Rancholand, pt. 2
Fletcher's got to buy time for an escape across the river. He'll find no quarter in Los Angeles, where he broke the peace.
He only needed to show where it was in his jacket pocket before I swiped it. I couldn’t help but laugh a little when I saw that greased mop beneath his nose curl.
I mumbled a gracias and shuffled farther back to jump down. The tuck and roll onto the hay pile nearly took me into the moonlight between buildings. The trick was keeping the bottles covered now that the rags had soaked in rum.
“¡No disparen! ¡No disparen!” The cliente called from my left, trying to cross to the next building.
Between his yells and Medge’s firing, the Rurales were distracted enough. I could afford a moment to kneel and catch my breath. The cliente’s turmoil amused me, caught between the police and the river, with the former blocking his way home.
I still heard Medge’s rifle. A good sign.
“Ahora, chico!” I hollered, taking off in a sprint.
He let ‘em have it with Grambling’s pistol. Now I needed to hold my end up—put torch to rag and aim true. One bullet whizzed by my ear, but when another didn’t come, I chucked the first bottle at the bottom window. If the fire spread fast, it might trap ‘em up there. Or better.
I’d made it under the awning safe from bullets, with the boys on both sides still trading shots. The problem had come, however, that my first bottle cracked the pane and fell into the depot, but the bottle itself hadn’t broken.
Peering through what I expected to be an empty first floor, with the flame inching down its rag teasing me, not one object was within the blast radius of the rum inside. For this next one, I’d have to throw hard and throw at something.
Those crates might have something explosive.
A flash toward the depot’s back stair told me to duck. More bullets. Before I—
Whoosh!
A burst of fire sent me ducking back, away from the spreading flames. My first bottle worked better than I thought, and now I had a free shot towards the crates. Standing in the blazing heat, I singed the hairs on my fingers, giving the second my best toss. So much for keeping a low profile in Los Angeles.
Boom!
This explosion came quickly, the force sending the houses on each side rumbling. I had no fear of catching bullets on the way back. The contemptible Rurales inside, if any remained, had bigger problems.
“¡Andalé!” I cried up to Mustache.
We had moments before the fire bells started ringing and minutes before thronging streets threatened our escape.
“Jesus, Fletcher!” Medge hollered as I came back inside María’s. His hooked nose always pissed me off. Especially when he bobbed it at me with nothing of substance to say.
“Where’d María go?”
“She’s readying horses.”
“And you believed her?!”
I grabbed him by the collar out of fury and the need to leave. Managed one last look at Grambling through the narrow larder door.
“¡Vamos, chico!”
Mustache probably couldn’t hear me, not that he would spend anymore time than he needed with fugitive whites. Provided the sombrero hadn’t made him.
Grambling and I’d been dodging Rurales since we got to Rancholand. Medge claimed to have done it for half as long. No telling if Mustache could keep up with the demands. Life on the lam. I sure wouldn’t if I could fade into obscurity.
Adobes don’t burn easily, but they burn. The entire block was coming out onto the calle. Enthralled. Seconds before, they’d who’d been hiding, gawked. The shootout, all but forgotten.
‘Spose it’s why Moses paid heed to a flaming bush.
“¿Qué pase?” The old men hollered.
Others shouted curse words.
None had the guts to come chasing after us. Right now, at least. A flicker of torchlight from the stables. María. Mustache came sprinting out of the darkness, like he’d run to the river and back already.
“¡Ella nos deja!”
No shit, she’s leaving us. If Mustache thought the inferno was bad, imagine when genuine Rafael boys come down from the Seco and take revenge on her saloon tomorrow. María lost the tavern the moment Javier Minas de Campo reached for his gun and Grambling shot that Rurale between the eyes.
We all lost something right then, come to think of it. Me, the quiet life I’d planned on a plot outside the Paso de Robles. Medge, any lingering credibility to his snake oil scheme. Not to mention Grambling, who of course lost his life.
Mustache looked motivated for a man who’d just lost his job. Outside the stable, he took directions eagerly from María as she helped the girl with her horse. Not that these horses belonged to any of us.
Susanna, my chestnut filly, was parked north of Primera Calle with José Bravo. He’d hold on to her for a week or two before he sold her off. This bay mare would have to do.
“Where do we go?”
“A casa en L’abra. Sígueme.” Medge stared blankly. “Follow me,” María said.
A safe house in L’abra was an oxymoron. Even Medge knew that. Right on cue, the fire bells started.
Do-gooders were already forming bucket lines from the pump jack. Which increased the odds of at least one resident peering over to check on their horses.
“¿Vienes, Alberto?”
“Por supuesto, señora.”
Mustache has a name after all. And he’s coming with us. He made it seem as if he could ride well. I wasn’t so sure about the girl, Fatima.
“She has to come?” I whined.
“Yes, lo hace,” María shot back. “Vamos! We ride, blanquitos.”