The Alamosa Trail

Chapter 7

Clay Allison once wrote an indignant letter to the editor of a Missouri newspaper. The paper had published a story that accused him of fifteen killings.

I have at all times tried to use my influence toward protecting the property holders and substantial men of the country from thieves, outlaws, and murderers, among whom I do not care to be classed.

It was noted by all who read the letter, that Allison had not actually denied the killings.

His reputation for savagery was validated when he rounded up a handful of friends to lynch a rancher who had been accused of killing his own infant daughter. The rancher had been arrested and was in jail, awaiting the outcome of the investigation, but Allison needed no investigation to reach his conclusion.

Under Allison’s leadership, the rancher was hauled out of his jail cell, taken to a nearby slaughterhouse, and lynched. Then Allison beheaded the corpse, stuck the rancher’s head on a sharpened stick, and took it to the next town, where it was put on display behind the bar of his favorite saloon.

He once killed a man who was standing at a bar because the man fanned his face with his hat. Allison’s defense was: “He was fanning his face with his left hand, and it wasn’t a warm night. I believed the man was attempting to distract me so he could draw his pistol and kill me.” The court bought his argument and ruled the killing as a justifiable homicide.

Even as Jim, Frank, Barry, and Tennessee were waiting in El Paso for Clay Allison, the notorious gunman was some twenty miles away at a livery stable in Le Mesa, New Mexico, seeing about his horse.

“Feed him well tonight, Mañuel,” Clay ordered. “I have to ride over to El Paso tomorrow to conduct some business.”

“Sí, senor,” the Mexican liveryman replied.

“I’ve been looking for Hector Ortega. Do you know where he is?”

“I think maybe you will find him over at the cantina. I did not see him there, but I think that’s where he will be.”

“Thanks.”

As Clay started toward the Mexican side of town, he walked not on the sidewalk as most pedestrians would, but in the middle of the street. Choosing such a path meant he had to be particularly watchful for wagon and horse traffic, as well as for horse droppings, but this particular habit made a surprise ambush from behind a building less likely.

As soon as he crossed the railroad tracks into the barrio, the texture of the town changed as drastically as if he had left one city and gone to another. Here, among the small adobe buildings that housed the Mexicans and their families, the nights were darker, for only the cantina was well-lighted. The other structures were either awash in total darkness or barely illuminated by burning embers of mesquite or fat-soaked rags. That was because few could afford candles and fewer still, kerosene lanterns.

There were no hotels in the barrio and no restaurants. The largest building was the cantina, and from inside that brightly lit edifice, Clay Allison could hear someone singing, accompanied by a guitar. Clay spoke no Spanish, so he had no idea what the song was about, but it did have a lilting melody that he liked. He once made the observation that those who sang Mexican music had to have a very good voice because of the trills and warbles of the wide-ranging melodies.

Although the church was the center of all social life in the barrio, the cantina ran a close second. Here, a man could eat, drink, and if so inclined, meet whores. Although the putas would meet their customers in the cantina, they generally carried on the trade from their own houses. In many cases the whores had children who were comfortable with their mother’s occupation simply because they knew of no other existence.

Most of the putas’ customers were Mexican workers who couldn’t afford—or have been welcomed by—the Anglo whores. However, many of the customers were American—some attracted to the women because of their dusky beauty, others because a Mexican whore cost less than half as much as an Anglo.

Generally, if an Anglo man visited a cantina, it was for that purpose and no other. Therefore, when Clay set foot inside the door he was immediately met by one of the women. Hiking her skirt up above a shapely leg, she put her foot on a chair, her elbow on her knee, then leaned forward to put her chin on her hand. Such a pose not only showed her leg, but accented her curves and displayed a generous amount of cleavage.

“I am Carmine,” the woman said.

Clay didn’t answer. Instead, he stood just inside the door, surveying the room.

“Senor, you do no need to look for another,” Carmine said. “I will be your woman”—she paused for a moment, then flashed a big smile—“for the right price.”

“Thank you, but I’m not looking for a woman,” Clay said. “I am looking for a man named Hector Ortega.”

When he said Hector’s name, two men stepped away from the bar. Like nearly every other Mexican in the place, they were wearing high-crowned, large-brimmed sombreros. They were also wearing pistols, and one of them had a rather large knife protruding from a sheath that was strapped diagonally across his chest.

“Gringo, why do you look for Senor Ortega?” the one with the knife asked. The inquiry was more of a challenge than a question.

“I reckon why I want to see him is my business,” Clay replied. His reply was equally challenging.

“I think maybe we will kill you. And then it will be nobody’s business,” his other challenger said.

At those words the guitar music suddenly ended on a jarring chord. All conversation in the cantina stopped as well, and everyone stared at Clay and the two who had confronted him.

Clay fixed his adversaries with a cold, mirthless smile. “If you hombres are planning on doin’ anything, let’s get to it,” he said in a calm voice. He moved his hand slightly, so that it hovered just over the handle of his pistol.

At that moment the back door opened and Hector Ortega, who had been outside visiting the tocador, returned to the cantina. He was still tucking his shirttail into his trousers when he saw Clay Allison and the two men from the bar bracing each other. He saw, also, that the cantina had grown deathly quiet.

“Senor Allison, welcome, amigo!” he said expansively. Smiling and extending his hand, he started toward the American. As he walked by the two men who had confronted Clay, he spoke to them in Spanish, from the side of his mouth.

“Los absurdos! Ustedes desean ser matado? Ésta es Clay Allison.”

The two “foolish ones” blanched visibly.

“Senor Allison, we did not know you were Hector’s amigo,” the one with the knife said. He extended his hand but, pointedly, Clay turned away from him, motioning to Ortega to step out front so they could hold a private conversation.

“Have you heard from the people down in Durango?” Clay asked once they were outside.

“Sí. The horses are ready.”

“Good. Tomorrow, we’ll ride over to El Paso. By then Robinson and Ford will have put together an outfit to go after the horses with you. I’m putting you in charge, Ortega.”

“Gracias, senor.”

“Now, they’re probably not going to like that,” Clay said. “I mean, you being Mexican and all. But I figure it’s your country and your language, so by rights, you should be the trail boss. All I’m asking is that you do a good job for me.”

“Do not worry, senor. We will bring all the horses back in good shape,” Ortega promised.

“I figure you will. Otherwise I wouldn’t hire you.” Clay looked back toward the front of the cantina. “I’m going back over to my side of town now to have supper. I’d appreciate it if you would watch my back till I’m out of here. I’m not sure I trust those two hombres inside.”

“I will watch out for you,” Ortega said.

Returning to the American side of town, Clay went into the Longhorn Restaurant. As he stepped inside the door he was met by the café owner. “Mr. Allison,” the proprietor said nervously. “Do you know that gentleman over there?”

Clay looked in the direction the proprietor indicated. There, sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, was a man who stood out from the rest of the patrons. Whereas most of the other diners were wearing denim trousers and cotton shirts, this man was wearing a three-piece suit, complete with silk cravat and diamond stickpin. Perhaps a few years younger than Clay, he also sported a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard.

“No, I can’t say as I do know him.”

“He has been waiting to see you. He asked that I seat you at his table. He also said I was to serve you anything you wished, because he would pay for it.”

Clay smiled, then put his hat on the hatrack. “Is that so? Well, maybe he’s a businessman wanting to buy some horses. All right, I’ll have steak, eggs, potatoes, biscuits, butter, and some peach jelly.”

“Very good, sir.”

When Clay reached the back table, the stranger stood and amicably extended his hand. The moment he did so, Clay’s perception of him as a potential business prospect changed. The man was wearing a pistol with the holster low and tied down. The skirt of his jacket was kicked back to allow a quick draw. This wasn’t normal for a businessman.

“Mr. Allison, my name is Chunk Colbert,” the man said. “Have you ever heard of me?”

“Chuck Colbert? No, I can’t say as I have.”

“Not Chuck, Chunk,” the man corrected.

Clay smiled. “Unusual name,” he said.

“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” Colbert agreed. “I’m a little disappointed you haven’t heard of me. You see, it’s a name folks are beginning to take notice of.”

“And why is that, Mr. Colbert?”

Colbert flashed a toothy smile. “Because I’ve killed seven men in fair gunfights.”

Clay’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve killed seven men, you say.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are proud of that?”

“I am, sir. Every one of those fights have been open and aboveboard.”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Why? Well, I don’t know that I can give you a reason for every one of them,” Colbert said. “But then I’m sure you understand. From what I hear, you’ve killed a lot more men than I have.”

“I’ve never killed anyone, Mr. Colbert, who didn’t need killing,” Clay said.

“Would you say that someone who is trying to kill you would need killing?”

“Well, yes, but there has to be more to it than that. I mean, someone wouldn’t be trying to kill you unless they had a reason.”

“It could be that they are just trying to get their name a little better known.”

“That’s foolish.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Allison. There’s not a man in the country, from New York to San Francisco, who doesn’t know your name, who doesn’t tell exciting stories of your exploits.”

“Maybe so. But I haven’t sought such fame.”

“Then that is where we differ, Mr. Allison, because, you see, it is something I seek,” Colbert said. “That’s why I’m going to kill you, tonight.”

“What?” Clay asked in surprise.

“Oh, not right this minute,” Colbert said quickly. He smiled, then held his hand out, offering a seat to Clay. “At least, not until after we have had our supper. I told the proprietor that your meal would be on me. I hope you ordered.”

“I did order,” Clay said. “After you,” he added, indicating that Colbert should take his seat first.

Colbert laughed. “I can see how you have survived as long as you have, Mr. Allison. You are a cautious man.” Colbert sat down, then Clay sat across from him. Clay’s food was brought to the table.

“Since you are buying the supper, I’d like for you to pay the man now, if you don’t mind,” Clay said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see me going through your pockets afterward and think I had shot you for your money.”

Colbert blanched for just a second. Then he laughed. “Very good, Mr. Allison, very good,” he said. “You are trying to make me nervous. I think I’ll just borrow that little trick from you, since you won’t be needing it anymore after tonight” He removed his billfold from his inside jacket pocket, then took out the money to pay for the meal and handed it to the waiter. “There, your supper is all paid for. Plus a generous tip for the waiter.”

“Thank you,” Clay replied.

Over the next several minutes the two men enjoyed a leisurely meal. They exchanged stories and laughed so frequently that anyone watching might think they were two longtime friends catching up on old times.

The other diners knew better, however, because some of them had overheard the initial conversation between the two men. They had passed it on to others until soon, everyone in the restaurant knew. Word spread beyond the cafe as well, so that before Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were finished with their supper, every table was filled and there were many more present who were standing along the walls, watching. As a result of the unfolding drama, all other conversation in the cafe had stopped as everyone waited, silently, to see what was going to happen.

Oddly, Clay Allison and Chunk Colbert were not aware that the other conversations had stopped, or that they were the objects of such close scrutiny. They were so intent on the business at hand that they were oblivious to the large and deathly silent crowd.

As the last of the apple pie was eaten, Colbert signaled the waiter to pour them each another cup of coffee. The waiter did so, then withdrew quickly. Neither Clay nor Colbert noticed that the waiter’s hands were shaking.

“Mr. Allison, it has been a most enjoyable experience,” Colbert said. “I drink to our newfound but, of necessity, short-lived friendship, sir.”

As Colbert reached for his coffee cup, Clay saw that he was reaching for the cup with his left hand. Since Colbert had been using his right hand throughout the meal, that put Clay on instant alert. He gripped the handle of his pistol and waited.

As the cup was halfway up to his mouth, Colbert suddenly drew his pistol with his right hand. Seeing this, Clay pulled his own gun at the same time. Colbert tried to whip his gun up into firing position, but he failed to compensate for the tabletop. The pistol sight caught the bottom of the table, preventing him from getting the gun any higher. In desperation, he fired anyway, but the bullet missed. By now, Clay had his own pistol up and clear of the table, and had an unobstructed shot. His gun flashed and roared. A small black hole pushed through just above Colbert’s right eye. Colbert’s chair pitched over backward with the would-be assassin dead before he could hit the floor.

Even before the smoke cleared, Clay was on his feet, looking down at the sprawled body of Chunk Colbert, making certain that the shot was fatal. It wasn’t until he was totally satisfied that Colbert no longer represented any danger to him, that he glanced up. He gasped in surprise at the number of people who were there, looking at him in wide-eyed, openmouthed awe.

Clay punched the empty casing out of the cylinder of his pistol, then slid another bullet into the chamber. Holstering his pistol, he signaled the proprietor over.

“Why are there so many people here?” he asked quietly.

“Someone overheard Mr. Colbert challenge you,” the proprietor replied. “Word spread that there was going to be a shoot-out. These people came to watch.”

“The hell you say,” Clay said. He started to put the empty cartridge in his pocket.

“I will give you ten dollars for that cartridge,” the proprietor said.

Clay looked surprised. “Ten dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

Clay smiled. “Mister, you just bought yourself one worthless piece of brass,” he said, handing the shell casing to him.

The proprietor took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “Mr. Allison, there is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “If you knew Colbert was going to try and kill you, why did you agree to have supper with him? I mean, the two of you sat at the table and ate as if you were old amigos. There were some who left, believing the whole thing might be a hoax.”

“I ate supper with him because I didn’t want to send him to hell on an empty stomach,” Clay replied.

The proprietor laughed nervously. “Yes, to be sure, one wouldn’t want to go to hell on an empty stomach,” he said.

Clay started for his hat. “I believe the bill is all settled?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.”

“Then I must be going. I’ve a long ride ahead of me in the morning.” He got to the door, then looked around at the crowded restaurant. Most were still staring at him. Clay held up his hand. “Oh, you folks really should try the apple pie,” he said. “It is absolutely excellent.”

Not until he left the cafe did the crowd regain its voice. Everyone began talking at the same time, sharing what they had seen. As Clay walked up the sidewalk toward the hotel, he could hear the cacophonous babble behind him.

It wasn’t until that moment that the nervousness hit him, and his knees grew so weak that he reached out to the edge of the building to steady himself. He stood there for a long moment, taking deep breaths until he had regained his composure.