An old man with a serape the same indifferent color as his beard rose from the chair in front of the door.
‘Buenas Dias, señor. ¿Qué quieren?’
‘You want to buy two horses?’ Azul dismounted. ‘I’ll throw In the saddles for free.’
‘You offer me fine animals.’ The old man looked doubtful ‘Do you have the cartas? The bills of sale?’
Azul grinned. ‘No cartas: no questions. The owners won’t be corning to look for them.’
‘I do not think I have enough money to purchase such animals,’ said the old man: cautious. ‘You understand how it is? So close to the border.’
The half-breed shrugged ‘I’ll deal, then. You put up my horse and give me some information. You get these two in return.’
‘I think I might chance the trade.’ The old man moved around the animals, checking them. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘There is a man waiting for me,’ said Azul. ‘A man who rides in a black coach.’
The Mexican stepped back, making the flicking sign that drives away evil.
‘El gringo negro!’ He looked frightened. ‘You are a friend of his?’
Azul shook his head. ‘You know him?’
‘He smells of death,’ said the old man. ‘I do not want to know him. He put his coach in my stable a long time ago. Since then he has been in the cantina. In the Guadalupe. No one has seen him, for he only comes out at night, and then Manuel watches him.’
‘Manuel?’ Azul passed the reins over. ‘Who is he?’
‘Guardaespaldas!’ The oldster took the reins. ‘A bodyguard.’
‘And you do not know who this gringo negro is?’ Azul slid the Winchester clear of the scabbard. ‘You do not know his name?’
‘No one knows his name, señor.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Not Felipe, who owns the cantina, or Rafael, who is our mayor. Not even Vicente, who leads the Rurales. No one. He is rich and smells of death, that is all anyone knows.’
‘I will go and see him,’ said Azul. ‘Take care of my horse.’
‘He is a fine animal,’ said the old man. ‘I hope you’ll come back to ride him again.
Azul nodded and walked
towards the plaza.
The Guadalupe covered most of one side of the square, a wide-fronted, low building with a smaller level built up from the original structure. There was a balcony running around all four sides, the upper rooms opening out onto the walkway. Inside, it was cool and dark, the broad windows covered with enough dead insects that not much light got in. The floor was tiled, and down one side there was a long bar.
A bored-looking man with lank, black hair and a dirty white shirt was polishing glasses. Two old men were nursing mugs of pulque down at the far end, and three vaqueros were sipping coffee in the center.
Azul went up to the bar and ordered tequila.
It came out of a stone jug into a clay cup. It was fierce, the heat warming him after the rain. He ordered a second. And asked the barkeep, ‘You have a gringo here?’
The man shrugged. ‘Tal vez. Who wants to know?’
‘The old man at the stable said he is called el gringo negro’ murmured Azul. ‘He is waiting for me.’
‘Oh!’ The barkeep’s face lost its boredom. ‘You are El Aleman.’
‘No.’ Azul’s face got cold and hard. ‘The German is dead.’
He dropped his cup, reaching over the counter to sink his left hand into the loose collar of the man’s shirt. At the same time, he lifted the Winchester, jamming the muzzle under the barkeep’s chin as the man was dragged forwards across the surface of the stained wood.
‘¡Madre de Dios!’ The Mexican’s voice was strangled under the pressure of the carbine. ‘You are the other one.’
‘I guess.’ Azul cocked the Winchester. ‘Where is he?’
Down the bar the three vaqueros set down their coffee and began to move up, towards the half-breed. Azul swung the Winchester round, yanking the barkeep further across the counter as he turned. The man’s shirt tore and came loose from his cotton pants, but enough stayed on his body that Azul was able to drag him helplessly over the counter.
He held the Winchester against his hip and said, ‘Don’t! It’s not your fight.’
The vaqueros looked at one another, each man seeking reassurance. Seeking the glance, the move, that would call for action. Then they all looked at the cold-eyed man pointing the gun towards them and knew it was stupid.
The tallest of them – an older man, with heavy mustaches decorating his swarthy face – lifted his hands, palms upwards, and said: ‘He is upstairs.’
He began to walk towards the door. The others followed.
Azul watched them go, swinging the carbine round to cover them. He waited until he heard the sound of hoofbeats going away from the cantina, then loosed his grip on the barkeep’s shirt.
The man stayed sprawled over the counter, his eyes bloodshot from the constriction of his throat.
Azul asked, ‘Which room?’
The Mexican said ‘Top of the stairs. The first door.’
