Part 11 (1/2)
Instinctively, Yakima kicked his left leg out in front of the doors. The Mexican's left boot hooked under Yakima's ankle, and the man gave an indignant cry as he flew across the porch, fell down the steps, and rolled into the yard.
Groaning and cursing, the man pushed off his chest and lifted his head toward Yakima, still standing to the right of the batwings with the split wood in his arms.
The man spat, ran a sleeve across his mouth. His voice rose shrilly, shouting in Spanish something like, ”That better have been an accident, friend, or you have made a fatal mistake!”
Chapter 13.
Yakima hadn't wanted any trouble here. He'd only wanted to tend his horse and light out free and clear the next morning, to get back on the trail of Anjanette and his mustang.
The delay itself was galling, knowing that the Thunder Riders were pulling farther and farther ahead. But the added complication he now found himself in was about as welcome as a blow from an Apache war hatchet.
He hadn't meant meant to get involved in the girl's trouble. His boot had leapt out in front of the batwings as though of its own accord. to get involved in the girl's trouble. His boot had leapt out in front of the batwings as though of its own accord.
Now he stood in the shadows of the roadhouse porch, facing the well-dressed Mexican with the white streak in his hair-the vaquero segundo segundo whom the Irishman had mentioned earlier, Yakima a.s.sumed. The man was climbing heavily to his feet before the porch, looking around wildly and snarling. His head swung toward Yakima, and he froze. whom the Irishman had mentioned earlier, Yakima a.s.sumed. The man was climbing heavily to his feet before the porch, looking around wildly and snarling. His head swung toward Yakima, and he froze.
He chuffed with indignance. ”Did you trip trip me, Senor?” me, Senor?”
Yakima pushed back against the roadhouse wall as though trying to merge with the adobe. ”Sorry, friend. My foot slipped.”
The man chuffed again, louder this time. ”Your foot slipped slipped? I don't think so, Senor!”
Yakima sighed. s.h.i.+t. Holding the wood in his arms, he stepped out from the wall. He kept his voice reasonable. ”I meant no offense. Just seemed the girl was tired of your company is all.” Yakima's eyes s.h.i.+fted slightly. The slender shadow stood by the open barn door, facing the roadhouse.
The Mexican laughed caustically, curling one hand around his revolver. ”You are in error, Senor. It is merely a game she plays. And just to show you how big a mistake you have made . . .” He slid his revolver from his holster with self-a.s.sured negligence.
Just as the barrel cleared leather, Yakima dropped his arms, his right hand coming up and grabbing a split log from the top of the falling stack. As the wood thundered onto the porch, Yakima swung the log back behind his shoulder and slung it forward with a clipped grunt.
”Ack!” El Segundo screamed as the log slammed into his right wrist with a dull smack and the gun hit the ground with a thud.
Out of the corner of his right eye, Yakima saw a couple of silhouetted faces peering over the batwings. The smoke of strong tobacco laced the air. He sidestepped to the edge of the porch as the segundo segundo looked up at him, hissing and growling like an enraged cur guarding a prized bone. looked up at him, hissing and growling like an enraged cur guarding a prized bone.
”You will pay dearly for that, you son of a b.i.t.c.h! I a.s.sure you!”
A voice rose from the shadows over the batwings. ”Trouble, Jefe?”
”Trouble?” said El Segundo. ”No trouble, Pablo. Just a gringo half-breed who needs to be taught some Mejican Mejican manners.” manners.”
There was the snick-click snick-click of a gun hammer being pulled back. The batwings parted, and one of the other vaqueros stepped out, the pistol that he held before him reflecting the umber light from inside. of a gun hammer being pulled back. The batwings parted, and one of the other vaqueros stepped out, the pistol that he held before him reflecting the umber light from inside.
”I think a good las.h.i.+ng with my bullwhip might save him from more trouble later on.” El Segundo chuckled, backing away from the porch while squeezing his wrist with his other hand. ”Pablo, take his gun.”
The first man through the batwings stepped toward Yakima, aiming his revolver from his belly, a short cigarette glowing between his lips. Four more vaqueros, two wearing sombreros, flanked him, all sliding their six-shooters from their holsters and thumbing back the hammers. As the first man moved toward him, Yakima raised his hands up, palms out.
”Por favor, El Segundo, no more trouble, huh?” It was the Irishman, peeking out between the batwings. ”Ligia is too young for your rough pleasure. Come back inside. You can have Esmeralda on the house tonight. For free, eh?”
”This dirty half-breed tripped me,” El Segundo said tightly, keeping his hard eyes on Yakima.
The man with the cigarette slowly extended his right hand toward Yakima's holstered revolver. The other four vaqueros flanked him, their own guns drawn.
El Segundo spat and scooped his revolver from the dust, brushed it off, and clicked back the hammer. ”It cannot be overlooked.”
As the man with the cigarette leaned toward Yakima, his mustachioed lips spread away from the quirley in his teeth. Yakima didn't look down, but he felt the man's hand release the keeper thong over his .44's hammer, then begin to ease the revolver up out of the sheath.
Suddenly, Yakima chopped his open right hand straight down against the man's wrist. There was an audible crack of breaking bone. The man grunted and let Yakima's Colt slide back down in its holster.
At the same time, Yakima jerked the man's gun hand wide. The Schofield belched smoke and fire, the bullet plunking into a support post. Holding the man's right wrist, Yakima spun him around, then grabbed his own revolver, ratcheted back the hammer, and snugged the barrel against the vaquero's right ear.
The vaquero was breathing hard, grunting with the pain of his cracked wrist. His cigarette dropped from his lips; it glowed against the porch floor.
Yakima stared out from behind the man's head at the four other vaqueros facing him, crouching, extending their revolvers straight out from their shoulders.
He didn't say anything, just sidestepped slightly, keeping Pablo between him and the five men bearing down on him.
”Pablo, you are a d.a.m.n fool!” screamed El Segundo.
Pablo groaned and cursed.
”If your amigos don't drop those six-shooters and ride on out of here, Pablo,” Yakima said in his cow pen Spanish, ”I'm gonna bore a hole between your ears with a .44 slug.”
El Segundo and the other four vaqueros held their positions, guns aimed. Yakima pressed his own revolver's barrel harder against Pablo's ear.
One of the vaqueros glanced at El Segundo.
El Segundo stared at Yakima, s.h.i.+fting the gun around before him, trying to get a bead on Yakima's head. His chest rose and fell sharply. The white streak through his hair shone in the darkness.
Yakima rammed his gun barrel hard against Pablo's head.
”El Segundo!” Pablo cried.
El Segundo cursed and lowered his revolver, depressing the hammer.
”Toss 'em down, amigos,” he growled disgustedly as he dropped his own gun in the dust. ”The don will not be pleased if we ride back to the hacienda with an empty saddle.”
Reluctantly, the vaqueros leaned down, set their guns on the porch.
Yakima shoved Pablo out away from him. ”Mount up and ride. Don't try circling back. I've got good ears and good eyes.”
Pablo and the four vaqueros grabbed their reins off the hitchrack. Silent as scolded children, they backed their horses away from the rack, then swung into their saddles.
”Gringos like you don't last long in Mejico.” Keeping his eyes on Yakima, El Segundo slipped his reins from the hitchrack, swung into the saddle, and reined the horse around. ”We will meet again, Senor!”
He ground his spurs against the Arabian's ribs and galloped out of the yard.
The others glared at Yakima, then spurred their own snorting mounts after El Segundo, their bouncing silhouettes soon blending with the desert's inky darkness.