Stringer and the Deadly Flood Read online

  He unfolded and set up the army cot. Then he covered it with the tarp and quilts he’d helped himself to before leaving the deserted gypsy cart. As he sat on his lonely new bed and rolled a smoke he wasn’t sure whether he was smiling or only remembering the clean odors of poor little Juanita. Outside, someone was strumming a guitar and two mujeres were singing a sad corrido about another gal named Guirnaldita who’d died to save her honor. He lit the smoke, blew smoke out both nostrils like a pissed-off bull, and muttered to himself, “This is going to be swell. No later than nine o’clock, nerves all on edge, and I’m supposed to go to sleep with a dirge going on right outside.”

  He knew they’d shut up if he went out and told them to. Thinking he was a company gun, they’d jump in the canal if he told them to. But it wasn’t their fault he was feeling blue and, come to study on it, scared skinny on top of it. So far it seemed he’d been accepted at face value. He’d noticed in the past that few folk expected a fairly well-known newspaperman to look so cow. The straw boss, Gus, had even nodded to him at suppertime, and the others likely thought a ragged stranger who was willing to draw on their top gunslick had to be cast from much the same metal.

  But how long did he have? He was pushing his luck every extra minute he spent in this den of… what?

  It was his infernal curiosity—that was what kept him from playing this game smart. He knew he could slip out now, while the slipping was still good. He only had to ride southwest to El Centro and board the first train that stopped there. It was the safe way to play it, the smart way to play it, but then he’d never find out what Lockwood had known, or, damn it, thought he knew, that was worth shedding blood over.

  As Stringer sat there smoking and thinking about trains, it almost seemed as if he could hear one coming, chugging softly in time with that fool guitar outside. Then the guitar stopped and one of the gals who’d been singing laughed and called out, “Ay, es el tren trabajo!” Now Stringer could hear for sure the locomotive coming from the east, moaning at the dark clouds above.

  He got up and ducked outside to see that the camp had come back to life, with everyone half dressed and some who should have been ashamed of themselves piling out to have a look-see as the work train tooted its whistle and rolled in to a slow stop. He ran into Gus, who cursed and told him, “Keep an eye on the damned kids. The little monkeys get in the way every way they can manage. The sons of bitches in Yuma might have had the courtesy to warn us in advance, goddamn their eyes.”

  Stringer had noticed the telegraph poles that ran along every main line in the country. But he hadn’t known the camp had telegraph or telephone connections with their base camp closer to Yuma. He didn’t comment. He knew Gus didn’t like him to begin with, and he’d already figured a few things out just by keeping his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open.

  As Gus moved up the line to cuss the train crew, Stringer yelled at a little girl who for some reason wanted to crawl between the train wheels. She shot him a scared look and ran off, to try somewhere else most likely.

  He saw cases of supplies being unloaded all along the mostly flatcar combination. He stayed put so as not to get in the way in the tricky light. A couple of cars down they seemed to be running planks down to roll off something important. In the shifting flashes of firelight and inky shadows he could only make it out as something white and on wheels. A wagon to haul dirt most likely. He didn’t move closer. He’d have plenty of time to look at it later.

  A dark, trim silhouette materialized between Stringer and whatever else was going on over yonder. He’d just had time to make it out as a young woman dressed Anglo in a travel duster and pith helmet before she spotted him as a gringo as well and approached him to ask charmingly, “I’m looking for a Mister Burke, sir.” This was immediately followed by, “Stringer MacKail! What are you doing here, for heaven’s sake!”

  He grabbed her elbow and drew her off to one side as he murmured, “Easy on that name, Kathy. We may not be among friends in these parts.”

  Kathy Doyle of the Examiner sniffed. “I’ll be the judge of who my friends are here, you brute. The last time we met you screwed me silly and then scooped me on the death of Kid Curry!”

  Stringer sighed and shook his head. “Kathy, your memory of such events fails to jibe with mine by miles. As I recall, we agreed to share the story as friendly rivals, and it was your own grand notion to beat me to the telegraph office and, come to study on it, leave me to await your return in vain, with a hell of a hard on.”

  She snapped, “Don’t talk dirty. You know you played me false on that one, and I had a hell of time explaining how I scooped you and the Sun with a story that simply failed to match the facts.”

  He retorted, “Let that be a lesson to you. We made a deal and you tried to doublecross me. Cuss me for the fool I may be, but I’m still willing to make you the same offer. We work together, get the story, and wire it in together?”

  “Leaving out my fair white body, which I swear you’ll never abuse that way again, just what sort of story are we talking about this time?” she asked him warily.

  Stringer looked around to make sure nobody could overhear them before he replied. “A real scoop. This water outfit has had two people killed and lost two hired guns to wastage so far. I’m still working on how come. That’s why I’m working here undercover, as a hired gun called Don MacEwen. How do you like it so far?”

  She eyed him carefully and shot back, “I’ve a good mind to expose you as the sweet-talking fibber you are, Stuart MacKail.”

  But just then they were joined by Blacky Burke and the sullen Gus. It was Gus who asked, “What’s going on here? Do you know this lady, MacEwen?”

  A million years went by. Then the lovely but treacherous rival reporter trilled, “We were just talking about that, sir. I’m Kathy Doyle from the San Franciso Examiner. I feel sure I covered the trial of a Donald MacEwen in Colorado, one time. But he insists I have him mixed up with another train robber.”

  Blacky Burke chuckled and said, “So would I, in his place, ma’am. But just for the record, does old Don here look sort of familiar to you?”

  She dimpled to them all, responding archly, “Far be it from me to dredge up a past a young man may be trying to live down. Maybe Donald has an identical twin. In any case, the last time I saw him, or thought I had, he got off on lack of evidence. Something must have happened to the witnesses against him. None of them ever showed up in court.”

  Then she tweaked Stringer’s cheek. “And how did you manage that, you naughty boy?”

  Stringer didn’t answer. He didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or punch that fresh mouth of hers. But it seemed to go down well with Burke. He smiled thinly at Gus and said, “I reckon you were right to crawfish after all.” Then he asked Kathy what they could do for her.

  Her voice was just as light as she explained. “I have permission of the irrigation syndicate you’re working for to visit this advance camp. My paper wants me to file an update on the progress you boys have been making out here in the desert. As you probably know, more than one investor has complained that this ambitious project doesn’t seem to be working all that well.”

  Burke scowled. “Well, ma’am, we’ll be pleased as punch to prove our critics dead wrong. Come sunrise you’ll be able to see for yourself that we’re miles west of where our subcontract calls for us to be right now.”

  A bug-eyed Mexican joined them to ask La Señorita where she wanted them to put her grand machine now that they had it down off the train. She handed him four bits with a gracious smile and told him to just leave it wherever it was for now. Then she turned back to the others to explain. “I brought my own transportation with me, a Stanley steam car. They told me in Yuma that one can drive all about out here in a horseless carriage.”

  Even Stringer wanted to have a look at such a modern marvel, so they all moved back to where, sure enough, a big four-seater sat between two tents, its long brass-trimmed hood and body bone-white and its red-tire whee
ls park-bench green. Blacky Burke kicked one of the red tires experimentally, declaring, “Well, I’ll be swanned. Can you really handle this baby locomotive all by yourself, little lady?”

  Kathy replied coolly, “I can. And I have far too much baggage for a horse to carry along with me. The steamer runs on water and kerosene. You’ll have some I can purchase, of course?”

  Burke bowed gallantly and assured her, “You can have all the lamp oil you need, ma’am. Gratis, of course. As for water, we got us a whole river of water here.” Then he added, “MacEwen, you’d best make sure she don’t fall in it and drown in this light. Since you two already know each other, I’m putting you in charge of making her feel welcome, MacEwen. Dragoon her a tent and as many peones as it takes to set her up comfortsome.”

  Kathy said she had her own tent in the trunk of her steamer. Burke opined how that was nice and drifted off with Gus to see the other unloadings, or perhaps because he wanted to avoid talking to a newspaperwoman any more than he had to.

  Kathy turned to Stringer and pouted, “I think I’ve been snubbed!”

  “I think so, too,” he replied. “They left you in my care because I’ve satisfied them I’m just a drifting gunslick with no idea what they’re really up to.”

  “Oh? And just what are they really up to, ah, Donald?” she asked.

  Stringer replied, “I’m still working on it. Together we might be able to come up with something. You won’t see anything by daylight that looks at all suspicious. I’ve already looked, with the freedom of the camp. Let’s hope we can both look as dumb and they may slip up. You say you have a tent somewhere in this damned contraption?”

  She said, “In the trunk. I’ll show you. But don’t make fun of my spunky huffer-puffer before you’ve see it scoot. I had a race with the S.P. Coaster coming down from the bay a few days ago and beat it across the Salinas Valley. On a straight stretch of road I can crank it up to seventy miles an hour!”

  Stringer sighed. “I sure wish you’d stop lying to me just for practice, Kathy. Look here, I reckon we’d best set up your tent with this steamer betwixt us as chaperone. That heavy-set one called Gus doesn’t like me and so…”

  “I’ll have you know,” she cut in, “That I don’t need a chaperone as far as you’re concerned, sir! Just because you took unfair advantage of me that time gives you no right to take my favors for granted. So you can just forget any notions about creeping into my tent like a love-sick A-rab in the wee small hours!”

  Stringer hauled her tent out and snorted in disgust. “I wasn’t aware I was taking advantage of you. I’m glad you’ve been kind enough to set me straight. All this time I’ve been thinking you pulled a Delilah to steal that scoop on the Wild Bunch from poor, helpless me.” His tone and words made her laugh despite herself.

  The work train was backing off now, so Stringer was able to dragoon a half dozen workers to help him set up the fancy tent to Kathy’s satisfaction and install all the gear she’d brought with her. Then she flounced inside without thanking anybody and lit her fancy Coleman lantern. It was one of those jobs that got pumped up like a bicycle tire, and it gave off more light than an Edison bulb, turning her tent into a sort of big, square Japanese lantern. He wondered if she was aware of the shadow show she was putting on inside as she took off her helmet and unpinned her hair. Knowing Kathy Doyle, he felt sure she did, and he knew she knew he was watching.

  He saw the Mexicans watching as interestedly as him, and he told them curtly to knock it off and go back to their tents. They left, muttering about him being a spoilsport. He leaned against the fender of her Stanley steamer, rolling a smoke, to make sure the whole damned camp didn’t gather to gawk until the fool woman put out that damned light. He found it hard not to gawk himself as she slipped out of her duster, hauled her dress off over her head, and sat on her cot bare-assed, or close to it, to comb her long auburn hair. From out here, of course, he couldn’t make out the color of her hair or see whether her naked skin was as creamy and smooth as it was that time up Colorado way. But even as a shadow show she was having an effect on Stringer’s glands that he’d sworn she’d never have again. He wondered what effect he’d had on her glands that time. It was easier for a gal to fake such matters than it was for a man, and she’d certainly had all her wits about her when she’d lit out on him to wire the story in ahead of him. Though he had to chuckle when he recalled he hadn’t given her the whole story, yet. Male news folk had to control their passions just a mite as well when playing slap and tickle with a determined rival.

  He wondered if that had taught her a lesson. She surely was a smart little thing with a highly developed nose for news. He was going to have to work with her again, though, if only to keep her from exposing him. It was obvious she’d come out here working on a tip of her own, so she probably knew some details he didn’t. The two of them made a good team as far as getting the story went. The problem was how in thunder he’d convince her it was naughty to doublecross a pard once she had a scoop in her hot little hands. For Kathy Doyle was one of those sweet little things who’d poison her mother and screw a snake for her very own byline on an exclusive.

  He’d just lit his Bull Durham when her Coleman Lantern went out. It was just as well because a few drags later he was joined by Cactus Jack. The lean and hungry-looking gunslick walked once around the Stanley, marveling at how big it was next to the last horseless carriage he’d seen in Tucson one time, and then he joined Stringer near the head lamps to hook a boot over the front bumper. “They told me you was helping that lady from Yuma set up camp. Are you on guard or what?”

  Stringer shrugged. “Thought I’d stand by and make sure none of the kids pestered her until she’d trimmed her lamp. Why?”

  Cactus Jack nodded at the now-dark tent. “I’d say she’d already done so. I’ve noticed you talk pretty good Spic dealing with our greasers.”

  “It’s not such a hard lingo,” Stringer said. “And first off you start by not calling ’em greasers. Anyways, what’s this all about? You asking me for Spanish lessons at this infernal hour?”

  Cactus Jack responded sheepishly. “Sort of. You see, there’s some Spanish farm folk who’ve just set up near the feeder ditch on the far side of the tracks. I don’t mean the greaser kind. They’re a high-toned Spanish family who just come over from Santa Fe. They’re white as you and me. The man of the family talks good American. But they got this daughter, Maria, who don’t. I thought you might like to ride over yonder with me tonight and see if you could help me talk to her a mite.”

  Stringer shot a wistful glance at Kathy’s blacked-out tent and asked, “Might your Maria have a friend?”

  Cactus Jack look downright indignant as he protested, “It ain’t that sort of situation. We’re talking about a decent young gal. She’s so pretty it hurts to just look at her. But I’m sure she ain’t never been kissed. Her folks are friendly. They don’t seem to mind me dropping by. But every time I try to talk to Miss Maria she just blushes and ducks into the house.”

  Stringer didn’t answer. He was afraid he’d laugh as he pondered the picture.

  “I only want to talk to her,” Cactus Jack insisted. “To have you talk to her for me, leastways. I want you to tell her my intentions are honorable, see?”

  Stringer was beginning to. Unbelievable as it seemed, he could see that even ogres must fall in love now and again. He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, choosing his words carefully before he asked the hired killer cautiously, “Has it crossed your mind that a gent in your line of work might be, well, too exciting a husband for a shy little Spanish gal of good family?”

  Cactus Jack sighed. “It has. I used to be a fair roper afore I discovered the wages of sin paid so much better. I got me some money in the bank of Yuma, and I don’t reckon it would kill me to take up cows again as long as I could hire some greaser vaqueros to do most of the work.”

  Stringer whistled thoughtfully. “Your Maria must be something, no offense. Are you talking about grazing
stock on irrigated desert here, Jack? That’s a mighty expensive way to feed cows.”

  The love-struck killer shook his head. “Hell, I ain’t that dumb. Once they got all this land sold off and commence to meter the water the suckers will be hard put to make a living on fruits and nuts. But I know where I can pick up a nice little homespread in the Oklahoma Panhandle, if Miss Maria might be at all interested.”

  Stringer nodded. “She might be. You ain’t deformed and you’ve yet to murder anyone in front of her. But if you’re really serious about the gal I’d best give you a Spanish lesson after all.”

  Cactus Jack snorted. “I ain’t got time to learn a whole new lingo, damn it. I want to marry up with Miss Maria as soon as I can!”

  Stringer nodded. “I’m not talking about teaching you to speak Spanish. There’s just some things you have to know before you even try sparking a lady of your Maria’s background.”

  Cactus Jack said he was listening, so Stringer told him. “To begin with they remember the Alamo, too, and they’re used to our kind leaping at their women with less than honorable intent. The young lady doubtless speaks better English than you, if she grew up in New Mexico wearing shoes. If you’re really serious about her, you have to start by paying less attention to her and get on the good side of her father. She’s not supposed to even look at you, save mayhaps over the top of a fan, until her old man says he won’t kill you both if she does. You have to tell him right out that you admire his daughter and ask his permit to court her. If he admires you as much as you admire his daughter, you’re home free. They’ll never leave you alone with her of course. But once you’ve brought her some flowers, books, or candy you’ll have less to say about getting out of the understanding than you might think. So make sure you mean it before you talk to her father and, if you do, just let nature take its course, see?”