Trail of Blood and Bones: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

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      Now the bar was crowded with a colorful gathering. The card tables were occupied, a roulette wheel spun gaily, the faro bank was going strong. A good orchestra played soft music and there were a number of pretty señoritas on the dance-floor.

      “It is fiesta, a feast day,” remarked Amado Menendez as he paused for a moment at Slade’s table. “Many people from the other side of the river join in the celebration.”

      Inconsequentially, Slade recalled that it was the morning after just such a celebration in Matamoros, aided and abetted by citizens from across the river, that Cartinas had swept into Brownsville where the town folk were placidly sleeping off the effects of the hilarious night’s entertainment. It didn’t seem likely that history would repeat itself, but Veck Sosna was more unpredictable than Cartinas had ever been.

      Oh, the devil with Sosna! Slade again put the disturbing side-winder out of his mind and vowed to keep him out the rest of the night, discounting the fact that Sosna himself might have something to say about that.

      As Slade was debating a whirl on the dance-floor with one of the attractive señoritas, Estevan, the young man Amado sent to try and gather information returned. His dark hawk face was impassive, but Slade thought the glitter of his black eyes was more pronounced.

      However, he did not glance in Slade’s direction, nor did he approach Amado. Instead, he found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. A few minutes later he sauntered to the dance-floor where Slade shortly saw him dancing with one of the señoritas, a tall, nicely formed girl with curly hair as black and glossy as a raven’s wing in the sunlight. Apparently he had learned nothing. Slade directed his attention elsewhere. He ordered more coffee and had nearly finished the cup when a girl paused at his table. Glancing up he saw it was the very attractive young lady with whom Estevan had danced.

      “Will the señor dance?” she asked. Her eyes met his and he seemed to read more than was spoken in their depths.

      “Why not?” he smiled, and rose to his feet. They approached the floor and Slade encircled her trim waist with a long arm. Walt Slade liked to dance, and he could dance. So could the girl. And soon he was thoroughly enjoying himself. But as they drifted gracefully through a momentarily open space she spoke, her voice little above a whisper, her lips hardly moving.

      “After the number, take me to your table and order wine,” she said. “It will give me the excuse to linger. I must speak with you.”

      Slade nodded his understanding and after the number was finished led the way to the table. Amado himself came hurrying in with a bottle of wine. He filled the glasses with a flourish, glanced meaningly at Slade and with a low bow departed. As she raised her glass, the girl laughed gaily and nodded, as if in answer to some quip; but words fluttered through her laughter.

      “Estevan feels sure that the man you seek was here in Matamoros in the early afternoon. At El Toro on Rio Street near the river, where the rivermen drink. His friend works there, on the floor, and she remembered the man, for he was not one easy to forget. Tall, almost as tall as yourself, and broad, with eyes that seemed to burn. A handsome man, she said, but—a woman’s intuition, perhaps—evil. She said there were five others with him and that they remained for some time, drinking and talking. She watched them ride out of town by way of the Camino Trail.”

      “Which runs west,” Slade interpolated.

      “That’s right,” the girl replied. She laughed again and raised her glass, but her eyes, which in contrast to her hair, were blue, slanted sideways toward the bar.

      “Estevan thought it best not to come to you or to Amado, for in here there are often eyes that see and ears that listen, and he felt that the less heard and the less seen the better.”

      “He was right,” Slade agreed. He shot her a searching glance.

      “You are not Mexican?” She shook her head.

      “No, I’m a Texan,” she replied. “My father married Amado’s sister. My parents died, not far apart, two years ago. Amado sent me to school and when I got back to Brownsville I wanted to go to work. As you know, the day when women allow their relations to support them in idleness is fast drawing to a close. So after considerable argument, I persuaded Uncle Amado to let me work here, on the floor and helping him in various ways. I’m Dolores Malone.”

      “Good Lord!” he exclaimed in comical dismay. “Black Irish and Spanish, with a dash of Yaqui thrown in for good measure, I suppose. No wonder Amado allowed himself to be persuaded; he’s a prudent man of good judgment.”

      She laughed merrily and Slade realized what a pretty girl she was.

      “Oh, it’s not so bad as all that,” she protested. “I’m not such a firebrand as my name appears to indicate. Really I’m quite meek, and rather timid.” El Halcón did not appear impressed.

      “Do you live with Amado?” he asked. She shook her curly black head.

      “No, I live in Brownsville, with Amado’s younger sister, who is a widow; her husband was killed during one of the uprisings a few years back.

      “I’ll have to be getting back to the floor,” she said, adding softly, “will I see you again?”

      “You will,” he replied, with an emphasis that heightened the color in her cheeks. She cast him a smile over her shoulder as she tripped back to the floor. Slade’s eyes followed her with appreciation.

      She had handled the situation adroitly, he thought. It was customary for her partner to buy the girl a drink after each number; she would sit the next one out with him. Just as it was a routine practice in the Matamoros cantinas for the girls to circulate among the patrons between numbers. Her pausing at his table would cause no comment.

      Estevan had played his hand well, too; were there someone in the place who took an interest in the movements of El Halcón, a communication from the young Mexican would have been noted, and perhaps read aright. Slade did not believe that Veck Sosna had one of his men stationed in the cantina, but if he had learned by some chance that the man he considered his nemesis was present, it was not beyond the wily devil to do just that. Sosna was the essence of the unpredictable.

      He ordered more coffee and for some time sat smoking and studying the crowd, and not a man passed in or out of the swinging doors that he did not note. Finally, he came to the conclusion that if there was somebody around who took an interest in his movements, he was certainly keeping well under cover.

      It was still not so very late, but Slade was tired after a long day in the saddle, with very little sleep the night before. Besides, the place was growing noiser by the minute and he felt that a little quiet wouldn’t go bad.

      “I think I’ll call it a night,” he told Amado, who paused at the table for a minute. Lowering his voice, “Thank Estevan for me, and thank you, too. You both did me a big favor. Incidentally, Dolores is a smart girl.”

      “And a trial to her old uncle,” Amado sighed. “One word from me and she does just as she pleases. But she is nice, don’t you find her? And beautiful?”

      “Both,” Slade agreed heartily. Amado chuckled. “Sleep well,” he said. “Tomorrow I see you.”

      Slade caught Dolores’ eye and waved to her. Then he left the cantina and repaired to his room in the posado, opening the door with the key Amado provided.

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