Don Pendleton - Run to Ground

He straightened slowly and with difficulty, and turned his back upon the hollow shell that once had been his father. There was nothing he could do to spare his father from the pain and the indignity he had suffered in his final hours, but there might be something Rick could do to even up the score. His father kept a .38 at the garage, in case of robberies, and while there had been no occasion for its use, he had kept the weapon oiled and loaded. Rick had failed to check to see if it was still in place this morning, but if it had not been taken by the men who had attacked his father...

There was still a chance that he could have some measure of revenge, and while he knew that it would never be the same again, it might just be enough to keep his mind within the borderlines of sanity. But first... he thought of Amy Schultz with sudden longing, totally divorced from sex, and knew that he should see her, just once more, before he took a last, irrevocable step against his enemies. Avoiding glances from the other citizens of Santa Rosa, stepping wide around the hands that sought to stroke him in condolence, Rick struck off in the direction of the hardware store.

He had promised them an hour, and Luis Rivera was a man who kept his word from time to time. No more than forty minutes left, but he would wait and see if any of the gringos had a shred of common sense. If one of them had seen the soldier, even sheltered him at home, it would be so easy to step forward, save himself, his family, by offering the information Rivera sought. Of course, it would save no one in the long run; all of them would have to die, now that Rivera had been bold and brash enough to show his face, but no one in the tiny town of Santa Rosa knew that. Yet.

Rivera honored promises as long as they were useful to him. In a business deal, if he agreed to pay a large supplier on delivery of merchandise, he kept his word, thereby ensuring future shipments. If he made the promise to an independent runner, trying to retire in sunny Florida on income from a one-off deal, he simply took the merchandise by force, retired the would-be dealer to a sandy grave, and went about his business. Compared to some of his competitors, Rivera was a paragon of virtue. You could trust him just as far as you could see him, on a foggy day.

With Hector, Esteban, and half a dozen of his gunners, he had moved inside the air-conditioned diner, seeking refuge from the sun. His other troops were left on guard around the vehicles and out back, preventing any two-bit local from attempting to become a hero overnight. The bodies from the ambulance still lay on Main Street, lined up on the center stripe, and they would soon begin to smell. Rivera didn't mind, especially — he was accustomed to the stench of death from long experience — and the aroma just might serve as an incentive to the people of the town.

Or one of them, at any rate.

The stranger's presence was not general knowledge. He had searched the faces of his sidewalk audience for hints of recognition as he spun his fabricated story, seeking a response and finding none. No hint of shock or guilt, no trace of lingering anxiety. Rivera now considered two alternatives: the people he had spoken with, thus far, knew nothing of the gringo's presence in their town; or else one of them was a great deal stronger than he looked.

Or she. A woman might be tempted by a wounded warrior, taking him to heart and standing firm against a threat to his well-being. Despite Rivera's heritage, his personal commitment to machismo, he did not regard the female as a weaker sex. They suffered much in life, not least in childbirth, and their lust for vengeance could be awesome. If a woman had the stranger in her clutches, and especially if she was unmarried, then Rivera's task would be that much more difficult. She would not give the gringo up as readily as, say, a man with a wife and children to protect.

But he would let them have their hour, keep his fingers crossed and hope that someone, anyone, would point at his neighbor, whisper in Rivera's ear. A fearful man will sell his neighbor, and his neighbor's children, to survive. With three dead men — their friends — already lying in the street, the townspeople knew that he was serious, that it was not a game. They would think twice before they tried to call his bluff.

His chief lieutenants sat in silence, sipping coffee, killing time, and waiting for their orders. Esteban had done a decent job of rounding up assorted weapons from the hardware shop, reducing chances for a vigilante ambush on the street, and he had briefed Rivera on the incident involving Jorge and Ismael with the merchant's daughter. The gunners would be dealt with later, when Rivera had the time to teach them discipline, but at the moment he was thinking of the girl. Allowing her to live had been a judgment call, with which Rivera did not totally agree, but he could understand Esteban's reasoning. The girl would certainly be found. Her injuries, the liquidation of her parents, would spread further terror among the locals, prompting them to take whatever steps might be required to save themselves. Potential problems lay within their choice of methods for survival. While the rational recourse would be delivery of the wounded stranger to Rivera, some among them might decide to fight. It was a risky game, this playing with men's minds, and he would have to wait to see the outcome first, assessing methods with the benefit of hindsight prior to making any judgment on Rodriguez.

As for Hector, he had been chastised, in private, for his failure to maintain communications with the column while he made his own reconnaissance of Santa Rosa. There had been no need for public confrontation, with Camacho losing face in front of his subordinates, but if he failed a second time, Rivera would be forced to reinvestigate his options. And, if Hector failed him once again in Santa Rosa, he would not be going home alive.

Rivera called for coffee, studying the slender waitress as she served him, noting how she trembled in his presence. She was young, no more than twenty, probably eighteen, and she excited him, but he resisted the temptation to reach out and slip a hand beneath her skirt. She would not resist him — he could see that fear had sapped her will to fight — but he did not have time for games. Rivera's mind was focused on the task at hand, and a distraction was the last thing he needed. Maybe, when his work was done in Santa Rosa, he would take the waitress with him, keep her for a day or two to celebrate and pass the time. When he was finished with her, she could join the others in oblivion.

The dealer lit another of his cheroots and checked his watch against a large clock on the wall above the door. The townspeople had already wasted half of their allotted time, but he could wait. No one would interrupt them here. His men were on the highway, north and south, and the telephone lines had been cut down on either end of town. There was no local operator, no telegrapher, and as for CB radios, he would have to take his chances. If anyone got on the air, if anyone was listening...

He pushed the thought aside. Less than thirty minutes remained, and he would be long finished with his business in the little town before assistance could arrive. The sheriff's office was in Tucson — more than sixty miles away — and any solitary deputies who might respond, meanwhile, would be destroyed by his rear guard before they reached the town limits. Santa Rosa, for the moment, was entirely his, and he would use its people as he chose, in order to get answers, revenge.

The answers were important — who and why — but after so much wasted time, Rivera knew that he would settle for the gringo's head, a trophy that would prove once more that he was no one to be trifled with. There might be other ways to learn which of his many competitors had tried to put him out of business in a single stroke, and if he never learned the name at all, it might be enough to let the jackals know that they had failed, that their efforts were in vain.