Bullets Over Bedlam by Peter Brandvold

Author:Peter Brandvold
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-01-28T16:00:00+00:00

12.

PALOMAR ROJAS

WHEN the girl merely stared up at him sharply, silently, Flagg squeezed her chin between his thumb and index finger. Too many norteamericanos had once lived in Bedlam for her not to have picked up some English. His lips quivered inside his beard as he spoke through gritted teeth, his voice low with menace.

“I asked you a question.”

The girl’s eyes darkened, the lids lowering slightly. She hesitated, then, just above a whisper, “Juliana Velasquez.”

Flagg eased his grip on her chin and smiled with self-satisfaction. Behind him rose the clomp of shod hooves. He turned to see Palomar Rojas riding slowly around the fountain. The old bandito sat the saddle stiffly, head tilted to one side, staring apprehensively at the small crowd gathered in the street before the saloon.

Flagg turned back to Juliana Velasquez, smiled his dull smile, released her chin, and took two steps back away from her. He turned to Rojas, who’d halted his mule in the street about twenty yards beyond the saloon, regarding the gringo lawmen darkly. He ran a gnarled, brown finger absently across his mustache, as if reconsidering how badly he needed another drink.

“Ah, Senor Rojas,” Flagg said. “You’ve arrived just in time!”

Rojas said nothing. His dirty cream mule shook its head, dust puffing from its mane.

Again dipping his hands into his vest pockets, Flagg strode slowly toward the one-eyed bandito, who watched him darkly, occasionally casting a skeptical glance at the other lawmen and the other Mexicans forming a loose group in the street.

Flagg stopped just ahead and to the left of Rojas’s mule. “I was just about to inform the good citizens of Bedlam what would happen if I caught them fraternizing with a criminal.”

Rojas stared at Flagg, his lips bunched tightly, shoulders slumped beneath his serape. His scarred, bearded face was shaded by his broad-brimmed sombrero, its crown decorated with a dried hawk’s foot.

The old bandito placed his right hand on his chest and said in Spanish, “Are you talking to me, senor?”

Flagg chuckled and glanced at the other lawmen standing sentinel over the crowd, rifles in their hands.

“Who else would he be talkin’ to?” said Press Miller, standing with his legs spread wide near the horses tied to the hitch rack.

The bandito looked at Flagg. “I am Frederico Alvarez, senor. It is a case of mistaken identity, I think.” He flicked a hand to the villagers still standing tensely before the saloon. “What do you seek with the good people of Bedlam, senor? As you can see, they are all old or very young . . .”

“We seek the man you just visited, you old reprobate. The man you alerted to our presence here.” Flagg walked toward Rojas, one hand on his Remington’s grip. “Now, climb down out of that saddle and take your lickin’ like a man.”

When Flagg was two steps from Rojas, the old bandit jerked to life. He lifted his serape with one hand while the other grabbed the old, .36-caliber Colt from the shoulder holster hanging beneath his left armpit.

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