched in Chama’s jaw.

  ‘Sí. There sure is, señor,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Good. An’ call me boss,’ the foreman said. ‘For what remains o’ the day you can stay an’ help Bream.’ That was Fishback’s dismissal of Chama, now he turned his glassy stare on Jack. ‘Ralph left word he wanted to see you when you arrived, Finch. Sounds like he thinks you’re special goods.’ The man’s body movement inched him towards Jack. ‘Is that how you see yourself, feller? Special?’ he sneered.

  Jack took a deep breath, didn’t blink.

  ‘Depends on who I’m next to at the time,’ he said. But he was thinking that if Fishback moved an inch nearer he’d smack him one.

  Surprised by Jack’s reply, Fishback had no quick response. He took his foot from the bench.

  ‘After you’ve seen Ralph I’ll give you chores to put some harder bark on you,’ he said.

  Jack smiled. ‘You don’t want to do that, boss, you really don’t.’

  Fishback was still more taken aback, his face now tinged with concern.

  ‘I was thinkin’ you looked kind o’ pale, a little doughy,’ he said, striding off towards the bunkhouse. ‘Let’s get movin’,’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Jack caught Chama by the shoulder as the Mexican started after the foreman.

  ‘Steady, amigo. You’ve got the beating of him and he knows it. There’ll be a time – believe me.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Chama said. ‘I just wanted to let him know I didn’t like him. Nobody’s spoken to me like that in a long time. Un largo tiempo.’

  CHAPTER 8

  An elderly Mexican answered Jack’s knock at the ranch-house door. He ushered him into the presence of a slight, sharp-featured man seated behind a broad mahogany desk. The man’s piercing blue eyes made a quick assessment of Jack, a cautious smile moved his thin lips.

  ‘That’s all, Ramon. Thank you,�
�� Ralph Kettle told his house help. He then invited Jack to sit down as the door closed.

  Jack sat and stared at his employer. The deep silence was disturbed only by the regular tick of a wall-mounted clock behind the rancher. After thirty seconds Kettle smiled.

  ‘I don’t know about you, Mr Finch, but I’ve been looking for a first impression,’ he said. ‘I do that for ’most anyone my daughter recommends.’

  ‘I’d say making judgements like that could be a mistake, Mr Kettle,’ Jack responded. ‘Your daughter recommends many men, does she?’ he asked.

  ‘Constanza is forever directing strays this way. It’s usually a physical healing of some kind. Some are good – valuable in terms of mutual help – others aren’t quite so. My daughter thinks with her heart; an occupational hazard, I guess. Have you eaten?’

  ‘I have yes, thank you.’ Jack wondered what sort of healing Connie had in mind for him. ‘How do you see me, Mr Kettle? First impressions and all,’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m not worried about you,’ Kettle said. ‘She wrote me . . . touched on your trouble. I appreciate you need somewhere like this where you can regain your strength . . . give yourself time to think.’

  ‘And what do you suppose I’d be thinking about?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Probably how to avoid this person who’s trying to kill you. The fusilero, your friends called him.’ Kettle managed to avoid looking directly at Jack.

  ‘I’m not running from anyone,’ Jack said.

  Now the rancher looked straight at him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘Are you absolutely sure of that? Constanza wrote me you’d been wounded . . . not too badly but still lucky to be alive. You don’t look like the sort of man who fears easily. But you must feel something. An insecurity?’

  ‘Well, I’m not yet recognizing it, Mr Kettle. And I wasn’t reckoning on spending more than a couple of weeks here. So, other than the civility of an introduction, was there something else you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘I already said: to give me an impression. For my daughter’s sake as well as mine. I accept your motives are your own business, but as long as you’re on my ranch I have a vested interest in your welfare. Perhaps even accountable. I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr Finch.’

  ‘Sure. Sure I do.’

  ‘Good. And you’re welcome to remain here as long as you want. We don’t expect you to go bull-running, but you’re obviously well enough for lighter chores.’

  Jack nodded and stood up.

  ‘Oh, I’m good for those,’ he agreed.

  ‘John Fishback will see you get settled in. Feel free to call on me any time,’ the rancher said, ushering Jack through the door.

  Standing on the wide veranda outside the front door of the house, Jack took a thoughtful look around him. He understood how a scared man might judge another by his own feelings. Perhaps the old rancher wanted a counterpart. If you can’t beat someone on your own, seek out a partner with a similar problem. Yeah, that would be it, he was thinking – had nearly said aloud – when the door opened behind him.

  ‘A moment. I should have mentioned that I had a letter from Constanza,’ Kettle said, lifting an envelope in his hand. ‘She’ll be arriving next week. She has a short vacation owing. I thought you’d like to know.’

  For Jack, the little twist of pleasure was lessened by circumstance.

  ‘Well, I’m sure that’s good news for you Mr Kettle,’ he replied. ‘But I only knew your daughter as a nurse. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘Hmm, just thought I’d say.’ Kettle nodded flatly and turned back into the house.

  To Jack’s right John Fishback lounged against one of the veranda’s corner posts. The man thumbed his Stetson further up on his forehead, made a twisted grin.

  ‘So, playin’ piggy-in-the-middle with Miss Connie an’ her pa, huh?’ he said with a smirk. ‘Now I know what makes you so special. Well, feller, I’ll tell you what I told the pepper gut. It’s me who’s got intentions in that direction. You understand?’

  Jack laughed, mouthed what he thought was a fitting and droll remark.

  Pushing away from the stanchion, Fishback paled.

  ‘You sneery at that?’

  ‘Nurse Kettle’s probably used to seeing some sad cases, but none of them will likely be in your league, Fishback. And that’s a fact.’

  Fishback’s hand moved threateningly to the revolver belted high on his hip.

  ‘You’re making your mistakes real personal. And pulling that Colt could be the biggest,’ Jack warned.

  Fishback’s chest was heaving quickly with the short irate breaths he was taking. His face was twisted in torment.

  ‘Me coming here was her idea,’ Jack said. ‘It was a healing concern and suited me at the time . . . still does.’ It wasn’t all exactly true, but Jack thought it expedient. ‘You’ll bust something, carrying so much bad humour,’ he continued. ‘Why don’t you calm down? Stick to what you’re best at.’

  Fishback’s gaze was now puzzled. He moved his hand away from his Colt, started what he thought to be an appeasing smile.

  ‘Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I’m willin’ to try again if you are. What do you say?’ he offered.

  ‘I say it was how you started off, Fishback. I don’t care a tinker’s cuss either way. It’s your move.’

  The RK ramrod paused a moment to think.

  ‘Let’s get to the bunkhouse . . . start there,’ he said.

  Jack recalled Tolliver Spatch’s insinuation that John Fishback could be ruling the roost over Ralph Kettle. Suddenly, and to Fishback’s way of thinking, Jack Finch had spiked his gun.

  ‘This’ll be your beddin’ ground,’ Fishback nodded towards a row of bunks. ‘You an’ your Mex friend can take the last two. There’s bootlockers underneath if you’ve anything to stow. Most don’t.’

  ‘Our horses?’ Jack enquired.

  ‘Stables are on the far side o’ the corral. Saddles an’ bits got their pegs in each stall,’ the foreman continued. ‘Take your sorrel over an’ unsaddle him. After that, I’ll show you more.’

  Jack hoisted his saddle on to the wall pegs, groaned with exhaustion as he removed the reins and bit from the sorrel. His legs felt weak, his forehead was clammy; he hunkered down in the stall for a moment.

  ‘Should have stayed in the sick bed a few more days,’ he muttered, staring at the tremor in his hands.

  He cursed, shook himself when he heard the stamp of a horse as it entered the gloomy building.

  Two men greeted each other. One was plainly Mexican, the other spoke in a voice Jack thought he recognized.

  ‘Como esta?’ the Mexican said.

  ‘Fine, Rico, just fine. Have you seen the two new fellers? They’ve just arrived. One o’ mine, one o’ yours.’

  ‘Sí. But don’t worry. They don’t smell like any kind of lawmen to me.’

  ‘Yeah, well they’re the ones you got to look out for. We’ve got to check ’em out, somehow. We can’t shift another beeve ’til we know who they are. You handle yours, I’ll see our gringo friend.’

  Realizing the two men were talking about him and Raul Chama, Jack cursed silently, looking around him for some sort of way out.

  ‘And what if they are not who they say they are?’ the Mexican continued.

  There was a long, silent moment before the American answered:

  ‘I don’t know, Rico. But getting worried might be a good idea.’

  ‘Jack. Jack Finch. What the hell’s keepin’ you?’ Now it was John Fishback’s voice calling from outside the stables.

  There was a short scuffle from the gloomy interior before the American answered back.

  ‘What do you want, boss?’

  ‘One o’ the new men. He’s in there with his horse. Tell him to get on with it. I haven’t got all day.’

  Knowing it was the wrong moment to make any sort of sound, Jack thought long, appropriate curses.

  ‘In here? Hell!’ The anxiety was plain in the immedi
ate exchange between the American and the Mexican.

  Jack eased himself to standing. He edged sideways around the walls of the stalls, away from the voices.

  ‘Hola? Someone in here?’ the Mexican called out.

  Hardly daring to breathe, Jack gripped his Colt. He knew that whatever he did would have to happen within a very few seconds. Moving as quietly as possible away from the sounds of the searching men, he backed up against the rear of the building. Looking to his left and then right for a back door, he saw where a section of panelling had been removed from a back corner of the stables. It was to allow access to the water barrel from inside as well as out, and there was enough room for him to squeeze through.

  He turned, squinting against the light, made a grab for his Colt when he saw the figure directly in front of him.

  ‘Amigo. What’s wrong?’ Raul Chama asked.

  Shaking his head and holding a finger across his lips, Jack stepped forward. He led, half-pushed Chama to the frame of a broken calf wagon. Crouching down, regaining his breath, he described what he’d overheard from the stables.

  ‘I can guess what’s going on here,’ Chama replied. ‘There’s at least two of them running ahead of any tally. They’re working the RK stock. What other reason would there be for them to be out here?’

  ‘You tell me, Raul,’ Jack said. ‘But if that is what’s going on, and those two think I overheard them, they’ll want to do something about it.’

  ‘Then you have to convince them you heard nothing.’

  ‘And how do I do that without them not getting suspicious?’

  ‘Pretend you weren’t there – that you had left the stables before they arrived.’

  A minute or so later Jack circled back around the barn. The corral with its horses gave further cover, from which he emerged when Fishback had his back to him.

  ‘I’m coming. I heard you the first time,’ he said, when the foreman called his name again. ‘And I told you you’d bust a gut if you carried on like that.’

  Fishback looked hard at him for a second, then called out:

  ‘It’s all right fellers. I’ve got him. He’s out here.’