Tabor Evans - Longarm on the Border

"Damned if you don't sound like an American!" Longarm exclaimed, squinting through the gloom. He thought there were two others in the cell with him, but couldn't yet be sure.

"We're both Americans," a second voice spoke up. "I'm John Hill, Captain, 10th Cavalry, U.S. Army."

"And I'm Nate Webster, Texas Rangers," the first voice said. "Now, who're you?"

"Custis Long, Deputy U.S. Marshal, Denver office. And you two men don't know how much trouble you saved me!"

"Listen to him talk about trouble!" Hill said dryly. "Wait'll you've been in here awhile, Long. You'll find out what trouble really is!"

"I didn't mean it that way," Longarm explained. "You're the fellows I was sent down here to locate."

"Well, glory be!" Webster exclaimed. "It's about time somebody tumbled we were missing. Wait a minute, though. How come Bert Matthews went to the federals for help? Why didn't he send one of our own boys after me?"

"Same reason the army didn't send a cavalry troop after the captain, here. You Rangers and the army both fought the Mexicans in wars. I guess they figured if they sent one deputy marshal, it wasn't going to look like an invasion. On top of that, nobody on the other side of the Rio Grande knew where the hell you two had got off to."

"I'll tell you something," Webster said. "I wouldn't mind leading a Ranger company against this bunch Ramos runs here."

"Amen to that," Hill said. "I'd like to have a platoon under me with orders to clean house here."

"It needs a lot of cleaning," Longarm agreed. "I never seen such a mess in my life. Ain't nobody in charge of things in this country got any brains?"

"Old Porfirio Diaz has brains enough," Hill said. "The trouble is, they're the wrong kind." When neither Longarm nor Webster had any comment, the army captain asked, "If you were sent down here to look for me and Webster, Marshal, you must be looking for those two deserters from my outfit, too."

"I was, but I'm not any longer. You don't need to look either, Captain. They're both dead."

"Hell you say." Hill didn't sound too surprised. "The rurales get them?"

"No. They got crossways of an unreconstructed reb in Los Perros. Deputy sheriff named Spud something. He killed 'em and hid their bodies. It's a safe bet you'll never find 'em."

"Well." The captain was taking the news philosophically. "They were pretty good soldiers until they got horny and raped that rancher's wife. I won't say I'm glad they're dead, but if I'd caught them, I'd have had to give evidence against them at a court-martial and watch them executed by a firing squad. I don't think I'd've enjoyed it."

Longarm could now make out details of his surroundings and see his cellmates' faces clearly. Nate Webster was tall, almost as tall as Longarm himself, but a bit thinner and rangier. His face was fading from the deep bronze he'd acquired in his job. Above his eyebrows where his hat brim sat there was a band of white skin between the tan and his sandy hair. Hill was on the short side, with a baby-round face from which the fat was beginning to melt away. Both men were dressed in little more than rags, and neither wore shoes or boots. Their sockless feet were thrust into huaraches of braided leather such as Longarm had seen on the feet of Los Perros dwellers.

Webster saw Longarm eyeing their attire and said, "If you're wondering what happened to our clothes, we ate 'em."

"You did what?"

"I guess you've never been in a Mexican jail before," Hill said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Come to that, I ain't," Longarm replied.

Webster explained, "They don't feed prisoners in Mexico. If you've got food or something to trade, you eat. If not, you starve."

"So you traded your duds for grub," Longarm nodded. "I guess I'd've done the same thing. Guess I got off lucky, then. Don't know how it happened, but them bandits out there missed searching me. I got a little cash in my britches, even if that sergeant did lift $200 outa my wallet."

"I hope you're feeling charitable, Marshal," Hill said. "We've just about run out of anything to trade."

"You know you're both welcome to what I got. Only how do we go about getting grub? My belly's been pushing against my backbone for the last three, four hours."

"Sebastian will be around after a while to see what kind of dicker we can offer," Webster replied. "If you don't mind a bit of advice, don't let him know how much money you've got, and don't pull off your boots when you go to bed."

"Who's Sebastian?"

"He's the jailer," Webster answered. "He looks too old to be worth much, but the son of a bitch is cagey. He'll steal you blind with your eyes open, and trade you outa your socks."

"Thanks. I'll remember. But I might be outa here before too long." Seeing the questions in his cellmates' eyes, Longarm explained about the letter. "It was a straight-out holdup, a ransom note, but when it hits Mexico City, it ought to bring some kind of action."

"Ramos got you on that, too, did he?" Hill asked.

"You mean he had you write a letter like that?"

"He sure as hell did. He wants $25,000 in gold to let me go back across the river," Hill grinned.

"Well, I'm right took down," Longarm said. "He sure didn't put my price that high."

"You're both going cheap," Webster told them. "The price on me was $30,000. I guess the extra's a sort of revenge for whatever part the Rangers took in whipping them at San Jacinto."

For a moment the three men looked at one another, then burst out laughing. In spite of their serious situation, the idea of a Mexican rurale who'd risen no higher than the command of an isolated, unimportant police outpost demanding ransom from the United States struck them as comical. It wasn't until their laughing spell died down that Longarm remembered Lefty.

"Hold up a minute," he said. "That patrol brought in somebody besides me. A deputy sheriff from Los Perros. How come he's not in here, too?"

"I wouldn't know," Webster said. "They haven't brought anybody else in, though. All the other cells were full until yesterday, but there were Mexicans in the others. The two across from us had a bunch of vaqueros in 'em, and I guess they got turned free. That one back of us had a bandit in it, but they hauled him out and shot him this morning."

Longarm said thoughtfully, "These damn rurales sure don't waste much time. Don't they ever give anybody a real trial in a court?"

"None that I've noticed," Webster replied. "But remember, Long, the rurales today're not like they were in Benito Juarez's time. They used to be a real crack police force then. This bunch now's made up mostly of Diaz's hatchetmen and killers. They don't answer to anybody but him, and the only law they know is what comes out of a rifle or a sixgun."

Captain Hill added, "What they've got in Mexico today is what you saw in Los Perros, Marshal, only on a bigger scale. The army's got a few agents in Mexico, and the reports that trickle down to me in the situation bulletins from staff headquarters keep warning us field commanders to be careful as hell in our moves along the border. The army doesn't want to be responsible for starting another war."

"Too bad Mexico don't feel the same way," Longarm observed.

Their conversation stopped abruptly when the heavy door of the jail building creaked open. An old Mexican with a bent back and a pronounced limp came in. He stopped in front of the cell door and peered at the three prisoners.

"Quien quiere comida hoy? " he asked.

"Todos, los tres de nosotros, " Webster answered. He turned to Longarm. "This is Sebastian. Wants to know if we want supper, which is his way of telling us we better have cash or something to swap. You said~"

"I remember," Longarm broke in. "You go ahead and dicker for all of us, you handle his lingo better'n I can. Best I can do is catch a word now and again."